A/N: And as my muse is strongly in one-shot mode, here goes. When I started this I wasn't exactly sure where it would go, and I never pictured it would be what it is. But my muse is a fickle little *ahem* yeah... anyways... enjoy. Oh, and the timeline puts this somewhere in Season 6...after Wrecked, before Seeing Red...
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, and lots of other ridiculously talented people who I can't list own Buffy, Spike, Spike's crypt, etc. I write purely for my own amusement and share purely for kicks, and hopefully your amusement, and will in no way have any monetary gains from this. Still though, the words are mine, and I kindly ask no one repost them anywhere as their own, or at all without my permission. Thanks ^^
Warning: There's sex... not like super explicit step by step sexcapades, but sex. Also the word "ass" and probably the occasional Lord's name in vain.. if you're offended by this.. see that little M in the corner there? Also... if you're under 17/18 or whatever the law says, don't read.. or get explicit parental permission... or tell your parents if they're gonna be prudes get an internet block... annnnnd yeah.
One moment they were glaring at each other. Anger was seeping out of their eyes, and on both sides fists clenched and released, in some sort of unified heartbeat between the pair.
But they already had one heartbeat between the two of them. And they could both tell it was speeding up. Because these two met in fire, lived in fire, and were destined to burn. It was all passion with them, emotion, unbridled and raw, uncensored between them.
They fumbled with words. Each had such wit and wisdom, but they couldn't find it through the fire, honestly, they often forgot to look. Who could want for words when their bodies knew what to express, and exactly how?
In a moment they'd be expressing, passionately, no holds barred. They just had to pick a dance. And so their eyes met, a wrath and heat radiating back and forth, speaking without uneasy words.
Fists released, and forgot to clench. They'd picked a dance. And this was one of their favorites.
She was walking forward, her steps quick and certain. He stayed still, bracing himself for the impact of her frame against his. She was small, but strong, and so he took an unnecessary breath to ready himself.
Her arm reached out as she neared him, grabbing at the back of his duster's collar, pulling him into her by the back of the neck. He didn't fight it, his body falling forward to meet her, his own arms quickly gripping her small waist, one palm pressed into the small of her back, the other against her upper back, fusing their bodies tightly together even through their layered apparel.
Her free hand fisted in a bit of his shirt, resting a bit above his belted pants, holding firm to the fabric beneath his trademark leather. Lips met in an instant, and the fire was fueled.
It was a simple battle, dominance was unnecessary in the pair. They could each demand it, they could each take it, and back and forth, they each would. But it wasn't important, they didn't need to hold control, because control involved give and take, and that involved distance, and thought, and they were far past that. They were in the fire, and they weren't backing up, not for anything.
Which is why it was no surprise to either of them that clothing was not a priority. Skin on skin would be so sweet, but it was unnecessary, unless the clothing should catch fire from their friction, which surely wouldn't have shocked either partner, but it never did occur.
His feet moved swiftly backwards, spinning her and pushing her up against a dirty wall. She didn't resist, and instead aided the process by lifting her legs up, and wrapping them easily around his waist. Her very tall heels dug slightly into his spine, but the tiny flicker of pain was hardly noticeable amidst the sensations that flooded him.
Her tongue was caressing the inside of his mouth. Claiming it in an exploration that would never cease to be invasive and inticing all at once. She demanded all of him, and did not wait for approval. She didn't have to.
He demanded just as much, his hand moving from her upper body to her thigh, raking upwards against the skin, up beneath her skirt to cup her bottom to him tighter, holding her in place as he ground himself in tiny circles against her throbbing heat.
She moaned, her head tilting backwards and her fingers digging in as she let the pleasure wash over her.
The tiny gap between them seemed a vacuum, pulling him in, until his lips were against her throat, nipping and kissing their way down to her collar bone. Blunt teeth and cold lips coaxed her body to moan again as he seemed to stoke the fire between them.
She was leaning forward again now, in control of her body once more. She took control quickly, her teeth grabbing at his earlobe and yanking harshly to catch his attention. He growled, and she smiled, his lobe still between her teeth. She released him, and began to nip at the soft skin behind his ear, her nails digging into his shoulders, noticeable pinpricks even through the duster. Her hips soon found themselves rolling invitingly against him, trying to communicate her need through heady moans.
But they'd been speaking this language for quite a while, and he knew what she was asking. He pushed her harder against the wall so that it would support her entirely as his hand left her back, and moved up her other thigh, until both hands were playing at the lace threads on either side of her hips.
The fabric was thinnest there, and she didn't seem to mind in the slightest when each side was pulled apart with ease. The support broken, the tiny bit of fabric slid away at the lightest tug from his hand, and fell unneeded to the dirt covered floor.
