Stealing All The Stars
*****
"I would die for you
I would kill for you
I would steal for you
I'd do time for you
I will wait for you
I'd make room for you
I'd sail ships for you
To be close to you
To be part of you
Cause I believe in you
I believe in you
I would die for you"
--Garbage
******
He liked to watch her play.
Liked to watch her through the thin slate veil of his cigarette smoke, her body moving in time with the music, dancing absently to the chords of electric guitar and heavy bass. Graceful limbs clothed in leather and silver, curtained by cerulean smoke moved with a sensuality that seemed to resonate throughout the room. He watched her as he smoked, lounging on their bed, swimming in the silk of their bedsheets as she seduced the world with the curve of her mouth and the alluring sway of her hips. She could light the world on fire with the subtlety of her sexuality, the smoldering heat that emanated from her glittering adventurine eyes, and she was wicked enough to do just that.
And Spike knew that Buffy, this arsonist clad in silver, would burn it slowly.
The fan blades groaned, turning slowly and heavily, the thick metal painted in rust that resembled dried blood. The blood of the victim that his lover had chosen caked at her temple where she had been dragged from the cemetery. Spike smirked as he watched her, this glorious girl dancing with herself, a hand snaking across the taut skin of her abdomen, fingers dipping provocatively into the waistband of her leather skirt, her breasts shimmering with silver sequins that coated her like starlight. Buffy could steal the stars if she wanted to, could make them come to her with a smile, and now she wore them like ornamentation. She decorated herself with the world that she had looted, her pale skin silvery like moonlight.
Pale gold hair fluttered around her face in a torrent of silver, like tranquil moonbeams shattered and fragmented into a celestial typhoon. Light flashed through the fan blades like a strobe, pulsing across her body in a constant assault of cerulean electricity, and the slim lines of her strong, curving body flashed like lightning as she danced to the music. She danced like a flame, slender and hot, her mouth a twist of glossy ruby, like an exotic fruit caressed in moisture. The fine circlets of her wrists were bound and decorated in sparkling jewelry, bracelets twining and spinning around near the hands that arched and rose over her head.
Eyes the color of seafoam and amber flashed at him, and Spike felt the heat of her very existence burn his flesh as she focused her attention on him. He had never seen anyone so vivid, so alive, no matter that she was not. The essence of life, the vibrancy and the joy of the world, was inside of her body, and the arrogance of owning him was visible in the curve of her mouth and the roll of her hips. Buffy knew that she was seducing him, and she knew that she had enslaved him. She was the master of him, but he was also the master of her. It was a constant tangle, a battle and a brawl, and right now, he was just figuring out how to one-up her.
Ebony fingernails that sparkled with silver caressed the exposed sliver of abdomen above the waistband of her skirt. It was an invitation and a taunt - a show that she possessed what he wanted. One eyebrow the color of dark amber arched, and the white of her teeth glistened as she smiled viciously at him. Spike matched her easily, curling one corner of his mouth up into a smirk, and he saw the spark flash through her eyes at her own arousal. He knew his smile always got to her.
Chuckling, she approached him, a sliver of thigh revealed through the obscene slit in the skirt. Otherwise, Buffy was coated in black leather down to her knees, and her legs were as slender and as bright as daggers. Malevolent and dark, she was. Dangerous just to look at. The ruby of her lips glimmered in a fashion that made him want to lick her, just to see if he could taste from the moisture of her mouth. But perhaps he would taste blood on her, and he wondered if the red of her mouth was entirely artificial.
Her fingers darted out and stole the cigarette from between his fingers, and she took a long drag off of it, tossing her hair from her slender shoulders as he sneered at her. "Bitch," Spike said lowly, and Buffy's smile was wicked and mocking.
