Breaking a Slayer
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Threesomes/Moresomes › Angel(us)/Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
50
Views:
10,498
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Threesomes/Moresomes › Angel(us)/Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
50
Views:
10,498
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Chapter 41
Breaking a Slayer: Chapter 41
Author's Note: Quotes are from Ats "To Shanshu in LA." I've taken considerable liberties with them in order to include Spike (Gunn and Kate are gone because Kate annoys me and Gunn distracts me. *mmmmm Gunn*).
*
Spike stomped loudly into Angel’s basement bedroom, hoping to irritate his sire into wakefulness. It failed. He clomped over to Angel’s bed and gazed down at the recumbent vampire. Angel was even paler than his wont. He looked dead. An atavistic chill raced down Spike’s spine. Were it not for the bond that linked them even now with his sire dead to the world, Spike would howl in fear and rage as he had when Angel’s soul had been restored and Angelus had disappeared from their family.
William had never loved Angelus the way Spike reluctantly admitted that he loved Angel. Angelus had been brutal in his passions, taking whomever he pleased with as much violence as served his whim, caring not for the damage he inflicted on his childer or victims in the process. But William had worshipped the elder vampire with all that was in him, idolized and admired him fis cis cunning ways and hedonistic beauty. Angelus had accepted that worship as his due and handed out brutally erotic caresses and painful whippings with equal frequency and fervor.
Spike kicked off his boots and curled himself against Angel’s back, pressing gently against his sire’s bandaged body and encircling his darkly bruised shoulders until he could nestle his head into the thick, dark hair and smell that clean soap and incense scent that was his sire’s alone. Sighing in momentary contentment and willing away all thoughts of death, their absent mate and the future, Spike nestled closer and closed his eyes.
*
Buffy was dreaming. She walked the desert sands again, searching for the gaunt figure of the first Slayer who had gifted her with stake and energy earlier that night. But something else called to her, pulling her away from the power that was hers by right and duty. Something dark and cold drew her from the brightness of the windswept sand into a dank and shadowy forest that appeared as if by magic at her left.
*Giles would remind me that left is 'sinister.'* she thought to herself as she entered the glade, wary even in her dreams. Looking down, Buffy realized that she had shed the encumbering clothes that she wrapped herself in these days. Clad only in a flimsy tunic, she shivered at the feeling of vulnerability that encroached upon her, even in dream-state.
*The ritual was supposed to help me get over that feeling,* she thought grumpily, irritated at herself for letting a piece of dream clothing make a difference. It wasn’t' real anyway, so what did it matter?
*I'm not that frightened, broken girl anymore. I'm not! I'm stronger now. I've put myself back together,* she thought to herself, searching further into the dark resolutely. *I won't go back to that scared little rabbit, not even in a nightmare.*
The gloomy dark of the woods lifted suddenly at her thought, as if part of the oppressive atmosphere had evaporated upon her decision not to allow it to bother her. She walked forward faster, choosing her path with care and sensing rather than seeing the way she needed to go.
At last she came to another clearing in the underbrush, and there, fighting frantically, yet silently, in full game face, was Spike. Clad in his black jeans and duster with his red t-shirt on, he whirled gracefully, dodging the vicious slashing blows of the first Slayer, who looked as if she'd happily rip him to shreds if he didn't turn to dust first.
"Pet?" he queried, an unspoken plea in his voice for help against this feral thing he didn't understand.
"Slay?" growled the first Slayer, holding out the twin of the stake she'd given to Buffy earlier.
Buffy froze, torn between the urgent demands of her nature and her unnatural bond with the vampire who had brought her back from the brink of madness and pain that summer. Without Spike, she would surely have self-destructed after the rape and her mother's death, had she even survived that long. Yet the Slayer before her called irresistibly to the Slayer within her, beckoning Buffy into the fray. Her dream-self reluctantly joined the dance of death, whirling into battle against the vampire almost against her will and grasping the stake from the outstretched hand of the first Slayer.
*
Angel was dreaming. He knew this because the constant agony he'd been dwelling in for days was absent. He signed unnecessarily in the dream and glanced around himself. He stood in a chamber hung with white draperies that billowed in continual, sinuous motion. Blinking at the hypnotic effect, Angel paced slowly forward, noting immediately that he felt no pain. He glanced down and saw, without surprise, that he was naked to the waist and free of hurt. His favorite leather pants, now packed away because of bad associations with his evil half, hugged his powerful legs like a second skin.