He kept one hand around her ass to pull her tightly against him, but the other hand snaked up and leaned against the wall for support, his elbow touching the wall just above her shoulder, bracing them there carefully.
She took this as her signal, and as their lips met again, hungrier than before, her hands slid down his back and then forward, and soon found their way to his belt buckle. She knew this buckle, and made quick work of it, as she had more times before than she dared to recount.
Her whole body was shaking at the way his kiss massaged her very soul, and the way a slight cold breeze was reaching her wet mound. Her hands though, from some unknown source, had found steadiness, and pulled quickly at his zipper, his button bursting off in the quick pull of impatience.
Her body moved quickly, her arms returning around his shoulders, holding tightly to them, as her legs undid themselves from behind them, and planting themselves along his legs, pushed quickly down, taking his pants with them, until they were bunched around his knees.
He didn't worry about getting rid of them completely, but instead let his skillful hands find the back of her knees, pulling them up around him.
Usually he'd have been a bit gentler at first. He'd have coaxed her into a sweet submission, basking in her gentle mewling sounds, as she let him in a little more at a time. He'd have played with her, taunted her, teased her. But the fire was too strong now. It was ravaging them both and they had no option but to give in. Any other attempt would be futile.
She didn't mind though, she was ready. They'd been screaming so recently, their blood was already at a rolling boil. They'd chosen this dance because it was what they needed. A few punches wouldn't have tided them over for long. No, she could've fought him until they were both nothing but bruises, and neither would've felt sated. They needed this, and they needed it now.
How long had it been? Neither was sure, not now in the haze of their lust-addled world. Too long. That was that, simple and plain, it'd been too long since their bodies had met in this way. This beautiful, terrible, awe-inspiring way.
And so she tightened her legs, pulling him quickly to her, in the most intimate of ways. Their bodies fused, same as always, and they paused a moment, just a heartbeat, to feel the familiar warmth that spread, the slightest ache, and strongest pleasure either would ever experience.
And then came the movement. The rhythm they both knew, both loved, both longed for. Even their fights had this same rhythm, the forwards and backwards, jabs and parries, it was all so choreographed, perfectly fitting every situation, bringing them to every climax, no matter the genre.
Her hand slid backwards easily, pushing off against the wall, forcing them forwards. In the passion he forgot that his knees were still trapped in the thick denim material and he began to fall backwards. But her arms caught them as they fell, easing them, though not exactly gently, into the floor. Here their writhing could take them to new heights.
She pulled backwards, sitting up against him, knees curled on either side of his hips, and hands digging into his upper arms through the layers that still covered him.
His hands found her waist, just above her skirt, and pulled until the thin material of her blouse was loose. He began to coast his hands upwards, over the flimsy material until he reached her shoulders where the thin straps rested.
Her eyes were squeezed shut as her body rocked in perfect synchronicity with his own movements. His fingers gripped at her straps, and with a sudden yank, the fabric tore on each sleeve, and the remaining fabric pooled around her waist on top of her splayed out skirt.
Her eyes burst open and glared down at him, fueling the passion between them even more, as her movements suddenly became more jarring, more violent, more intense.
He only smirked, and dug his fingers into her hips in a bruising grip as he tried to reign in the pace. No need to rush this, after all, he liked to climb to his peak gradually.
She was having none of that though, and soon she was clamping down on him in a way he was sure only she ever could. His lips parted in a gentle gasp, and he knew he had to even the odds. He took his left hand, his better hand, and snaked it between their bodies, his thumb quickly finding a familiar nook of his lover's body and flicking it as a quick tease.
She gasped, her glare breaking instantly, and he quirked an eyebrow, before she was bending down again. They both had too much control, they both knew it, all was well. She was kissing him feverishly, rubbing herself even closer to him, before pulling herself away in the most coquettish of ways possible in the given context.
He'd never let her get far though, before his hand still at her waist would slam her back down against him, bringing them together yet again, before they'd even really been apart.
His left hand, now becoming crushed between their rushed impacts, moved itself to her back, where it quickly found the clasp to her bra and undid it with a simple twist.
Yet another gasp escaped her lips, swallowed quickly by his kiss as she felt the thin lace material making it's way down her arms. She quickly shook it off in a moment of lucid thought, knowing it'd be ripped to shreds if she didn't. As it was, she wasn't really sure she had enough clothing to find her way home in, but for now that was unimportant.
Surely when this dance had finished they'd have another, this one with fists and kicks. But the blows would hurt a bit less, memories of their bodies merged so sensually still on their skin. And that would be a relief.
