Disclaimer: If you made it this far into the website, chances are you know durned well who owns the copyright on Buffy, Spike and the rest of the gang, and that it ain’t me. No copyright infringement intended. This is, as ever, fanfic impure and simple, or, as I like to think of it (due to the parallels to romance novel fiction) femfanfic. It is one (somewhat deranged and obsessed) femfan’s vision of the possibilities of the Buffyverse created by Joss Whedon. it is intended only for those people over 18, if you are under 18 please go back to the homeage now.
All Too Human
part 3
Buffy never gave up. Even heartbroken, ravished, naked, even enervated by a corrosive mixture of blood loss, satiation and grief, she knew her duty. Spike was planning to bring the Mother of Demons back to the earth, turning it into an annex of Hell and destroying every living thing on the planet. He had to be stopped, and she was the one who would stop him.
She focused her efforts on the point where one chain had been set into the granite. Calling up every reserve of strength she still had left, she pulled and twisted and rubbed the metal against the stone.
Until she felt it give.
With renewed vigor she heaved against her chains until she had one arm free. She could now sit up, and examine her other bonds more closely. She quickly decided where each had its most vulnerable link, and got herself free. Just then she heard the vampires assigned to attend her approaching. She lay back, trying to appear listless as they entered the room. Her broken bonds wouldn't fool them for long, but she wouldn't need very long.
Buffy fought back her urge to attack until all three were within her grasp. Then she used the chains on her wrists to knock two of them aside. She bolted upright and launched herself at the third, ignoring the dizziness, the black spots which danced before her eyes at the sudden motion. In a matter of seconds all three vamps were ashes on the floor, and Buffy was leaning against the granite slab, panting for breath.
It took her a moment to realize what the vamps had been carrying. Blankets? Pillows? A bowl of soup? Buffy shook her head. She didn't want to think about why Spike was suddenly concerned for her comfort. But the soup wasn't a bad idea. She was dangerously weak. Of course, it might be drugged, but she doubted it. Spike had no reason to think he needed to drug her. She drank the soup down in a few gulps, then looked at Spike's leather coat, which had fallen to the floor in her battle. Reluctantly, she picked it up and put it on, belting it tightly. She had no other clothes, and at least the coat was warm. It was also old and well worn, supple and soft against her skin, enveloping her in a sensuous caress.
And in a scent that she had learned, not an hour past, to associate with Spike. Buffy shook herself. It didn't matter. What mattered was that it would keep her warm and prevent her from being arrested for indecent exposure if --no, when-- she got herself out of there. There was only one thing left to do. Climbing onto the slab, she stood on tiptoe to reach the niche where Angel's ashes had been placed. Carefully, she took down the porcelain bowl.
She held it for a moment, hurting, wishing for all the things that had never been and would never be, wishing she had been a little more wanton, or Angel a little less the gentleman. Wishing she could just smash the bowl to pieces right then and there, and allow Angel's soul the freedom, the peace that was the only gift left for her to give him. But she was afraid Spike would simply gather the ashes again, and keep Angel's soul imprisoned. Better to wait until she got out of there. And to get out of there as quickly as she could.
Four more vamps died as Buffy stealthily found her way from the dungeon to the first floor of the church. She saw the door at the end of the hallway, glanced around to make sure that nothing was between her and it, then, heart pounding, sprinted toward freedom.
Spike hurled himself across the hall, bringing her down scant yards shy of her goal. The porcelain bowl fell from her arms, but rolled across the hall instead of shattering.
"Going somewhere, pet?" he asked. She struggled, but couldn't fight her way free. He stood, pulling her up and into his arms in one fluid movement, carrying her as easily as if she were a newborn infant instead of a raging Slayer, bent on his destruction. "Easy, love," he told her. "Don't want you to wear yourself out before the ceremony."
"The only ceremony I'm going to is the one for your funeral," she told him.
"Not after tonight, darling. Believe me."
She thought he would take her back to the dungeon, but he took a different path, and she found herself in the rooms he had taken for himself. She wasn't an expert in church architecture. This looked like it might have been a small study, or library. But the work desk and chairs had been pushed to one side, and a fair sized bed had been set up in the center. Buffy saw that Spike was headed for it and renewed her struggles. He threw her down on the bed and followed after too quickly for her to escape. Pinned beneath him, she was once more caught up in the gaze of his night-black eyes.
