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Get Away by Sigyn
 
Get Away
 
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    Buffy climbed the stairs slowly, the bruises and aches and scratches all very prominent. Even lifting her feet felt like she was pressing against bruises deep, deep inside her. So deep inside her...



    It was a mistake! I should never have let him.... Damn it, I didn’t let him. I should never have done it to him. All I had to do was beat him up and leave him there, I didn’t have to kiss him... and kiss him... and kiss... and burn with him.... I didn’t have to take him. But I did. Oh, god, how he looked as I rode him, harder and harder, forcing that feeling, any feeling, the awed bliss of disbelief on his face. He almost looked like a child, gazing up at me, in complete worship. I could barely see at all that first time, just relished the fact that I was feeling... something..... Anything at all. And I felt him in me, and I felt the fire burning me, and I rode it over and over and over, and he just let me hold him down, until I made him scream with me, and the sound of it passed through me, and the fire erupted inside me. It’s the first time I’ve felt alive since before I crawled out of the earth....



    Stop it, Buffy! she chided herself. It was a mistake, shake it off, get on with life.



    She went into her room and bent over to take off her boots, grunting with the residual pain and bruises. She eased off her jacket, and lifted her shirt over her head, almost groaning as the stiffness reminded her of all she had done last night... with him....



    He was so slow, so deliberate as he undressed me. I was almost going to run away, pretend it never happened, but his hands... his cool hands on my flesh, holding me to him, sliding up under the fabric. I wanted to feel his hands on my skin, that cool flesh cutting through the heat of me, the way his nails left little lines of beautiful pain behind them, and yet so slow. So deliberate. Like he was peeling a grape, something sweet and supple. I couldn’t pull away from those hands....



    Buffy shook the memory off and finished pulling off her clothes, only to glance up into the mirror. Her reflection caught her, held her, and she stared at it in horror. She was covered in bruises and abrasions, finger marks, bite marks, scratches, hickeys, mark after mark after mark, every one of which told her it had really happened, hadn’t been a dream, and that it wasn’t going to go away. What she had done... what they had done... it was real. And it wasn’t going to go away. And what if Dawn saw? Or Willow? She couldn’t pretend all these marks were earned in the natural course of slaying. She scrabbled for her robe to cover up the tell-tale evidence of Spike... Spike... all over her skin....



    Once he had me stripped down, how I wanted his skin against mine. His coat and shirt peeled off as one, but that t-shirt... I don’t think it survived. It tore under my hands so easily, and he gasped as if I’d touched something inside him – I wonder how many times he’s dreamed of me doing that. Then the way he enfolded me in his arms, skin against skin, heat against cold, slayer against vampire, sighing with relief, molding us together as if... as if I belonged there....



    She was breathing hard now, in horror and lust at the memories. She couldn’t do this. She had to wash it away, cleanse herself of this wretched mistake she’d let herself fall into. She went to the bathroom and locked the door. She had to fight off these memories, fight them away, struggle against them like she’d struggled against him....



    How he took me, then, holding me down as I struggled against him, as if all my half-hearted attempts to get away were part of the game... because they were part of the game. I just wanted to feel him fight me, feel his strength, test my own against him, as I never could against Riley, as I’d never dared against Angel, as I’ve always wanted – yes, slayer, be honest – as I’ve always wanted to do against him. I didn’t have the leverage, or I’d have pushed him off.... No. Be honest, slayer. You didn’t have the will.



    She slipped off the robe and stared at herself again, this time in the bathroom mirror. She wasn’t even sure where all the bruises had come from. But some... some stood out so starkly in her mind. The half-moons of teeth marks... the bloom of hickeys on her breasts... where his demanding kisses and traveled... his kisses. Oh, god, his kisses.



    Those kisses... those kisses... as he finished above me, made me scream with it, then bent down toward me and kissed me and kissed me and kissed me, as he did at the Bronze the other night, his lips devouring mine, the taste of his mouth, so strange, so perfect. His voice whispering, murmuring over my heat, and how he felt against me. Mostly just the kisses, but his body arching over mine still, no longer holding me down with his strength, but just his presence, his perfection, his demonic power. Every kiss was like another candle lit in my chest, until I was ablaze with light.



    She turned on the shower and kept her hand in the water, waiting for it to heat up. The coolness of it was like him... god, was everything going to remind her of him forever? Was this night never going to fade? Was it going to be linked to every move and every sensation for the rest of her dull life? Because everything else felt dim, or as if it were black and white, and this memory, this night, was blazing in her mind like fireworks out of the darkness, just as brutal and just as bright.



    His hands felt like the water. How they traveled down me then, his hands flowing, his lips and his tongue making me quiver. As if he would devour every inch of me, sure now that I wouldn’t try to escape, escape the feeling, escape the hunger, escape him. He was so sure of me, then. And he was so right. He’d sealed me to him with those kisses, made me melt to the floor, and I wasn’t going anywhere. He could do what he wanted with me. And what he wanted was to taste me. Taste all of me, his tongue and his teeth and his soft, smooth lips, running down my skin like little beasts, his hands following after, smoothing away any pain his teeth had left behind, until he found my clit and... and swallowed it, drawing it into his mouth, pressing his whole face between my legs, sucking and lapping as if he’d found a pool of my blood. How long has he wanted to taste me, I wonder?



    Buffy turned from the shower and tried to use the toilet. Even sitting down felt painful, and she hissed as urinating made her sting. He’d done damage to every part of her. So why did it feel so good to hurt? Why did it still feel so good to hurt with what he had done to her?



    It was so powerful. The pain and the scratches as he worked his fingers into my cunt, his fingernails, his rings. And yet they felt so good. He felt so good, so much power in all that hunger. That demonic hunger that can never be sated, that hunger that I could devour, and borrow, and feel against me and inside me, the hunger I needed in order to breathe. Between his lips and his tongue and his fingers and the pain, and the desperate relief of finally feeling... anything, making me come again. What did he whisper at me, then, in the dark, as he held the orgasm with his hand, the rest of him sliding back up my body to gaze into my face? “That’s right, love. Feel it. Feel all of it. Burn with it, love. I can make you feel it.” The sound of his voice just making it all that much stronger.



    Buffy gasped at the memory, and coughed, trying to push it away, but it wouldn’t go. His body, his eyes, his voice, still humming through her. What had he done to her? He had her captured, bound to this memory as if she’d been chained to it. How had she let this happen? But she had. He had. They had, and it was all over her now, and it had felt so good, and so powerful. She wanted to wash it away, but she knew that the water wouldn’t touch it. All it would do is clean away the sweat and the scent and the dust, and all of them hummed on her skin, and... and they still made her feel alive. To her own disgust, she didn’t want them washed away.



    She reached up and turned off the shower, and went back to her bedroom. She slipped on a pair of silk pajamas – she had to cover her body, but she wanted something sensual, to hold on to this feeling she knew she could never let herself feel again. It was a mistake. She had to end it now. But still... some part of her wanted to cherish it. At least for now. For now, while it was still flaring in her mind, the only reality in a sea of empty nothingness. She lay down and closed her eyes, praying for sleep, pulsing with flashbacks of his hands, his skin, his body, his kisses....



    The way it felt when he was behind me, pushing into me, over and over and over again, as if he would force his way through me. The way his cock filled me, the way his balls tickled against my clit as the thrust, thrust, thrust. Looking around, seeing him behind me, that pale flesh gleaming in the darkness, his hands on my hips, completely single-minded. He looked so beautiful, so determined, as if he had to complete me or die. He was so deep inside me. I’m so afraid he’s still so deep inside me. So deep inside me... part of me....



    How am I ever going to get away?


   
 
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