Every one of his senses seemed alive and pulsing, despite the clear impossibility of that. He stalked forward, alert to danger in the bright, confusing whiteness of the room, then jumped backwards as a bleeding woman rushed him.
"Drink!" she commanded, holding a bloody wrist to his mouth.
Angel shook his head in negation and stepped quickly from her, shuddering at the nearness of fresh human blood, but afraid, even in dream state, to taste the forbidden stuff before his ritual.
The ritual itself was unbelievably simple, the preparation was the key. Purity, of mind, body, and soul. He must abstain, mustn't give in. He gasped as one of the wounds from his physical body reopened itself on his astral one.
A beautiful young man approached him next, bleeding already from the neck. It would be easy to sip just a little from the blood welling up there so enchantingly. It could do no harm -- the boy was already injured. Angel denied himself and another bruise appeared on his naked torso. He groaned in response and continued walking through the billowing white curtains of the bright room, searching everywhere for an exit.
More people, more denial, more wounds. Each burned like a brand in his side. Angel stumbled and fell as his flesh was slashed open by invisible knives. He didn't henouenough blood in his body to bruise or bleed as much as he was doing. He couldn't fathom where it was coming from. It didn't matter, Angel, suffering, bleeding and bruised beyond bearing now crawled forward slowly on bloody hands and knees. Intent on escaping the billowy room before he glimpsed any more people, or was tempted anew, he crawled mindlessly forward, groaning in anguish as he did so.
*
Buffy struck out at Spike, then pulled her punch, wincing as the stake in her hand almost penetrated into the flesh directly above his heart. The look on his face was far worse than any physical hurt she had caused him. He looked…betrayed, lost, utterly alone, and it was her fault. She had done this to him. In her quest for control, for power, for pride, she had destroyed one of the two men who loved her. Looking into his eyes, she knew that she'd lost him as surely as if she had plunged the stake into his chest.
"No!" Buffy screamed, waking alone in her bed, abruptly in the early dawn light and reaching for the cool, comforting bodies of the mates who weren't there. *Spike,* she thought, *I've got to call Spike, NOW!* Buffy grabbed for the phone and dialed the number of Angel's apartment, her hands shaking at the busy signal that stretched on and on no matter how many times she redialed.
To be continued...
Author's Note: Quotes are from Ats "To Shanshu in LA." I've taken considerable liberties with them in order to include Spike (Gunn and Kate are gone because Kate annoys me and Gunn distracts me. *mmmmm Gunn*).
*
Spike stomped loudly into Angel’s basement bedroom, hoping to irritate his sire into wakefulness. It failed. He clomped over to Angel’s bed and gazed down at the recumbent vampire. Angel was even paler than his wont. He looked dead. An atavistic chill raced down Spike’s spine. Were it not for the bond that linked them even now with his sire dead to the world, Spike would howl in fear and rage as he had when Angel’s soul had been restored and Angelus had disappeared from their family.
William had never loved Angelus the way Spike reluctantly admitted that he loved Angel. Angelus had been brutal in his passions, taking whomever he pleased with as much violence as served his whim, caring not for the damage he inflicted on his childer or victims in the process. But William had worshipped the elder vampire with all that was in him, idolized and admired him fis cis cunning ways and hedonistic beauty. Angelus had accepted that worship as his due and handed out brutally erotic caresses and painful whippings with equal frequency and fervor.
Spike kicked off his boots and curled himself against Angel’s back, pressing gently against his sire’s bandaged body and encircling his darkly bruised shoulders until he could nestle his head into the thick, dark hair and smell that clean soap and incense scent that was his sire’s alone. Sighing in momentary contentment and willing away all thoughts of death, their absent mate and the future, Spike nestled closer and closed his eyes.
*
Buffy was dreaming. She walked the desert sands again, searching for the gaunt figure of the first Slayer who had gifted her with stake and energy earlier that night. But something else called to her, pulling her away from the power that was hers by right and duty. Something dark and cold drew her from the brightness of the windswept sand into a dank and shadowy forest that appeared as if by magic at her left.
*Giles would remind me that left is 'sinister.'* she thought to herself as she entered the glade, wary even in her dreams. Looking down, Buffy realized that she had shed the encumbering clothes that she wrapped herself in these days. Clad only in a flimsy tunic, she shivered at the feeling of vulnerability that encroached upon her, even in dream-state.