"Asshole," she replied, taking another hit off of his cigarette before starting her dance again. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, and the light shattered it, causing it to explode in a mist of azure and gray. She always smoked with a fury, as though she could destroy the flame with the power of her nonexistent breath, and watching her smoke was deliciously sensual. It was like a defiance of her vampirism, this indulgence that she could enjoy dead and could never have done while alive.
A whimper came from the girl sitting bound and gagged in the corner of the room, blue light flashing intermittently over her wounded body. Sweat glistened and then plunged into shadow, and the fan blades croaked in synchrony with the pumping bass line of the electronica that Buffy had chosen. She was suffering, this little nymphet painted in black and blue, praying softly, and Spike snickered.
Spike gestured toward the girl with his head, keeping his eyes on the heavily lashed green ones that remained focused on his. "So, lamb, are you going to kill her or am I going to starve to death?" he asked, and Buffy's eyes sparked at him, her smile widening to reveal a set of glistening white teeth. It was predatory and seductive all at once, and she sauntered over to the girl, her eyes scouring the girl.
Buffy wanted to play.
The fan blades groaned with the rustiness of their wear, and Buffy ignored them, focusing her attention on the girl bound and tied to the post. Narrowing her eyes, Buffy examined the girl standing there, dressed in a virginal white, now painted the color of electric china from the streetlights flooding through the gigantic fans that lined the factory walls. She knew this girl. She knew her humanity, her innocence and her fear. She knew them because she had once possessed them.
Memory fluttered through her mind, and instead of being pained by them, she relished them. Relished the remembrance of her life as the Slayer. Dined on the divinity of her naivete and simpering virtue. She recollected everything, from her birth to her death, and she smirked at the knowledge that everything that she had once been was effectively destroyed. It was part of her malevolence, her remembered history, and she knew mankind better than any vampire. She knew them because she had once tried to save the world, and now she was intent on enslaving it.
The music throbbed and pulsed through the abandoned factory, bass pumping underneath concrete and accented by the constant turning of the fans. The rhythm compelled her to dance, the cigarette glimmering in the shadow as she moved her body around the captive girl. Tears ran down the young woman's face as Buffy danced, her hips rotating slyly as she raised her hands above her head, shooting glances at her lounging lover as she stole puffs from his cigarette. It tasted like burning tobacco and blood, thick and rich while being elusive and mysterious. Hunger coursed through her veins, and she knew what she craved.
Destruction.
Smirking at Spike, Buffy turned her attention to the girl that she held captive, and started to dance with her victim, performing for her in a manner that was taunting and predatory. This was her world, her power, her victim. No one else's. "What do you think of her?" she murmured to Spike, and his low, deep voice murmured across the room towards her.
"She looks delicious," Spike said, and Buffy turned her head, crooking her finger at him, inviting him to come to her. A different sort of appetite flooded through her while gazing upon the lanky blond that had taken her into his bed. His cheekbones glinted like twin daggers, carved in ice and malicious as murder, descending into the decadent opulence of his mouth. He wore a constant smirk, a leer that never seemed to dissipate, and the fine fringes of his eyelashes were lowered beguilingly over his vivid lapis eyes. She desired him and him alone to rule the world with her, to take what life had to offer them and steal the cosmos, and she knew that he was the man who would hand her the match to set the land afire.
When he kissed her, she could taste apocalyptic arousal. Armageddon and carnality rested on his mouth, and she licked the plush plum of his lower lip with her tongue, nipping playfully at the teardrop of his upper lip. Spike growled into her mouth, twining his fingers through her hair, and her hands crawled underneath his cotton tee shirt, climbing his abdomen like spiders that glittered like stars. Roughly, she raked her fingernails across his chest, scratching his skin and claiming him as hers and hers alone.
As if she needed to draw blood to own him.
