Spike's Heart (spikes_heart) wrote,
Spike's Heart

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New Ficlet For Your Reading Pleasure - A Game of Chance

Don't know where this came from, and I'm about as positive as I can be that it's not going anywhere else, but it demanded to be written. Now, I'm sharing it with you. Please read and comment?

Title: A Game of Chance
Author: Spike’s Heart
Email: spikes_heart@yahoo.com
Pairing: Mention of Buffy/Others, Spike/Buffy
Rating: NC-17 to be safe for subject matter alone.
Setting: AU Season 6 after Doublemeat Palace
Disclaimer: If they were mine, I’d let them grow up!
Feedback: Yes, please.
Archive: Ask me, nicely.
Warning: Deals with character rape.
A/N: Just a short piece of whatever it turns out to be.
Beta’d and rescued from life support by: willa_writes
Summary: During an unforeseen low in the Slayer's life, she finds salvation where she had always rejected it before - in Spike's arms.

A Game of Chance

“Stupid, bloody git!”

Spike kicked at a wall. He was satisfied by the crunch it made, but as the dust settled, still furious with himself. Over a hundred and twenty years old and he was still the same lovesick fool he’d always been. Must be part and parcel of his nature – the never-failing ability to only fall for the women he couldn’t get.

By the bloody gods and all things unholy, he needed to get truly pissed. Though he’d do anything for Buffy, that awful bit of ‘up-against-the-wall’ they’d had outside of that hellhole she worked at pushed even his limits. The bitch hadn’t even looked at him!

He tried to calm himself, taking in a deep breath or two of unneeded air. Drink, yeah. He needed to bully a couple of shots out of someone. And who better than that craven coward of a barkeeper, Willy?

Willy flinched when he glanced up and saw the vampire. “He-hey there, Spike!” His voice was falsely bright and chipper. “Didn’t think you’d be b-back here – like… ever.” He studiously avoided looking Spike in the eyes, polishing the bar’s surface as if his very life depended on it. “I mean, what with everybody wanting to kill you for being a traitor to your own kind and all. Just talkin’, mind you. Don’t mean anything by it.”

Babbling. Right. Little weasel had something he didn’t want Spike to know about, did he? Reaching across the bar, Spike grabbed the gibbering man by the front of his shirt and slowly brought him face to gameface.

“What are you trying to keep from me, you little prat?” the vampire growled into Willy’s face, enjoying the terror pouring off the shaken man. God, if he could just eat him and be done with it.

The slimy little barkeep was nearly pissing himself under Spike’s hold. Oh yeah, Willy was hiding something juicy, and Spike was going to find out what. “Don’t think I won’t find some way of making you pay if you’re causin’ trouble.”

“N-nothing, man!” Willy wheezed, fear obvious in his expression. “Would I keep something from you? Us bein’ the best of friends and all?”

Disgusted, Spike threw Willy back behind the bar, the sharp flare of pain from the chip a welcome distraction from his own anger. He’d find out what was going on sooner or later – if he bothered to hang around long enough.

“Give me a couple of glasses of the good stuff, you spineless tit, and a beer. Don’t let me catch you dippin’ from the day old stores, either. Want it fresh and warm.”

“Y-yes sir, Mr. Spike. Always the best for my favorite customer.” He scurried into the back room, where the stores of ‘fresh’ and ‘unusual’ were kept.

Spike stepped away from the bar, surveying the scene laid out before him. A handful of fledglings were playing pool, a couple of dumb-as-a-post Fyarls were arm wrestling and the bar smelled liked stale blood and even staler booze.

But there was something… else. Something that tickled at the back of his throat. If he concentrated he could almost taste it – sweet and powerful and totally out of place at Willy’s. Shaking his head, Spike resumed his pacing, reaching for a smoke when the smell reasserted itself, stronger than before.

What the hell was that? On impulse, he pushed through the door to the back room and strode in, the smell getting stronger and more mouth watering.

A couple of turns and there it was, the source of that enticing smell finally clicking into place. He knew it well: his Slayer’s blood. Tied spread eagled over the end of a pool table: Buffy Summers, her skirt rucked up around her waist and her ripped panties dangling around one ankle.

He stood and stared for a moment. So that was how the Powers rewarded their Chosen One for keeping the world safe from all kinds of monsters and raising a sister? Some prize, that: a gang rape by two bit minions, condoned by a weasel in a run-down dive. How the bloody hell did the girl who took on a Hellgod get her ass into such a mess?