*The ritual was supposed to help me get over that feeling,* she thought grumpily, irritated at herself for letting a piece of dream clothing make a difference. It wasn’t' real anyway, so what did it matter?
*I'm not that frightened, broken girl anymore. I'm not! I'm stronger now. I've put myself back together,* she thought to herself, searching further into the dark resolutely. *I won't go back to that scared little rabbit, not even in a nightmare.*
The gloomy dark of the woods lifted suddenly at her thought, as if part of the oppressive atmosphere had evaporated upon her decision not to allow it to bother her. She walked forward faster, choosing her path with care and sensing rather than seeing the way she needed to go.
At last she came to another clearing in the underbrush, and there, fighting frantically, yet silently, in full game face, was Spike. Clad in his black jeans and duster with his red t-shirt on, he whirled gracefully, dodging the vicious slashing blows of the first Slayer, who looked as if she'd happily rip him to shreds if he didn't turn to dust first.
"Pet?" he queried, an unspoken plea in his voice for help against this feral thing he didn't understand.
"Slay?" growled the first Slayer, holding out the twin of the stake she'd given to Buffy earlier.
Buffy froze, torn between the urgent demands of her nature and her unnatural bond with the vampire who had brought her back from the brink of madness and pain that summer. Without Spike, she would surely have self-destructed after the rape and her mother's death, had she even survived that long. Yet the Slayer before her called irresistibly to the Slayer within her, beckoning Buffy into the fray. Her dream-self reluctantly joined the dance of death, whirling into battle against the vampire almost against her will and grasping the stake from the outstretched hand of the first Slayer.
*
Angel was dreaming. He knew this because the constant agony he'd been dwelling in for days was absent. He signed unnecessarily in the dream and glanced around himself. He stood in a chamber hung with white draperies that billowed in continual, sinuous motion. Blinking at the hypnotic effect, Angel paced slowly forward, noting immediately that he felt no pain. He glanced down and saw, without surprise, that he was naked to the waist and free of hurt. His favorite leather pants, now packed away because of bad associations with his evil half, hugged his powerful legs like a second skin.
Every one of his senses seemed alive and pulsing, despite the clear impossibility of that. He stalked forward, alert to danger in the bright, confusing whiteness of the room, then jumped backwards as a bleeding woman rushed him.
"Drink!" she commanded, holding a bloody wrist to his mouth.
Angel shook his head in negation and stepped quickly from her, shuddering at the nearness of fresh human blood, but afraid, even in dream state, to taste the forbidden stuff before his ritual.
The ritual itself was unbelievably simple, the preparation was the key. Purity, of mind, body, and soul. He must abstain, mustn't give in. He gasped as one of the wounds from his physical body reopened itself on his astral one.
A beautiful young man approached him next, bleeding already from the neck. It would be easy to sip just a little from the blood welling up there so enchantingly. It could do no harm -- the boy was already injured. Angel denied himself and another bruise appeared on his naked torso. He groaned in response and continued walking through the billowing white curtains of the bright room, searching everywhere for an exit.
More people, more denial, more wounds. Each burned like a brand in his side. Angel stumbled and fell as his flesh was slashed open by invisible knives. He didn't henouenough blood in his body to bruise or bleed as much as he was doing. He couldn't fathom where it was coming from. It didn't matter, Angel, suffering, bleeding and bruised beyond bearing now crawled forward slowly on bloody hands and knees. Intent on escaping the billowy room before he glimpsed any more people, or was tempted anew, he crawled mindlessly forward, groaning in anguish as he did so.
*
Buffy struck out at Spike, then pulled her punch, wincing as the stake in her hand almost penetrated into the flesh directly above his heart. The look on his face was far worse than any physical hurt she had caused him. He looked…betrayed, lost, utterly alone, and it was her fault. She had done this to him. In her quest for control, for power, for pride, she had destroyed one of the two men who loved her. Looking into his eyes, she knew that she'd lost him as surely as if she had plunged the stake into his chest.
"No!" Buffy screamed, waking alone in her bed, abruptly in the early dawn light and reaching for the cool, comforting bodies of the mates who weren't there. *Spike,* she thought, *I've got to call Spike, NOW!* Buffy grabbed for the phone and dialed the number of Angel's apartment, her hands shaking at the busy signal that stretched on and on no matter how many times she redialed.
To be continued...