R – sexual situation, language and some blood.
Summary: Set in S6 during Willow’s encounters with Rack. In my world, she went there a lot.
Disclaimer: Not mine, I just play with them a little.
Distro : The usual suspects that already have my stuff.
Check out more of my fic at Writtenbyfates
This is a birthday prezzie for velvetwhip. Sorry I’m so late, but the week was helacious. I hope you like, Gabrielle.
Many thanks to the amazing kallie_kat for the beta. I do adore her.
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A hand came to his lips, the cigarette there glowing dully as Spike dragged the nicotine into long dead lungs. He watched the wiper blades as they moved back and forth, the swunk-swoosh noise they made while forcing the rain from the windshield almost hypnotic.
It was during these times, the ride there, to save her from herself, that he contemplated his motives. He loved a slayer, so abnormal behavior was apparently not so abnormal for him. But this was not love, not specifically, and he was one step away from seeking demon psychiatric help if that would help him understand.
Turning the corner, he saw the phone booth in the distance. It was an older one, one that closed the user up inside the Plexiglas cage and illuminated him in a harsh fluorescent light. This one was not lit, although his enhanced vision picked up the figure standing inside. He wondered if the bulb was just burnt out or if she had done something to it … wanting to remain in darkness.
That was where he noticed her lately, swirling in the gloom, enticing his demon. If there was a shadowy corner of the room during a Scooby meeting, she was there, her quiet anger and anguish undetectable to anyone, save him and perhaps the other witch who had already left the redhead because she knew what the others didn’t … knew just what Willow was. Spike, on the other hand, was completely aware of their troubles, his senses giving him an unfair advantage, and he thought Tara was being hard on Willow, but kept out of it … so to speak.
Her loss was his gain.
He slowed as he approached the booth, his eyes looking foreign and startling to the girl huddling in the small shelter. Stopping completely, he pressed a button in the center console and rolled down the passenger window.
“Get in.”
A nod, barely perceptible, and Willow was moving, pushing the clear door open, teeth chattering over the din of the rain. She took jerky steps, in pain he assumed, and made her way to him slowly. Some impractical remnants of his softer self wanted to get out and help her, but she was a big girl, big enough to pull off a fantastical bit of magic and remove his chip, so he stayed seated and waited while the downpour soaked her too-thin shirt.
He also was not about to complain about the way her nipples were nicely presented.
Her trembling hand seized the handle and she pulled weakly, needing a few tries before the door opened. With a sigh, she dropped into the seat, hating the leather because it was not very warm, and let her head fall back onto the headrest.
“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice raspy and dry. It was from the screaming, he knew. He’d made her scream quite a few nights himself and was familiar with how pleasing she could sound, given proper incentive.
The scent of her blood was overpowering inside the close confines of the automobile. “What did he do?”
She glanced over at him, but was only treated to his profile as he continued smoking, his eyes on the road. “Nothing you haven’t,” she mumbled a little louder and relaxed into the seat some more. “Who’d you kill to get this?”
He smiled. “No one, unfortunately. It was sitting in a driveway, the key in it. I’ll be sure to carjack someone next time.”
“Don’t do me any favors.”
They fell into a comfortable silence and her mind wandered. Spike was a killer. He had always been, but she let his obvious devotion to Buffy mislead her into thinking he was conforming to a more human way of thinking. This misconception was encouraged when he saved her one night, putting himself at risk when a group of guys, humans, cornered her as she made her way home from a late research session. He took them on, insisting that she run to safety.
She did. The next afternoon, she slipped though his cemetery to thank him.
She knocks again and calls his name. “Spike.”
Nothing.
Pushing the door open, it grates on the cement loudly and she wants to stop, scamper back to Revello Drive, but something isn’t right. Spike has to be here. It’s midday and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. He’s daring, but not suicidal.
“Spike?”
He still doesn’t reply as she steps inside and pushes the door shut, half-expecting him to pop up behind her once everything is dark and spooky again. She turns around, braced for it, but there is no boo from their resident boogeyman.
Releasing the breath she has been holding, she walks slowly into the crypt, her eyes adjusting to the relative gloom and she wants to roll them, thinking that Spike is as melodramatic as they come. Her foot kicks something and she stumbles, then gasps. “Spike!” She drops to her knees, squishing in sticky blood as she does. “Oh Goddess ... what happened?”
He doesn’t answer her, is completely out, but she rambles on just the same, hoping to reach him as she tries to check him over, assess his injuries. His wounds are extensive; he has been beaten, literally to a pulp in some places, and she begins to cry.