Maybe tonight, when she looked at him in disgust and shook that tattered shirt in his face, blaming it all on him, he could remember this, and know she didn't mean it. He could remember the way his fingers elicited the softest moans, moans that if they had dared to form words, would have only been sweet and kind and gentle. Maybe he would remember that look in her eyes that was slightly foggy, the way her lips, moist from contact with his own, fell just every so slightly open, all at his ministrations.
But in all likelihood, she'd say something so harsh, so cruel, she'd steal these moments away. She'd throw a punch to some patch of skin that she'd kissed, and he'd do his best to act like it didn't hurt. And she'd do her best to act like she didn't care.
The fire was being quenched, and when it left them alone in the real world, she didn't know what she'd do. So she blocked out the thoughts, and rode him more harshly. But he saw the flicker in her foggy eyes, saw the way her muscles tensed and her movements grew harsh and angry.
It didn't take as long anymore. Used to be she wouldn't grow angry until morning light threatened to stream in through cracks they'd made in the walls. Then it wasn't until the slight basking of afterglow. Now, here she was, amidst the throws of their ecstasy, the brief moments in which nothing separated them, and she was trying to rebuild her walls. He was having none of it.
Quickly, catching her off guard, he flipped them over, until she was laying on the ground underneath him, and he was smiling down at the shocked look as it played across her face.
He smirked, and leaned in for a gentle peck, stopping it before it could be too intense. He'd stay in control for now. He'd keep her here, with him, for as long as he could. Even if that wasn't long enough, not really.
His body found a new rhythm, a gentler one, one hand propping him up, as the other coasted over her body. His lips began to peruse her form, gently kissing, licking, and nipping at every bit of exposed skin until her back was arched to the point of breaking.
"Spike?" She asked, her voice shaky, taken off guard by the gentle way he was touching her. The way he was being so very tender, where there should only be bruising need.
"Hush, luv." He quieted her for a moment, his thrusts growing slower, but more precise. "Let me.. please?" The look in his eyes was begging, pleading with her to let him, just to let him show her what this could be, what he could be.
She let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding, releasing it as a soft moan. She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat and nodded her head slightly, tears almost starting to well up in her eyes. She didn't' know how, didn't know why. What was he doing to her? Why wasn't she stopping him? Why didn't' she want him to stop?
The questions were too much, and she had to silence them, so her hands reached up and grabbing the back of his head pulled him down tenderly. Her lips met his, and moved softly, slowly, with precision she hadn't known she could possess. This was the dance she'd forgotten. The dance she'd never known was an option. Or, perhaps she'd always known, but never admitted.
Because though she was addicted to all the dances, though he always had her on fire, this dance, this flame, it didn't end, it didn't burn out. This candle would burn until the stars had long since died, until the world was nothing but pitch black and it was only their movements left in all of time and space.
And with that thought, she found her peak had snuck up on her, and she was falling. Falling through that darkness of time and space. The only sensation she knew was him, him pushed against her. The faintest feeling of his cool skin soothing her own flushed body.
She didn't know if her eyes were open or closed, or perhaps in between. She saw his eyes though, those beautiful cerulean pools that seemed to bath her in light and love she'd never known. She didn't want to come down, didn't want the world to reform. But bit by bit it did and she opened her eyes and knew he'd fallen with her, the way he was now gasping, having yet again forgotten he didn't need the air, over her body, a smile on his face, and hope so painfully outlined in his eyes.
The world came back in sudden ferocious clarity and she didn't know what to do with it. She was terrified. Fight or flight, those were all she'd ever known, and somehow she knew either one would destroy her hopes of having this again. And god how she wanted to have this again.
He looked down on her, the hope in his eyes gradually turning to worry at the expression of uncertainty on her face. She saw as he prepared himself for her rejection, as he readied himself for a smack to the face, or a groan of disgust. His lips pursed, and his forehead wrinkled as he tightened his expression in wait.
Several times he opened his mouth, licked his lips, and seemed about to speak, but each time his lips fell closed, not knowing what to voice. What would save him from this situation he'd pushed far too soon. He'd never have this again, and this was all he wanted for all of eternity. He'd do anything to save it. Whatever it'd take. But he didn't know if that was even possible, if she'd even give him a chance.
"Thank you…" she finally said, her voice soft, and hoarse, and uneven in the large emptiness of his crypt. She didn't meet his eyes, she didn't know how to. And she knew, vaguely, that tears were beginning to form in them, and she felt terribly self conscious suddenly.
He was still pulled back from her in waiting, his knees still rested between her legs, but the skirt had fallen closed against the floor as a slight buffer between them. Suddenly the cold air accosted her breasts, and she realized how she must look, splayed out here, half undressed, near tears, her voice full of uncertainty. She crossed her arms over her chest quickly, trying to cover her breasts. As though he hadn't seen them, held them, tasted them even a million times before. Hell, he knew them better than anyone ever had or ever would, but here she was, covering them from his sight.