"I expected you to fight me, love, but I thought after our fun and games you'd be too tired to make much of a fuss for a little while longer."
"You're admitting you underestimated me?" she said.
"No, sweet. Or I wouldn't have been prepared to stop you. But I must say I'm disappointed. I thought I'd taken a lot more out of you. Or from you."
Buffy turned away from the look of male satisfaction he gave her. Spike turned his head to follow hers, once more capturing her mouth with his. He was risking a lot, he knew. The Slayer was unchained, unbound, only his greater weight, his superior strength keeping her prisoned beneath his body, as she fought to pull free. If he gave her the slightest opening, she'd have a stake through his heart before he could steal one more kiss.
And he intended to steal more than that.
He was by nature a risk taker, someone who lived on the edge. He had taken out two Slayers on his own, and was about to bring down a third in a spectacular, world-ending coup. It was foolish to risk everything when he was so close to winning it all. But the sight of her clad in his own black leather coat --and only his black leather coat-- the feel of her soft, supple body pressed beneath his on the bed, the scent of her warm skin and hair, the memory of the pleasure he had just experienced with her, all combined to make him decide that this was a risk worth taking.
But he didn't have to be a complete fool about it. Spike brought the struggling girl's hands together above her head so that he could confine her wrists with one hand. He used the other to untie the belt of his coat from her waist, and pull it free. Binding her wrists with the belt was the work of one moment. Slipping her bound hands over his neck, pulling the ends of his belt down his back, fastening them around his waist, securing her against his own body was the work of one moment more. He was finished almost before she realized his intent. Long before her struggles could be effective.
Buffy found herself trapped in a burlesque of a lovers' intimate embrace, her unwilling arms fastened around Spike's neck as tightly as if he were her lost, beloved Angel.
"I hate you for this," she told him, trying to ignore the feel of his hands as he tugged open the coat and brushed the sides of her breasts, the soft swell of her belly.
"What, this?" he said. "I don't think so. I think you hate me for this," he said as he took her mouth again, forcing it open beneath his, using his tongue to mime the action he would soon take with her body. Bound as she was, she couldn't pull back, couldn't twist away. And this time, unlike the last, her body knew what he could give her.
And wanted him to give it again.
Much as he had earlier enjoyed the feel of her naked skin against his own, Spike found the current situation intensely erotic. Buffy caught up in his leather coat, restrained as effectively as if still chained, her body vulnerable, nearly naked, abraded by the rough texture of his jeans and shirt. Still kissing her, Spike insinuated a hand between them, freeing himself from the restriction of his trousers, then touching her feminine core just lightly.
Just enough to find that fight against him as she would, she was already wet for him. He smiled into her mouth, positioning himself against the vulnerable center of her body, and pushed inside with exquisite, excruciating slowness.
It was happening again, Buffy realized bitterly. Cold invaded her, pierced her, burned her. Spike's cock moved inside her with smooth assurance and matchless skill, bringing her a rapture she had no wish to experience, making her want things she despised. Even the feel of his leather coat was like the touch of his hands, an additional caress. Hadn't she cried enough for one day, one lifetime? She found herself crying again. And pleading. But there was no mercy in him, only force, and will, and dark desire.
It didn't take him long to ignite a similar desire in her own newly awakened, superbly toned body. For once, youth and health worked against her, making her receptive to the pleasure his body sought to create in hers. Buffy moaned against his prisoning mouth, allowing her tongue to twine about his, no longer fighting him back, but drawing him in. She was dimly aware that he was stroking his hands down her legs, bending her knees, wrapping her legs around his waist, but the effect, when he finished, was stunning. Spike was able to plunge deeper into her yielding body, and instinctively, Buffy tightened her legs, pressing her heels into his buttocks, encouraging him to plunge deeper still.
It occurred to Spike that he almost wouldn't mind if Buffy managed to put a stake through him now, so long as the last thing he felt were her exquisite heat, her unwilling surrender. She was so tight around him, he was about to explode, had been on the verge almost as soon as he had buried himself inside her. He moved his hand between them again, this time toying delicately with the tender pearl of flesh that was the seat of her most intense sensation. He was rewarded by the way her body arched toward his, the way she moaned anew against his mouth. Once again, he felt the delectable convulsions of her womb begin as she approached her crisis.