Snap decision time. No way would he going to allow her to come to an end like that. Not while he still drew… well, not while he was there, anyway. Not helpless and tied up like a victim. The Slayer was nobody’s victim – she was Spike’s golden goddess – the closest he’d ever come to touching the sun again.

“Well looky, looky at what we have here,” he sneered, approaching the pool table. “Bet you boys think you’ve got yourselves quite a trophy, don’t you?”

The vampires began to brag, taunting Spike – the vampire who had become the pariah of the demon world – spilling out how they’d followed the distracted Slayer from the Doublemeat Palace and knocked her out with ease; how they were going to take her out – something Spike seemed unwilling or unable to do – after a little more playtime.

During their jeering and sneering, Buffy hadn’t twitched so much as a single muscle. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unseeing. Spike frowned. This just wouldn’t do. There wasn’t any fight left in her; she just lay there accepting whatever was being done to her.

He ran his palm over her rump, enjoying the feel of her smooth, warm skin. Then he dipped his fingers in-between her cheeks and her folds, knowing he would find them covered in blood and other substances before raising them to his nose. He quickly brought his hand down on her backside, leaving a bloodied pink print on her arse cheek.

“This,” he emphasized with another smack, “is mine. If anyone’s goin’ to take the bint out, it’s goin’ t’be me.”

Sensing a slight advantage, he grabbed it and played to his audience, trying to keep them from resuming their ‘activities’. “That bitch broke my spine, stuck me in a wheelchair for months and cost me more over the years than I’m willing to share with you prats. Everything that’s gone wrong in my unlife is her fault.”

The menace in Spike’s sulfurous eyes sent the younger vampires into a huddle away from the pool table. Glaring at the leader of the motley crew, he barked orders. “Release her. Now!” he demanded.

If vampires could shit themselves for fear, this bunch would have. “But… what if she’s just waiting for this? She’s the Slayer, for fuck’s sake!” They actually whimpered, torn between their fear of the Slayer unleashed and the irate vampire in front of them, not quite the pussywhipped lapdog they were led to believe he’d become.

Spike’s eyes rolled at the stupidity of the youngsters. “You’re vampires, for cryin’ out loud. Use the bloody senses you rose with. The chit is out of it – catatonic. Right now, the only problem ahead of you is me rippin’ your heads off your necks if she’s not released immediately.”

After quickly glancing at each other, they scurried to do his bidding. One vampire crawled under the pool table to cut the nylon thongs binding the Slayer’s wrists, and another released the ties holding her legs to the table’s legs. Another tried to pick her up but slipped, and Buffy collapsed in an unmoving heap on the floor.

Quickly covering her with his duster, Spike gathered Buffy into his arms. He threw a last warning over his shoulder: “You tell Willy he’s a dead man, and as for you idiots… don’t play the futures market,”

Huh; his threats must have made an impact. He made his exit out the back door unimpeded. Not bad.


Once they were safe in his crypt’s lower level, Spike set about the business of checking Buffy for injuries and cleaning her used and bloodied body. He was grateful when he didn’t find any additional damage beyond the obvious bruising. Slayers were a tough breed, physically. It was the emotional aftermath that was more worrisome – at least to him. After the sponge bath, he slipped one of his clean t-shirts over her, tossing the scraps of her own useless garments away.

Spike first heard, then watched Buffy’s slow rise to consciousness. She shifted her position on the mattress, pulling away from his hands as he held a silk scarf filled with ice cubes against the nape of her neck.

He scowled. “Don’t like anyone touching you, Slayer, or is it just me?”

No words, just a slight turn of her head, averting her eyes in that expert way she’d developed.

Spike moved so he was in her view. “Listen to me, Summers. This fading violet act isn’t goin’ to wash. You’re walking out of here one way or the other, today; back to your life, such as it is. As to whether you become someone else’s victim when you leave, or bitch and moan poor me, or come back here for a good fuck another day? It’s not my concern.”

“What do you want from me, Spike?” she croaked, barely bothering to make herself heard. “Why couldn’t you have just left me to die?”

“What I want, Slayer,” he said with a scowl, “is the hands on brat I remember from the high school. What I want is the ballsy chit who faced me down in a room full of vampires holding Drusilla as hostage. Not this!” he said, shoving her shoulders into the mattress. “Not dinner just waiting to be eaten, meek as a lamb.”