With one slow, affirming lick of his upper lip, Buffy pulled away, her eyes glinting at him underneath heavy lashes. Still keeping her eyes on him, she moved towards the girl, stepping backwards and swaying her hips slightly, her thumbs hooked on the waist of her slender and sexy leather skirt. Silver shimmered over her body as she moved, tethered to her body by nothing more than a thin string that tied behind her back. She wore the night like a goddess did, moonlight pouring through her hair and stars blazing a trail of silver across her body, dipping into the pitch black of her leather skirt and revealing skin that glowed with a preternatural and ethereal light.
This was the Slayer unbound.
Lips the color of spilled wine curved into a smile as she caressed the young girl's cheeks with her hands, slowly undoing the cloth that had gagged her. Buffy smirked, her black nails glittering as she pressed a finger to the girl's bleeding mouth. Slowly, she drew her fingertip away from the other girl's lips, crooking her finger invitingly at Spike. The blood glimmered in the pulsating blue light like juice from a plum, and he drew her fingertip into his mouth, the blood exploding with the flavor of fear on his tongue, and he flashed his eyes at her while sucking on the lacquered digit that she had offered him.
He wondered if he could steal the stars that she had looted if he drank hard enough.
Laughter and arousal poured from her mouth, and then, with a viciousness and a swiftness that never failed to amaze him, she whipped her head around in a maelstrom of light and sank her teeth into the girl's neck. As the girl who had once been a Slayer drank, a scream filled the warehouse with an agony that rivaled the constant grinding of the fan blades.
And then Buffy released her before killing her, grabbing Spike's head between her palms and giving him a kiss that crushed him with the hard hatred of her very existence, releasing the blood that she had stolen into his mouth. Kissing her now was like drinking death, like swallowing suffering, and her fingernails scraped the harsh angles of his face as she fed him in this most primal and primitive fashion. Giving him what she had taken and sharing in the joy of a hunt that had been denied to him for too long... He kissed her back with the fervor of loving calamity, of being absolutely fascinated and obsessed with this cruelty and violence poured into the slender shape of a moonlit girl.
A smirk blossomed on her mouth, daring and deadly, and she pulled away from him, the taste of the honeyed blood still clinging to her mouth in a fashion that was delectable and delicious. Slowly, teasingly, she drew her tongue across the plush expanse of her lower lip, and the girl began to weep, murmuring snippets of insanity and Latin as she prayed for the life that wasn't hers anymore. Buffy owned it, had taken it within her and mulled over it, and she had shared it with the lover who shared her thirst for this insane mixture of sex and violence.
And with that, Buffy's eyes glowed like amber, and she darted her hand out across the girl's neck in a fan of glittering starlight, and blood spilled down the white expanse of the girl's throat as tears streamed down her face. Cruelly, Buffy stepped forward and placed a crystal glass underneath the stream of flowing crimson, and watched as blood poured from the girl's mouth as well. The vampire smiled lowly and her voice was harsh and melodious all at once, like a mixture of velvet and violence. "Guess that God already decided your fate, girlfriend," Buffy murmured sweetly, "because I don't think that you could find anyone more likened to Satan than me."
As the girl's lifeblood spilled into the glass, Buffy stole a kiss from the girl, threading her tongue through the blood that had filled the confines of her mouth, and as she kissed her, hard and rough, unforgiving and merciless, the girl died.
Slowly, a honey-colored eyebrow arched, and Buffy turned around to see her lover standing there, eyelashes the color of soot lowering in arousal and in hunger, as his mouth leered at her as though he was fucking her already. The vampire chuckled, and lifted the goblet to her mouth, taking a taste of the heated blood swirling in glass. "Mm," Buffy murmured, her voice low and sultry. "Tastes *good*."
His fingers splayed across her back as he drew her closer, and Spike stole the glass from her as she had earlier stolen his cigarette, and he drank the meal that she had so thoughtfully prepared for him. Devotion, it was. Their love was based on devotion tinted with destruction, love and lust combined with Armageddon, and together, united, they would ruin the world. They'd burn it to cinders and ash, leaving the earth a barren wasteland, and then spend the remainder of eternity hidden by silk sheets and an endless flow of blood.