It was so quick, so hot, so sweet. He thrust into her again and again, her hips rising to meet each move, her legs tightening and releasing to urge him on. Within moments she shattered for him, crying out her pleasure.
Crying out his name.
He exploded with her, pushing farther yet, owning her, possessing her, branding her. Spilling inside her tight, liquid depths, in seemingly endless release. And after, long moments after, he was overcome once more by a tenderness he had only ever shown Dru since becoming a vampire. He rained soft kisses on Buffy's face and neck, soothing her as rapture ebbed and she returned from the heights to which he had forced her.
Buffy lay quietly beneath him, wishing she could summon the urge to fight him. Maybe she should stop trying to overcome Spike, and find a way to kill herself. Let another Slayer come forth and battle the bad guys. Buffy knew herself defeated.
But she also knew her duty. Another Slayer would never get there in time. If she couldn't stop Spike, no one could. She would have to find a way. It would help if she knew his plans.
"What ceremony?" she asked. It took him a moment to realize what she meant. Then he smiled down at her, genuinely amused.
"The one I mentioned earlier? The one set for tonight? It's just a little something that will ensure the return to earth of the Mother of Demons."
Buffy licked her lips, which had suddenly gone dry. "How?"
"Ah, I know what you're about, pet," he said with a chuckle. "You think if I tell you what I'm going to do, you'll find a way to stop me." His face grew sober, his gaze bored into hers. "But I'm in a mood to humor you, because I like the idea of you're trying to fight me, even now, even when we're still joined, and your body is still damp with my seed." His mouth crushed down on hers, and she found he had become hard again, within her. Her body's response was instantaneous and unwelcome; her thighs locked around his hips, her back arched to push her breasts more firmly against his chest, her hips lifted to impale her more fully on his shaft. And then he moved, somehow, pulling her upright with him, so that he was kneeling between her spread thighs and she was sitting astride his throbbing cock.
"Fun and games, pet," he whispered to her. "I think you're ready for a new one." She was still bound to his body, her hands tied around his neck. Now, he set his hands on her hips and lifted her on his shaft, holding her motionless, as she whimpered with need, with only the tip of his cock yet inside her. Then he brought her down roughly, making her scream because what he did felt so good. With a groan of satisfaction he lifted her back up, once more holding her still when only the very tip of his manhood remained within her. Buffy moaned, wriggling her hips, trying to sooth the ache he knowingly caused her. He wouldn't let her. Not immediately. Instead he coaxed her into moving her legs from around his waist, and adjusting them so that she was kneeling above him. Then he pulled her down ruthlessly, filling her, and she screamed for him again. He established the excruciating pattern with her, but gradually eased away the pressure of his hands, until, instead of commanding her body, he was merely guiding it.
"You see, sweet, like this, you're in control. You can set the pace. That's it," he said approvingly as her body began to find a rhythm, as she began to move upon him with seductive, innocent hunger.
"I don't want this," Buffy whispered. "I don't want this."
"Shhh, love. I know you don't." Spike's hands drifted from her hips to her back, beneath his leather coat. He caressed her firm buttocks, lifting her from time to time to encourage the rhythm she was unwillingly following. He loved her resistance. It made her final capitulation almost unbearably delicious.
Buffy was appalled that she could burn for Spike so quickly, that she could burn for him at all. She was cooperating in her own ravishment, allowing the demon who wanted to destroy the world to bring her to a state of mindless, helpless ecstasy. He was her mortal enemy, the one person she hated above all others in the world, the one person who should never, ever be able to make her feel such intense pleasure. But he did. Completely. Utterly. Beyond her ability to resist or deny. Until she screamed for him, and begged, and shattered. And when she thought it over, when she started to recover and return to who and what she was, he rekindled the fire. Then rekindled it once more.
But the last time, when she shattered around him, his kisses moved quickly from her mouth to her throat, and she felt, as before, the pressure of his fangs, the fire as her blood burned along her veins and into his mouth. Unaccountably, it intensified her pleasure. She couldn't bear anymore, and the climax sent her spiraling down into darkness where despair was mercifully left behind.