"Don't… please Buffy…" He was pleading again, but he didn't know what for. She turned her gaze to meet his, her eyes soft with tears, and his with need. She didn't know what he wanted either, except she supposed she did. He was begging her not to pull away, not again. It wasn't about the way she was covering herself, it was about the way she was hiding herself, what she was feeling from both of them.
"I can't Spike… I just… God I'm sorry… I just… please understand, William.. please…" Her words were uneven and uneasy. Her gaze, though she tried to keep it on him, flickered aimlessly around the room. Her grip tightened around herself, and she found herself scooting away from him slightly on the floor to pull herself into a sitting position, her legs folded tightly underneath her, as she hunched her shoulders over.
He moved himself from between her legs to let her move, and once she was situated, nearly curled up in a ball a few feet away, he pulled his pants up from his knees, simply so he could move, and found his way quickly beside her, wrapping his arms around her, hoping, praying, she wouldn't try to avoid his embrace.
She didn't though, she leaned into him, and one of her hands moved from her chest to grip at his shirt as she began to sob softly into it.
He shrugged his duster off his shoulders and wrapped it quickly around hers, pulling her up into his lap and even closer to him, careful to tuck himself back into his jeans before he did so, so as not to frighten her off. He was still trying to make sense of her words.
She had called him William, which she never did, and she had apologized, begged for understanding. This was strange for the slayer, he knew that, and he didn't know what had brought it on. Usually she'd fight him, or just run away, but she'd done neither. She was weak and vulnerable, and near him. She didn't even seem to be afraid of what had happened, only what would happen.
"I don't… Buffy.. talk to me.. I don't know…what…just talk to me…" Why was it that all his smooth talking left the room for the one girl he needed it with. The one woman he'd do anything to sweet talk, or explain himself to, with her he was just a bundle of nerves that could barely speak. She brought out the nancy schoolboy in him, that was for sure.
"Not so good with words…" she muttered under her breath, as the sobs seemed to subside. Slowly she pulled her head from his chest and looked up at him, her eyes now pleading with him instead. "Can I just kiss you instead.. could that… would you?"
He smiled sadly and pulled her up to him, kissing her tenderly. "You're bloody brilliant with words, luv. Your audience just never gets to appreciate 'em, what with the being dust and all." he finally said after they parted.
She laughed a soft, sad laugh, and smiled warmly up at him, her hand playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "I just.. I don't know what to say to you, Spike. Don't even know what to say to myself.. about… well.. about this.." She waved her arms in slight erratic movements as if to emphasize her point.
This time it was his turn to let out a sad laugh. "Know what you mean, pet. Not exactly why you came by tonight, huh?"
"Well…" she muttered, and suddenly her cheeks were a brilliant red, and she was burying her face in his shirt again.
He felt the heat through the material and smirked softly to himself. "What was that, slayer?"
"Well… I mean…" She paused, looking up at him, and let her face grow stern again at the sight of his smirk. "Shut up, Spike!" She finally quipped, though without any menace, crossing her arms again.
His smirk spread quickly. "You know, luv. The intimidation works much better when you're wearing a top."
She blushed yet again, and they both smiled as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest.
She clung there, taking a deep inhalation of his scent. He beamed, hearing her slight sniffing. One of his hands was under his duster, and rubbed small circles gently into her back, causing her to relax into him further.
He was holding her, holding her for just a moment in time and she wasn't running away. She wasn't trying to sprint out of the room, or throw things at him. She wasn't angry, or sad. She was just.. confused? Something like that, he supposed. But she wasn't fighting whatever this was, not actively at least, not now. And that was a victory in and of itself, and for that he'd be grateful.
"Pet?" He finally asked after a moment's pause. But she was silent, and her breathing was steady. And after a moment he realized, she had fallen asleep, safe and sound in his arms.
His smirk turned into a warm smile, before he lifted her gently up in his arms, and began to lead her down to the bed. Oddly enough, she never seemed to make it there. But tonight she was tired, and maybe when she woke up she'd be herself again, and she'd yell at him, or say he should've woken her, sent her home. But her clothing was in shreds, and she was exhausted, so for tonight, just for tonight, he'd hold her. Morning could bring what it liked. For tonight, in more ways than ever before, they would be together, they would be content.
A/N 2.0: Ok, yeah, so... I've never actually written anything M before... sooo... feedback would be great, good or bad. Also, this is intended to be a oneshot.. but knowing me, I could be convinced to make it a 2-3 shot... Thanks for reading :)