Because he is not dust, she knows that he has a good chance of fully recovering with proper feeding, so she stands quickly, only to drop back down to her hands and knees vomiting, sickened by the blood and the evil that her own species is capable of doing.
Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she shuffles around to see his face. The damage is less here and she is oddly thankful for that. “I’ll be back, Spike. Hold on.”
She had stolen the blood from the Red Cross without remorse and returned to feed him and watch over him. During her vigil, she vowed to find a way to remove that chip. Being the resourceful girl that she was, she did it in less than a week and proceeded to free the demon without counsel or forethought.
It was a mistake--she knew that now--but not one she was actually regretting too much. He was able to protect himself and she felt she owed him that and he had kept his word and had not gone after any of her friends or their families. He even managed to remain hushed about his new condition and so did she. Her friends would have been … disapproving at best.
They came to a stop and he cut the engine, jarring her from her musings. Green eyes surveyed her surroundings, a Residence Inn, before narrowing at the vampire. This wasn’t a five star hotel, but he usually leaned toward the cheaper end of the temporary accommodations spectrum and despite what Spike said earlier she was certain that the owner of this car was dead and his or her credit was financing their stay. He failed to notice or care as he got out of the car and sauntered to the lobby, unmindful of the rain as if he walked between the drops. A few minutes later, he returned with a keycard and drove them around to room 114.
“Do you need help?” he asked. Although she made it into the car on her own, after being settled for a while, it was sometimes difficult for her to stand or walk.
She made the attempt, her eyes filling with tears, but nodded her head. “I think so, sorry.”
“Wait a sec, yeah?”
He pulled a duffle bag from the backseat, hopped out and opened the room door, tossing the bag inside before returning for her. Without ceremony, he lifted her from the seat and carried her to the room. She enjoyed this, him holding her close and snuggled into him. All too soon, he laid her on her back on the bed, not especially careful, but not unduly roughly either.
She pushed up on her elbows and peered at him while he took off his coat. “Are you staying?” The bag usually meant he was, but sometimes, it was only filled with a few of her things and he left her to get it together on her own.
“You’re bleeding and I’m hungry.”
Apparently, that was a yes since he flopped onto the mattress, making it bounce uncomfortably for her, and bent at the waist to remove his shoes.
“You can’t keep doing this,” he told her, his voice deep and calming. A mental demonic slap and he quickly added, “Not that I care.”
She snorted her laughter, her eyes lighting up for the first time since he’d fetched her from the phone booth over an hour ago. “You get fresh, warm, human, blood out of the deal, so I’m betting you care a lot.”
He smirked at her and pulled his black tee over his head. “You’re forgetting that I can get blood anywhere now. It’s about the sex, pet. I get your hot, tight cunt as well.”
Trembling, she groaned. Just thinking about what he did to her … was going to do to her very soon … made her throb inside.
“I … I don’t think I can, um, do it yet.” Rack had fucked her like a beast for hours this time. Of course, he made her think she was loving it at the moment, but once he was done with her, it all came crashing down, the pain, the humiliation, the high, and the burning power of magic thrumming in her veins. She was too sore, too wiped out to consider having sex with Spike, who could be just as brutal, if almost loving.
He pursed his lips together, and rolled his eyes, not open to being denied.
Sitting up took some effort, but she did, ignoring the pain. “Unless … you wanna, you know, help me heal?” she asked, desperate to have his company and eventually his cock.
“Could do it,” he replied and her eyes fell closed, relieved, imagining.
He was on her in an instant, pulling her wet clothes over her head, leaving her tousled. When she parted her lids, he was all ridges and fangs, pleased when her heart thudded loudly in her chest. He looked her over, studying her flesh for bruises that were not his, needing to obliterate them. “I’m going to kill him soon,” he whispered to her through his fangs, then pushed her to lay on the bed so that he had easier access to all of her, kissing her gently to avoid cutting her lips.
Leaning up, he released her mouth, admiring the flush of her skin before he ran his sharp teeth along her throat and she arched up into him, forcing his canines into her skin a fraction of an inch.
“Please do it,” she panted, not certain if she meant kill Rack or her.
Licking the trickle, he groaned, his grin returning before he slid his fangs in deep, and was reminded of why he enjoyed her so much. That wide-eyed innocence and her special brand of deviance made her his perfect little concubine.
Something told him that he would be enjoying her for centuries.
end