Spike held her close in his arms, her spent body draped against his own, her head resting on his shoulder. Although he had only taken a little of her blood this time --the urge to taste that wine-like draught unexpectedly overwhelming him as he allowed himself his own release-- she had lost consciousness. He wasn't worried, though. He could feel her heart, beating strongly, against his chest. He sat unmoving for several moments, cradling her, savoring the feel of her fragile, beating heart against his chill, unliving flesh.
*****************
When Buffy awoke, she was still in the bed. Spike had removed his coat from her, but pulled the sheets and blankets around her so that she was warm. Spike hadn't gone far himself. He sat in a chair by the bed contemplating her. He hadn't told her about the ceremony, but Buffy could guess.
"Is this why the last Slayer you killed begged for her life?" Buffy gathered the strength to ask. "Because you made her a vampire?"
"No, darling," Spike assured her. "In the ordinary way of things, I don't go around immortalizing my mortal enemies. You're a special case. The last Slayer begged for her life because I made her want me to make her a vampire." Buffy closed her eyes.
"Really, baby, I almost wish I could spend a decade on your demise," he said, standing up, "but Mum's a bit impatient. Wants to do the whole triumph over the Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve number tonight. But don't fret, love, we'll have millennia to make up for it. Unending millennia." Buffy shuddered, to his undisguised delight.
There was a discrete knock. Spike called out permission to enter and another figure came into the room. Buffy stiffened when she saw who it was.
"It's time," the vampire who had once been Willow said. She was dressed in black velvet, but her arms were laden with robes of crimson silk. The vampire she had created and enslaved, Xander, was a step behind her, also clad in black velvet. The cut and style of their costumes should have reminded Buffy of a bad Goth video, but they didn't. As vampires, Willow and Xander had gained the poise and beauty that might have come to them if they had lived to adulthood. Willow's red hair had taken on deeper tones, and full-bodied texture, her skin glowing white and lucent by contrast. Xander's hair and eyes had gone from darkest brown to deepest black. But it was his presence, lethal and assured, that truly pointed the difference between the boy he had been and the monster he had become. Buffy spirits sank lower yet. Willow and Xander, her two best friends, had been changed. Poised and beautiful and deadly and evil, they were exemplary demons. That they had once been close to Buffy surely added to Spike's enjoyment of them.
"Show time already?" Spike asked cheerfully. "Well, get her dressed then. Mustn't keep Mum waiting. Oh, and fill her in on the details. I promised to give them to her." Glancing at Xander, and noting the way his gaze lingered on Buffy, he added with a sardonic laugh. "No, Xander. You'll have your pick of beauties in a very short time. Build yourself a harem, if you'd like. This one is mine." Xander's eyes flashed malevolent resentment, but he obeyed. Willow smiled at Spike, and her eyes followed him with a calculating hunger. Vampires were not known for their fidelity, and the new Willow was nothing if not ambitious. Spike acknowledged her interest with a quick, hard kiss, then left to make his own preparations. The glance Willow then turned on Buffy was contemptuous.
"Don't give us a hard time, Slayer," the vampire hissed. "I would love an excuse to get rid of you." Buffy almost hoped she would.
As Spike had ordered, her former friends gave her the details of the ceremony.
"What it represents, then, is not the birth of infinite possibilities, but the death of all possible hope," Willow taunted her. "All the other Slayers destroyed. No more heroes, no cavalry to the rescue. Just the last, best hope, going down to her own infinite doom."
"And while you're infinitely doomed, we become infinitely powerful," Xander added enthusiastically. "See, Lilith comes into her own, and all the vampires, who are only half demons, get to be full demons. And all the humans get to be dead. But not you. Spike had Lilith rig things so that once you're a vampire, you'll still have a soul. Kind of like what happened to deadboy, only the demon will be in control. You'll just be along for the ride."
He might have gone on longer, but Willow insisted they make her ready for the ceremony. Another vampire entered the room. Cordellia. From the way she cast sidelong, enticing glances at Xander, and from his amused response, Buffy knew that the former cheerleader had been abducted and enslaved by the boy she would never have looked at twice, living. While Xander supervised the preparation of a ritual bath, the two female vamps got Buffy out of the bed, draping her in a bath sheet. Then, Cordellia chased Xander off with a snarl --dead or alive, she was nothing if not possessive-- so they could bathe Buffy and dress her in the red robes.