And Spike knew this just from kissing her.
The mirrored bed had been her idea, her twisted sense of humor over their lacking reflections, and she liked lying back on the bed and watching the bedsheets move like ruby phantoms, the silk shifting as ghosts writhed atop them in ecstasy. She pushed him roughly onto the bed, her hands cool and demanding, and she crawled atop him, kissing him fiercely, and if he had any breath left in him, it would have been hers. He relinquished his kiss to her at first, teasing her with the prospect of docility, and then he kissed her so fervently that her mouth felt frostbitten from his cool kiss.
Docility was not what she wanted from her razor-sharp lover anyway. She demanded passion and play, power and pain, as they had once shared when they were enemies. She laughed briefly into his mouth as she remembered the days of saving the world, of giving and of gentleness, and she had effectively destroyed the girl who had once sacrificed everything she knew for a humanity unworthy of her pain and suffering. Anonymity had never brought her happiness, and she was determined to make her name the last word on every human being's lips. A scream of pain, a scream of death, and a scream of acknowledgement.
And now, she wanted her lover to scream it in ecstasy.
The music pumped as the fan blades shook, and the blood from the dead girl raced through her veins, lending her a heat that was nothing more than borrowed brightness, a life consumed and swallowed, and she felt her skin almost heat from her stolen sweetness. Spike's hands burned underneath a layer of ice, like a melting river, and this temperate mixture of winter and inferno now raced across her shoulders and down her back, toward the tie that kept her top melded to her body.
Starlight poured down her body and pooled on the floor, and her body was revealed in a slender landscape of pale silver, shimmering with intangible light that seemed frangible and frail, but there was nothing delicate about this tigress. She was the huntress, sly and sensuous. The kind of girl who would wear knee socks and pigtails but use her teeth when giving head. That was this vixen in leather, with the angel's face and the devil's mind. A constant contradiction, this once champion turned destroyer.
The saint turned sinner slid out of her leather skirt, revealing that she wore nothing underneath her clothing, and Spike smirked at her boldness and her blatant sexuality. She fucked who she pleased, as did he, but they made love only to each other. He loved the wildness in her, the freedom and the spirit, and she loved the barely contained brutality in him. Their sex was always inflaming, incinerating, to the point where she thought that her skin would turn to ash under a murmur of his voice.
The beaded bracelets on her slender wrists whispered like wind chimes as her fingers crawled up his chest, slowly peeling his black tee shirt off of his slim, hard body. The muscles and bones of him, the sinuous silver of his skin, seemed to be carved out of alabaster or marble, hard and strong, as though there was no frailty to this frozen masterpiece of structured steel. However, Buffy knew differently. She knew the tiny vulnerabilities that Spike covered up through his violent vocabulary and his prowess for power. She knew that when he fell in love he fell too hard, and she knew that he sometimes contemplated suicide because of his inability to kill. She knew his darkness and his depression, and she tried to give him all that she could to make him whole in spite of these things. And he knew what she let no one else know.
Spike knew that she would die for him.
The ends of gold brushed across his face as she nipped playfully at his lower lip, loving the ripeness and tenderness of his mouth, drawing blood so that it looked like a pomegranate. He tasted delicious, of blood borrowed and of ancient history, as though his blood had been aged like a fine wine. She could taste centuries of murder and madness inside of his bloodstream, wondering and marveling at the decades of terrorism reigning in his veins, and she knew that soon her blood would carry the pungent flavor of lives stolen. She would hold the world inside of her body, and she would consume the lives that had once consumed her. Violence and vengeance, that was Buffy Summers now.
