Title: Longing
Author: Elle
Rating: NC-17 (some violent sex)
Feedback: Always! Elle562000@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: Buffy and co. belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and
the forces of darkness that took Giles away!
Spoilers: Through Wrecked.
Summary: Buffy reflects on her affair with Spike.
Note: This isn't the original smut I promised, which is much longer,
but something I needed to get out of my system. Term paper be damned!

Buffy hugged her knees to her chest and fiddled with the cross in her hands. Twelve strands of garlic, a pitcher of holy water, and Mr. Pointy might keep Spike away, but they wouldn't hold back her own traitorous thoughts.

Her life was falling apart. Dawn was broken and bleeding due to Willow's own carelessness, and would no doubt harbor scars that wouldn't be visible on the surface. Tara, perhaps the one reasonable one among them was gone, and Willow was battling an addiction that could kill them all.

To top it all off, Buffy had been selfish as well. She had left her sister alone, turning to Spike to satisfy her own base needs. She had used him to make her forget, to punish herself.

Buffy brushed her hand against the comforter and it came back wet. She realized that she had been crying.

Suddenly her life was very, very dark, and she was very alone. Turning miserably onto her side, she attempted to sink into sleep.

It had to be painful or it wasn't good. She wanted to taste blood, her own and his. She wanted her skin to bruise and bones to pop.

At one point he had actually asked, "Am I hurting you, luv?"

Without thinking her reply had been, "Not enough."

The cement was hard and cold against her back. Plaster-dust choked her lungs and burned her eyes. He came into her hard. She was already tender from the first time and it stung. He didn't notice and she didn't care. She was detached from him, and begging for more all at once.

He was rough, and pounded her back against the concrete. She felt bruises forming, her buttocks stinging with each movement. She dug her nails into his back, not satisfied until he hissed in pain. She dug them in further.

He bit her on her breast, her nipple, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to leave marks.

Her cheeks were wet, but it wasn't from the pain. She hated her life, her painful, lonely life. She needed to bleed, to ache just to remember she was living. She had to chase away to numbness. Just a little more blood…

She pressed herself against him, and found him cold, without a heartbeat. Her stomach gave a sickening lurch and she cried harder, but silently, not wanting him to know.

The body against hers was warm and soft, moving slowly with every rhythmic breath it took. It smelled safe and familiar.

She was still crying, sobbing now, not caring if he knew. A gentle hand stroked her hair, while another rubbed her back and held her close.

His sweater was scratchy against her cheek.

But he had been naked.

She looked up. Pale green eyes stared down into hers, full of sympathy and understanding. All at once relief flooded through her, making her dizzy.

He wiped at her tears. "It will be fine," he promised. "We'll get through this together."

She shook her head. "But you're gone."

"No. Never."

She started crying again, but for an entirely different reason. He held her, soothed her.

Belatedly she realized they were in her room, on her bed. He was clothed, she was wearing the tattered remains of the outfit she had been wearing when she… The blouse was shredded. The skirt was gone. Her panties had a dark brown stain on the front, dried blood she realized. Her body was a canvas of scratches and bruises.

He studied her and she felt ashamed. "I was just… I had to let it out. I had to hurt."

"Not anymore," he promised. "No more pain."

He kissed her, very softly on her broken lips. She began to feel warm again. His lips brushed every bruise and mark on her face, each temple, her chin, her cheek, eyebrow, and forehead. Each one tingled under her touch, their dull ache replaced by a gentle warmth. His hands massaged blood back into her fingertips, driving away the numbing cold.

He peeled away her torn blouse, carefully pulling where it was stuck to her flesh by dried blood. He gazed at the purple and red marks on her breasts, belly, and shoulders, shaking his head in disgust.

"How could you do this to yourself?" he asked quietly.

Buffy's eyes stung with tears. He drank them off her skin.

"Let's make it better, shall we?" he said with a kind smile.

His touch was tender, moving over her as if she might shatter. The bruises and cuts faded, disappearing beneath his fingertips. He kissed her breasts, which were swollen and painful. The pain melted away. His hands smoothed over her belly, wiping away all traces of suffering.

The bruises on the insides of her thighs were the worst, nearly black in color. Removing her soiled underwear he gasped at the blood clinging to her pubic hair.

"My poor girl," he whispered in horror.

"I let him," she confessed. "It's my fault."

She brushed her hands against his sweater, tracing loving patterns on his chest. Knowing what she wanted, he removed the garment and let her touch his skin. She relished its heat beneath her palms. He kissed her again, holding her against him tightly, but gently.

She didn't remember when he removed his pants or if there had been any underwear. Suddenly he was naked beside her, warm and delicious.

She should have screamed in pain when he joined with her, but there was nothing was pleasure, hot and spiraling. He was slow and sure in his movements, and never stopped kissing her.

"I love you," he said against her ear. "I always will."

She buried her face against his neck. "I love you too."

Their climax wasn't cataclysmic, but soft and lasting, like warm water lapping over them. He held her after, keeping her close to him.

Her eyelids grew heavy and she curled further into him. "Promise me you won't leave."

"I never did."

She smiled and fell asleep.

Sunlight burned through the blinds and onto Buffy's face. She woke, her heart heavy with the realization that she had been dreaming. He hadn't been there to comfort her last night; it had been a fantasy.

Still in her clothes from the previous evening she got up and stretched, moving to check on her sister.

She paused in front of the mirror.

The bruises were gone.

END