Buffy knew she was dangerously close to running out of time. She considered trying to overpower Willow and Cordellia, but realized that she didn't have the strength to do that and still break open the stout oak door Xander had carefully locked behind him. Once, it would have been no problem, but Spike's repeated feedings, his repeated ravishments, the emotional torture of losing Angel, all had conspired to drain her of strength. She would only have one more chance, and she would have to make it count.
When they had her robed and perfumed, Xander brought in a silver casket which proved to contain a collection of ruby jewelry. Cordellia draped Buffy with the blood colored stones, and Willow drew her to a cloth covered object which proved, when she unveiled it, to be a large standing mirror.
"Take your last look, Slayer," Willow said. "Soon, you'll only be able to see your reflection in someone's eyes." She smiled cruelly. "Spike's, most likely."
The girl in the mirror was pale and lifeless and beautiful, and her eyes were haunted and hopeless. Buffy closed her eyes, not really wanting to see what she had become. Mocking laughter rose around her. But hearing it, she recalled another sound, one she had not heard, and knew Xander had neglected to lock the door.
She had been so pliant, so listless, that even the friends who knew her resourcefulness were stunned when she grabbed the mirror and used it as a battering ram to knock them down. Not having time to kill them, she hurled the mirror at them and made for the door. Yanking it open she raced down the hallway to the stairs she remembered Spike climbing when he brought her here. The door to the church was that way.
She didn't make it to the stairs. Buffy had encountered demon serpents before, but never lamia. When the man and woman standing beside the door changed, becoming anacondas whose lengthy coils wrapped about her with sudden, near-lethal force, she was caught once more. Willow arrived a moment later, shaking her head, as she stood over the hissing snakes and the struggling Slayer.
"They'll only tighten their coils with every breath you take. Give it up Buffy. You can't win."
She would not, could not, give up. But in the end, even superhuman abilities, even being the Chosen weren't enough. A dozen more demons joined the fight, pulling Buffy free of the lamia's coils, holding her captive. Even weakened as she was, she took three of them out. But the remaining demons overwhelmed her.
Buffy could barely stand without support when her useless battle ended, and was unable to walk unassisted down the aisle in the desecrated church filled with demons, zombies, vampires, lamia, effreets and djin. Cordellia and Willow, unholy bridesmaids, helped her toward Spike and Ethan Rayne as they waited by the profaned altar, behind which a fire blazed. It was Xander who lifted her onto the ruined marble surface.
Rayne began the incantations, echoed by a multitude of the damned who had gathered for the ceremony. Spike, dressed, like Buffy, in crimson silk, opened his shirt and, with a sharpened obsidian blade, drew a deep cut just above his heart. Then he joined Rayne in voicing the final invocation. Buffy could feel the darkness gathering, the evil growing, as Lilith prepared to re-enter the world in triumph, but she was helpless to stop it. Rayne and Spike each placed a hand on the haft of the knife, and Buffy watched as the blade made a slow descent toward her own heart for the ritual cut. Spike would drain her dry. But first he would force his demon-corrupted blood into her mouth, ultimately turning Buffy into her own worst nightmare.
It would be a small, but infinite grace, if Willow were jealous enough to stake Buffy through the heart, and dump her ashes into the bowl with Angel's. Buffy could see in the vampire's eyes that she wanted to do just that. But there was no mercy left anywhere in the world. Only demons. And Lilith. And Spike.
Buffy waited for the pressure of blood against her mouth, waited to die and be reborn as the very thing she had been created to destroy. It never came. Instead, Spike lifted her from the altar, standing with her over the flames, pressing the wound over his heart to the wound over hers.
A susurration of sound told Buffy the other vampires hadn't expected this. Ethan Rayne hissed, "What are you doing?"
Spike ignored them all, beginning another invocation. "As our blood mingles in fire, human and demon, be of my blood, ever human, ever undying. Be of my flesh, every unchanging. Be of my life. Unending." He slipped something onto her finger, then brought his mouth down on hers as black flames engulfed them and a wind from Hell blew open the doors of the church to envelope the world.
