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Get Away by Sigyn
Get Away

    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?


    Spike had not had a good day. He was stuck in the collapsed house until nearly sunset, when the shadows became long enough that he could climb his way out of the rubble and make his way back to the crypt. He kept jumping back and forth from frustration to elation, and he was annoyed to discover that the twisted maelstrom of emotion did not get any easier to navigate even when he wasn’t trapped by the sun. He ran his head through the memories of the previous night all over again, the memories he’d been cherishing all day.

    God, how good it felt to hit her again. Properly! I’ve been longing to dance with that girl for so long. The rush of it, the exchange of blows, finally, finally, not having to just lay there and submit to it, but give back as good as I got, feel the power in my fists, listen to the smack of bruising flesh. And god, did she need it! Someone equal to her power and her passion, who understood her death wish and wanted to caress it. She’s needed a devil to dance with properly ever since she was Chosen, I know it.

    The street lamps turned on as he headed back, little pools of light in the darkness. He stretched his neck. He wasn’t sure what she’d done to it, twisted it or something, and everything ached deliciously.

    She looked so alive. Finally, alive. She hasn’t looked alive since she crawled out of the sodding grave. Such life and vigor in her fury and her passion. Her friends have all been stroking her, or coddling her, or bloody Giles, up and abandoning her – like that’s gonna help! – when I knew all she needed was to have the life knocked back into her. Kindle the light inside her, fire her up, get her going again. It’s been so painful, seeing her in such pain. It hurt a thousand times more than these bloody... did she crack a rib?

    Spike crossed into the cemetery, trying to assess damage, but it was difficult with the memories of the pleasure singing through every sting of pain.

   Bloody hell, how she looked when she finally took me. Pulled me out and claimed me, claimed my cock and drew it inside her. I couldn’t believe it. I just couldn’t believe it. All these years, all my heated fantasies, and it was better, a thousand times better. All that rage and pain and violence firing through us, and then to be part of her. The heat of her, the power of her. Squeeze me till I pop like warm champaign, indeed.

    His cock twitched again at the memory, as it had been jumping all day, though it had had plenty to satisfy it the night before. The cemetery was dark and peaceful, and his mind was a heated swirl of memory, memory that he simply wouldn’t leave alone.

    I didn’t expect her to take me so hard. I thought, when it finally happened, that she’d just be letting me, finally letting me, like that sodding robot, but I was wrong. I was so wrong, and it was so much better this way. To sink under her, bow down before her, be grabbed and forced and ripped to shreds. Then playing with her, wrestling against her strength, like tumbling puppies, nipping and scratching and holding each other down, trading places, Hands on skin, mouth against flesh, life against death, bloody hell, I’m alive. I’ve been dead for a century, why do I feel so alive?

    He made it to his crypt. There were no lights in the upper chamber, but he just walked through the darkness to the ladder. He didn’t have the energy to light his candles.

    How she finally went soft under me, her lust – and mine – finally slaked enough that I could do what I wanted, what I’d dreamed of, so many times. Just to taste her, taste her lips, her breath, her sweat, her skin, and the sweet, sweet, heady taste of blood. Tiny little scratches and scrapes she barely even noticed, and every one of them I claimed as mine, kissed them and claimed them and tasted them, tasted her. No fangs. No biting. As tempting as it was, not yet. Not yet, not till she’s sure of me... not till I can be sure of her. But just those little kisses of blood were like a drug. And oh, god, the heat between her legs! The taste of her, the hot feel of her cunt around my fingers and she clenched herself, as I pulled on her clit with my tongue, feeling the blood, the blood inside her, filling her, firing her. Listening to her scream and scream as I make her feel every second of it. Then how she pounced me again, like a cat with a rat, unable to keep off me....

    He took a shaky breath as he unbuttoned his shirt, staring down at his chest in the lamplight. He was bruised. Marked. Scratched, scraped, knocked about... Oh yeah! Oh, beautiful! Every mark was hers, every bruise, every welt. He lifted his hand and caressed every one he could reach, claiming them as gifts she’d given him. The feel of the pain, the memory of each blow and bite and scratch, making him shudder with remembered ecstacy.

    She bit me here, so hard, I remember crying out. And this was from earlier, when she threw me against the wall. And these, these are from when we fell through the floor, and I caught her above me, and her nails sank into me. This was when she scratched me as I made her scream the fourth time, and this, this was where she held me down and pounded on me until I couldn’t even think. Bloody hell, all these marks. All these memories. How the hell could she walk away from this this morning? All that passion between us... a gift from god and the devil himself.

    Spike rolled into bed, hoping sleep would finally come to him, as it had eluded him all day. The wrecked house hadn’t been comfortable, though it was the memories that had shouted in his head, keeping him awake. But as he lay down, he finally allowed himself the luxury of the best moment of all. Not the sudden switch from violence to passion, not the final moments of fulfilled ecstacy, not the feel of her pussy, or her touch on his cock, or the fire in the blood, or the heated breaths between them.

    Just at dawn. Just as the sun was rising... when she was finally sated. The fire between us had burned down to smoldering embers, and the exhaustion and the adrenaline crash, when all of those heated moments had finally taken their toll, and she collapsed. Oh, that moment. When she lay there, so still, and so safe in my arms, and she let me pull my coat over her to keep her warm, tuck her in safely, her head on my arm, curl her up beside me like a kitten. When I got to hold her. Just hold her. I was so damn knackered, it was hard to stay awake, but the feel of her against me, warm and soft and smooth. Her even breath, her softened body, the scent....

    He hadn’t known what was about to happen. He hadn’t realized that an hour or so later she’d open her eyes full of rage and regret. It was only an hour, and he’d spent half of it asleep, but it didn’t matter. Just that hour. That hour of peace and security, that brief moment when she was sated and satisfied, when he’d listened to her heartbeat and felt her heat against him, and was able to nuzzle her hair, breathe in her scent, bask in the moment when he’d thought... he’d dared to think... she could love him....

    He’d been afraid to think of that moment all day. All day as he spent trapped, imprisoned and alone, aching and bruising from what she’d done to him the night before... bleeding inside from what she’d done the morning after. The sex... oh, that was power. That was passion, that was life. But that golden hour of peace... that was what had risen last night to surpass the night he’d killed his first slayer as the best night of his life. He had to try and separate that moment from the morning after, or it felt like being ripped apart.

    Still, it happened. That golden hour was real. She has claimed me, and ridden me, and screamed for me, and nothing is going to change that. Nothing is going to make it unhappen. I’m inside her now, just as she’s always been burning inside me. I held her.

    I can’t let her get away.