It was a whisper in the air that gave it away. Nothing substantial, just a tiny breath of movement. The feel of dirt packed under foot, the air dank and cold. Lifeless. . . but not empty. Body moving with slow deliberation, towards the hint of sound until it became clearer, recognizable. His mind attempted to identify the sounds, his heart terrified of the answers.
Not like Anya did when he was inside her, with breathy whispers and the occasional sharp cry, words that no one else would believe tumbling from her lips. Those were good noises, happy noises of a woman well loved.
These were wanton. Aching. Full of need going untouched, no matter what anyone might do. It wasn't about loving, those moans explained; it was about pain. Hurting and needing and not even knowing where it hurt or how to fix it. Just pure, untamable emotion, run too wild and too free.
The moans of a whore desperate to finally get off.
Swallowing the ache the sounds produced, he crept deeper into the dust and the grime, caught up in the other sounds. Panting sounds, the movement of sweat-slick flesh. Tiny grunts and whispered words not yet definable. As horrible as it was to hear Buffy like that, it was the quieter sounds that scared him. The ones that made him shake and shiver because god, they made him hard, too.
Down the ladder, quieter than ever before in his life, and he could see them. Alabaster on gold, marble on sunlight. Moving with a rhythm his body instantly caught; a slow, measured pace that he knew would be driving her mad. This was Anya on her needy nights, taken to an extreme he couldn't quite contemplate. No matter how many orgasms were demanded or how his weary body was driven, it was good when she was like that. Because there was always love in her eyes when she looked at him. Buffy's eyes were closed.
Spike's eyes were on him.
Guys didn't notice things like eye color. Really, they didn't. Tell their girlfriends they did, definitely, but in real life, color didn't matter. Cup size, waist, legs, ass-those things mattered. But eyes? He still couldn't remember what color Anya's eyes were, no matter how many times he got lost in the love in their depths.
Spike's eyes were blue. Electric, pulsing. . . he was with Dracula again, body and mind aligning to a purpose he hadn't agreed to. Glowing in the dim candlelight, the blue called to him with an intensity he couldn't understand and wasn't sure he wanted to fight. After all, those gleaming eyes just wanted him to come closer. That was all. Closer.
"Yeah. You want it, don't you? What I've got." Spike was still moving, thrusting with lazy control that would have been enviable if Xander was coherent enough to do things like envy. Now, all he could do was stare. Buffy was bucking up with manic desire for relief beneath her lover, moving so fast she was practically a blur. Her wrenching cries made it clear that fulfillment was nowhere to be found despite the sweat that spoke of hours of attempts.
"Always like this. Bang, bang, quick, she wants, but it's never enough. Not 'till I let it be."
He was on the bed, now, hands and knees crawling close enough to smell them. Sex and sweat and rutting desperation he recognized easily, but it took the part of him that remembered scenting down prey to identify the other.
"You want this, don't you? Always have. . . to be where he was, where I am. Takin' what she'd never give you. . . yeah, you want it."
A groan of wordless agreement ripped itself free of his throat and something within him splintered and shattered at the sound his own body made. No. Not something, because he knew what it was. Bending his head, he exposed his neck in a gesture everyone in the dank, dark cave could recognize.
Power is always defined through control.
With inhuman grace, Spike moved to sit back on his heels, still making casual, shallow thrusts. Buffy moaned as he pulled back, mindlessly needing what had filled her before. Spike knocked her hands away. "Could be. . . two, or ten. Even a hundred an' she'd never know." She reached out again; this time Spike grabbed her wrists and held them above and away with cruel indifference. "You want some, Harris?"
Not like this, the part of him that was simple and sane and good wanted to scream. Not like that-cold sex and power and control he'd never had. It was love he wanted. . . respect and companionship.
Buffy was still moaning, Spike's too-shallow thrusts making her even more desperate. She needed it. Wanted it. Just like she had so long ago, both of them too innocent for only a trench coat between her and what he'd wanted for so long. When she'd pressed up close and grunted out words that meant attraction and hadn't he been good, then? When her voice had been silky-smooth like Spike's was, promising him things his virgin mind couldn't even begin to imagine. He'd been good. He'd waited.
He was so hard.
"Listen to her," he heard in his ear, unaware of when he'd moved from the edge of the bed to press up close to still-straining bodies. "Hear how much she wants it. She's so desperate, isn't she, pet? All wet and hot and god, how tight." Xander was panting, now, barely aware of hands that felt like ice on his burning skin, ghosting down his chest to rub so lightly over jeans that were far too small. "Look at her. Look how bad it is. She needs you, filling her. Pushing your way in deep till she screams from it. Feel her clench around you, tighter than you can dream, and she needs it, pet. Needs it so bad."
His shirt was off-random touches of skin on his told him that. Something was stroking him through his jeans, rubbing as if it knew just where and how to touch him. Buffy was still moving, bucking, thrusting, fucking because it wasn't enough.
Spike wasn't enough.
"Yeah, pet, that's it. So hard for her. Gonna take her from me. Take her away from the Big Bad, fill her up so she forgets all about me. Take her from me, Harris. Take her."