"Bloody hell," Rayne said in shock to no one in particular, "He's married her!"
Buffy heard the words through a haze of pain. Black fire burned at her, consuming her mortality. She was buffeted by a maelstrom, and the only thing she could cling to, the only thing keeping her from being sucked into a vortex of torment and despair was the demon who was kissing her, the demon who no longer had need of chains to hold her because he had bound her with her own life's blood, commingled with his. Buffy could feel the metaphysical bonds connecting them, knew that she was caught beyond hope of release, that the world ended here and now and that there was nothing she could do to stop it.
In her head, sardonic laughter, and surrounding her, the scent of myrrh. Buffy was tired, so tired. It was almost a relief to have lost, to have nothing left to fight for, nothing left to lose. She stopped fighting Spike, becoming pliant in his arms, allowing his mouth to ravish hers again, allowing herself to give him the reaction he demanded because there was no point in denying him, and she was no longer capable of resistance.
The black fire burned higher, brighter, and Buffy yielded, not struggling when Spike deepened the kiss, when he slid one arm beneath her thighs and lifted her into his arms. Instead, she let her arms go around his neck, let her head fall back and her lips part beneath his.
Much as he relished it, Spike was wary of her submissiveness. He pulled back just a little, looking down at her. But there was no guile in her eyes, only a deep, unquenchable sadness. She wasn't feigning submission in order to perform one final trick, and pull world save-age out of the hat at the last possible moment. And then he looked around, and realized that it was too late for her to even try.
The desecrated church with its profaned altar was gone. So was Sunnydale, and, presumably, the world. Or at least, the world as it had been. Spike was holding Buffy, carrying her really, while he stood above a battlement of black stone. Looking up he saw the sky was not merely night-black, but reddish black, billowing with sulfur scented clouds. Before him was a garden of black grass, twisted, unearthly trees, and night-blooming jasmine. Behind him was a castle. His castle. The seat from which he would rule as a prince of Hell.
The Hell Lilith had made of earth.
Spike threw back his head and laughed. He had won! He had gambled everything on one dangerous throw of the dice, he had bartered his own demonic soul into bondage, but he had won.
He looked down at the girl in his arms. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned her head wearily against his shoulder. He smiled. It was time for the victor to enjoy his spoils.
The knowledge of what and where he was seemed to be instinctive. Spike strode down from the battlement to what was now the grand hallway, where his allies were milling about in confusion.
"We've won, you fools!. Enjoy the party!" Because he willed it, music sprang up. Because the world accommodated his least desire, there was food for his guests, wine in fountains, and blood in rivers. He left them to their celebration, carrying Buffy deeper into the heart of his citadel.
The bed was huge, covered in red silk and draped with ebony hangings. He carried Buffy to it and lay her gently among the heaped cushions.
"It's your wedding night, love," he said, moving over her. "Whatever shall we do to celebrate it?" He didn't really require an answer, and he didn't get one. Not in words. Buffy was too despairing to give him words, too exhausted to put up useless resistance. She didn't try to stop him from removing her robes, lay quiet as he stripped off his own. When he returned to her, when he began kissing and caressing her body as he had the first time he had taken her, she didn't fight the feelings he evoked, but let them wash over her in a languorous tide. She was a little sore from his previous ravishment, but even that discomfort did not protect her from the rapture he demanded she feel.
"You are delicious," Spike said as he kissed the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. "Like warm honey, hot and liquid." He moved higher, closer to the trembling feminine core of her. His tongue licked upward, laving the sensitive bud of flesh that had already been so abused by his earlier attentions. His hands cupped her hips, holding her steady while he nibbled and licked his fill.
Buffy closed her eyes surrendering to the ecstasy he was determined to give her. Soon, she knew, he would tire of this play and he would come into her, and she would moan for him and cry out her release. She would hate him and hate herself, but it wouldn't matter. Because she had failed to stop him.
Spike was in no hurry to take her. She tasted too good, and he had all of time to enjoy her. Right now he wanted to see how quickly he could overcome her despair and force her into unwanted rapture. How much of herself could he make her yield? He pulled away from the overly sensitive little pearl, and licked into her honeyed depths instead. She gave a little gasping cry that pleased him, and he renewed his assault.