The heat was upon her now, the passion and the fire that always stirred her after feeding. Drinking always led to fucking with her, as death aroused her, excited her, the demonic blood clashing with the Slayer that was still buried somewhere underneath her violence, leading to a fevered pitch of escalating ecstasy. She quickly undressed her lover, her mind racing with images of Spike coated in red, of licking blood from the angles of his cheeks, of drinking a combination of evil and innocence. It was enough to make her sex throb, to make the bass line of the music seem to run through her body like a train, and she positioned herself above him, a smirk on her face as she looked down at the man that she loved.
"What are you gonna do, baby?" he asked, and she slapped him playfully, never enough to really hurt him, just enough to remind them of the glory days of fighting with the feverish passion that they always shared. A wide grin spread across Spike's face, his teeth glinting menacingly in the light of the room, and he gripped her arms harshly, the chipped black of his fingernails digging into her skin and letting little circlets of blood ooze from the wounds. It was as though ten moons were bleeding from the pale silver of her alabaster skin.
Moaning from the pain of drowning in her own essence, Buffy took his hand from her arm and licked the blood from his fingers, drinking herself and shuddering at the savagery and vehemence that coursed through her own veins. Impishly, she flashed a smile at him and stained his fingers with the ruby of her lipstick and of her blood, and lowered herself on his chest, her moist folds screaming with the contact of his skin, and she found herself bucking as she writhed against him. Her hips arched as she bit his fingertips, and Spike shuddered underneath her, watching this wild woman go.
She impaled herself on him with a moan that was delicious, and her coolness surrounded his like a dip in a tight sea. Moaning, Spike's hands climbed up her body, feeling the incongruous contrast between soft skin and hard muscle. She clenched around him, and Spike wanted nothing more than to empty himself in her, to lose himself in this dark fury of twilight and terror. Buffy pulled herself off of him, only to slide down again, moaning at the sensation of skins colliding. She was a portrait of passion, a maelstrom of madness and mayhem, and they would bring the world to its knees together.
The passion built between them, layers and layers of luxurious sensuality and violence throbbing around him as she rode him, her muscles tightening around him like a cool vise. She gripped him and his hips gyrated, creating the friction that she needed and desired. She always craved conflict. Always hunted for hostility. And he was more than willing to provide her with it.
When she came, she screamed, never holding back, always wanting to shatter the skies with her ecstasy and her pleasure, and he moaned, following her and chasing her rapture with his own orgasm. It was harsh and violent, and she would suffer scars for a day, her arms dotted by the healing scabs where Spike had claimed her as his.
The music was still playing, a new song with a similar bass, electric guitar and percussion brutal and rough, just like her. Smirking, Buffy pulled herself off of him, her wrists glittering as though twilight had been threaded around the slim bones, and she moved off of the bed, her body still bare. In awe, Spike watched her go to his coat, her hips moving in time with the music, her pert breasts still hardened from arousal. Her hair switched like a waterfall of cascading light down her bare back, and she bent down, pulling out his pack of Marlboros.
Ruby lips pursed as she lit the stolen cigarette, and smoke misted over her glittering green eyes, sheathed by black lashes. All the while, the fan blades moved, covering her body in the eerie blue light of the night. She tipped her head back, her hair a mass of falling stars, and she smiled as she smoked, her mouth twisting into a smirk that rivaled his own arrogance. "I think that I might own you, Spike," she said thoughtfully, and Spike laughed, knowing that she owned him and not really caring.
He moved off the bed with a long, languorous crawl, his eyes flashing at her with the dangerous sharpness of burning sapphires, his blood-red mouth curled into a bewitching leer, the muscles of his back moving like a pale panther. When he stood, he took the cigarette from her mouth and took a long drag off of it, wrapping his hands around her slender waist. Slowly, tauntingly, he brushed his hips against hers, the bare silk of their bodies colliding, and she closed her eyes, lips parting for the kiss.
When Spike kissed her, he exhaled smoke into her mouth, and it made her smile. "Of course you own me," he murmured, and then he licked her lower lip possessively. "But I own you too."
And it all started over again as the fan blades moved and the stars fell from the sky.
*****
(end)