Sharp, despairing wail as Spike pulled out completely, breaking the hold tightly-wrapped legs attempted to keep. Her body bucking with new force, aching to be filled again, unable to conceive of letting something like her hands offer assuagement. There was only empty, now, and she begged. Slurring and incoherent, the words indistinguishable as she pleaded to be full. To hurt, to not, to feel. Anything. Something.
He couldn't help as Spike undressed him, caught by the sight of the body he still fantasized about moving in abject need. "Wet and tight and hot and all for you, pet. Take it."
Hands so white against their combined tan flashed at the edges of his vision, wrapping around spread thighs and yanked hard. Wet heat landed on his thighs, juices trickling down to soak into skin already sweat-damp. Heat of skin too smooth against rough, body twisting and writing against him, seeking-seeking-
Xander's hips jerked in helpless obedience, pushing while Buffy moaned in grateful acceptance.
Him. Inside. Hotter and tighter and wetter than Spike claimed. Muscles gifted with supernatural strength created a vise that was so close to being painful. Excruciating sensation as those snug, rippling muscles jerked up and down his length, friction almost unwelcome in this inferno of tautness. His body twitched with instinctive needs, a flash of white-hot pleasure blinding him as it took over.
"Harder," he was encouraged. "Make her beg. She likes to beg, to be the needy one. Make her need you. Over her, filling her, taking her. Using her. Use her, pet. Fuck her, don't pleasure her." Fingers again, noticeable only because of their coolness, slick and wet touched him. Pressed. Against him, in him. "Feel how tight she is," Spike hissed as he pressed further up inside places that were just as tight. "How wet. She needs it, don't she, pet? Needs you so bad. Just like you needed, all those years. So long, and what'd she give you? But now she needs and there you are. Filling her. Fucking her." Breathing became something that required concentration as a second finger slipped in to join the first.
"She needs and here you are. But where was she when you needed, pet? Was she there to stroke you soft and happy? Wet and tight all around you, screaming your name? Listen, pet, is it your name now? It's not, is it? Because she needs. . . oh, she needs. But not you, pet. Never you."
Something much bigger than fingers pushed inside him.
"She uses you, pet. For what she wants and what she needs and never mind about how hard you hurt. Isn't that the way? But now-now it's different. So different now." Hard inside him, cold and throbbing and incredible, brushing against the place Anya had taught him about. Moving, now, rhythm caught and perfect together. "Use her, pet. Use her to feel good."
There was no pain, not after as much playing as Anya liked. Just full and whole the way plastic never made him feel. Warming from the friction their bodies made and solid rocking into him, rocking him into heat and wet and-
The shrill shriek caught them off guard, a small body waking just enough to notice that vain attempts at pleasure were being thwarted as her body was left completely empty. And it wanted that pleasure.
"See, pet?" Spike asked as he, too, carefully pulled out. "Always her, isn't it? Never us, or we, just her." Buffy tried to struggle but she was weak after hours of fruitless seeking. He couldn't think as he saw her small form flipped onto her stomach, manacles appearing out of no where.
"Yeah, tie me up," was slurred into the bedclothes. "Gotta cum."
Arms chained and pulled tight above sweat-streaked hair. Legs kicked wide but left unbound, Spike pushed her flat against the bed. She moaned and began to hump once more. "Tell me, pet," Spike insisted, meeting his eyes again. Power, but not absolute. Offering. One hand spreading glistening flesh, the other rubbing over turgid strength. "Tell-"
Warm fingers dipped between delicate folds, thrusting just enough to become sopping wet. Then gone.
Buffy moaned at the loss.
Wet fingers pressed against a tight entrance, a sighing groan of contentment the perfect acquiescence. Press and thrust and spread until guttural moans joined the soprano below. He waited while positions were found, interlocking parts lined up to lock. "Now," Spike whispered as he sank into place, groaning as he was taken the same way.
"Use her." The words sounded strangled, coming from the only throat that hadn't spoken yet that night. Three sets of hips began to pump, six legs straining to provide the leverage and force needed. "Let her warm you-"
"While you make me cum," Spike completed, head thrown back with a look of bliss.
Faster than before, hands running up and down smooth flesh, tasting skin that had no sweat to salt it. Tighter, lacking heat and drier inside, but still smooth and slick and god was it better. Hips thrusting back against him, wanting to be filled by him. Wanting to be taken by him. Concentrating on a cock that thrust and rubbed and satisfied deep inside.
Xander cried out as a twisted arm found his balls and squeezed. "Yeah, fill me up," was whispered into the stillness of the air. "Come for me, pet. Come in me."
Forcing gummy eyes to open he stretched his neck to look down on the one who had started all this, still senselessly striving away. Not a single point of pleasure as she was repeatedly taken where she had obviously been taken before-but without enjoyment.
"Just warm, pet. Bit of friction for me while you fill me up. Inside and out, the heat. . ."
The moaning dropped to pitiful mewling, now, body almost worked to exhaustion yet still needing to continue. Needing more.