Waves of sweet fire washed over her, building inside her. She couldn't bear it, couldn't handle any more. Beyond pride, she began to beg him to stop. He wouldn't. Instead, he gave a low, throaty growl of satisfaction and redoubled his efforts. Buffy twisted her hips, trying to escape the exquisite torment, but his grip on her was too firm. She sat up beating his shoulders with her fists, but he was impervious to her blows, and the new position only agonizingly heightened the sensations. She fell back against the pillows, sobbing. And the waves grew, built, until she reached a new crest, pleasure so intense it was akin to pain. Buffy was torn apart and reformed, torn apart and reformed, shaken and shattered by a matchless ecstasy.
As the last tremors subsided, Spike finally stopped his torment, turning his head and resting it against her thigh. She tasted even better when she came. He was going to enjoy eternity. Unending millennia to plunder this petite beauty, his warm, responsive, living girl. After the first time he took her, he had realized that he didn't want Buffy to become a vampire, after all. He didn't want to trade her warm flesh for marble cold perfection, he didn't want the intoxicating wine of her blood to take on the dark flavor of death. Better to keep her eternally alive, eternally imprisoned.
Eternally embraced.
Pressing a last, lingering kiss against her drenching wet femininity, he drew himself up and over her once more, settling his hips between her parted thighs. He began to kiss her soft breasts, opening his mouth to take in a nipple, gently caressing it with his tongue
"No, Spike," Buffy pleaded. "I can't. You've taken everything I have. I can't give any more."
"Shhh, baby, it's all right," he said, abandoning her breast, kissing her neck, her jaw, her temple. "You have no idea what you can give me." He entered her almost tenderly, as if concerned that her ravished flesh couldn't accommodate him, but it could. His movements were curiously gentle, soothing, and Buffy found that where she expected pain, there was, instead, spiraling bliss; a coil that lapped around her, encompassing as well the demon who had forced her to become his lover, his mate... and with the band of polished onyx circling her finger, his wife. Unable to fight him, she submitted, raising her arms to embrace him, parting her thighs invitingly wider, wrapping her legs around his waist. This time, when he kissed her, she kissed him back.
He wasn't going to be able to keep things gentle, Spike realized. God, but she was too hot, too tight, too yielding. He wanted to bury himself in her to the hilt, hear her screams, he wanted to feel her shatter around him and he wanted it now. He forced himself to slow and still, trying to get himself under command. It was Buffy herself who was his undoing.
"Please," she said again, this time with a sensuous lift of her hips that told him she desperately wanted what she had before denied.
"All right, sweetheart," he said. "If you insist." His kiss turned brutal, and he withdrew to the limit only to plunge back to the hilt. Whatever discomfort he caused her was overridden by the intense pleasure that followed it. Buffy returned his ardor, meeting the demands of his kiss, the thrust of his hips. She melted around him, welcoming his flesh into the depths of her body. He plunged deeper, harder, quicker, the coil of pleasure building, wrapping, tightening around them both. Her inner muscles were clenching and releasing him in rhythmic contractions that mimed and presaged the deeper, sweeter rhythms she would give him when she climaxed. He shifted slightly, finding an even more exquisite angle, was rewarded by her heightened cries. The coil tightened further, tension building to the point where it couldn't be borne. Spike drove into her impossibly farther, feeling her yield impossibly more. The coil snapped: he vamped out, burying his fangs in her jugular and drinking deep, burying his cock to the hilt and spilling into her while she cried his name and shattered around him in unending spasms of rapture.
Afterward, Spike decided that he didn't want to move. Ever. He wanted to lie here feeling the rapid beat of her heart slow to normalcy, the ragged tempo of her breathing become calm. He wanted to stay forever sheathed inside her, her soft breasts crushed beneath him, her legs clinging to his waist, her arms about his neck. He lifted his head just enough to kiss her mouth, and reached an arm to draw the covers over them both. She moved slightly, and he shifted his weight to let her legs fall to either side of him, though she still cradled his hips with hers. He was still inside her, and not about to withdraw. She drifted into exhausted, satiated slumber almost immediately, and he allowed himself the indulgence of falling asleep in her arms.