Not that he hadn’t expected it. She’d been sporting a death wish for months, now. Ever since her little friends decided to play God and bring her out of her final resting place. Seemed like she was finally answering its clarion call. Didn’t mean he had to like it, or accept it.

Spike began to pace in front of the bed, trying to find some inroad, some way to get through to her. To give her a reason to continue.

She stared, blankly, not really seeing him.

Right. That was it. Losing what little control he had, he vamped, roaring out his frustration. “All right, you dozy cow. If this is the way you want to go out, fine. I’ll be more than happy to make you my third Slayer. I just won’t be braggin’ to anyone about how I killed you.”

He grabbed the waistband of her skirt and ripped it from her body, garnering no more reaction than anything else he’d done before. His borrowed t-shirt was next, baring her completely to his gaze.

Buffy began to cry silently, tears slipping down her face to drench the pillow beneath her head, but still made no move to cover or protect herself.

“C’mon, pet. Tell old Spike how much you enjoy me grabbin’ hold of your pretty hair.” At her shuddering, he spat: “If you don’t fucking like it, tell me to stop.” Moving downward, he licked a broad stripe along her jugular, eliciting another shudder. “Gods, you taste delicious,” he purred. “It would be so easy, Slayer. To sink my fangs into your neck and drain you. Maybe I’ll turn you, instead. Bloody chip doesn’t work with you, anyway.” A teensy nip, just enough to draw a drop or two of blood, caused her to cry out.

“What’s this? Do you want me to turn you?” Spike’s voice was deceptively calm, willing to take this any way it played out. A turned Slayer for a Childe had possibilities he would be willing to explore. He’d prefer her alive and kicking, but she wasn’t leaving many options open, and despite what he said before, he’d never let anyone else turn her.

A slight shake of her head was the only reaction she offered.

“Not good enough, luv.” Spike nuzzled into her neck, licking off a few drops of blood that continued to rise to the surface. “Tell me what you want with words.”

“Stop,” she whimpered.

He moved on immediately. “So it’s a ‘no’ to turning. All well and good.” Spike palmed her breasts, kneading the soft flesh he’d come to know so well, gently flicking at her thickening nipples. “How about a good grope, seein’ as to how you’re all pink and pretty in my bed?”

A sharp cry was followed by a distinct: “No!”

Dispassionately, Spike located his next target. Should be the make it or break it point, he figured. Leaving her breasts, the vampire grabbed at the thatch of coarse brown curls covering her mons. “Seein’ as you were givin’ it away before, I guess you won’t mind if I had a poke…”

With a furious twist of her body, and Buffy finally lashed out, kicking Spike away as hard as she could. “Don’t you touch me, you fucking bastard!” She jumped up from the bed, her knees and elbows bent into a fighting stance, obviously forgetting she was stark naked.

“They raped me!” she raged, lashing out at the vampire before her. “They tied me up and fucked me and hurt me and wouldn’t stop until I screamed. And then they started all over again.” Buffy leapt at him then, attacking blindly, raining blow after barehanded blow on the vampire with no real strength behind them, finally getting to fight the battle she’d been denied. When she’d collapsed, all her energy spent, Spike picked her up and settled her back into his bed.

“So? Ain’t nothing we haven’t been doing for weeks now, Slayer,” he said, softly. “We both know, when all’s said and done, that you like it rough.”

She looked at him, incredulous that he could equate their sexual antics with rape. “You’re such a pig, Spike! What we do… what we did… was consensual, between you and me. How can you compare…”

And wasn’t that a touchy point? For the entire length of their so-called affair, she’d been insisting, at least to herself, that Spike was making her do things she would never do with someone normal. That he was forcing his perversions on her, no matter that she craved his attentions.

Well, tonight she’d found out first hand what being forced was really all about – the total loss of control.

He saw the spark in her eyes when she realized their… ‘thing’ couldn’t possibly be called rape when she came back night after night and initiated the sex herself, unless she’d have to take on the mantle of rapist! That would make her as guilty of rape in some ways as those animals at Willy’s.

Buffy caught Spike's gaze. She looked surprised to see his eyes filled with tears. He knew she'd be reliving it all again, seeing the images of what she'd done to him… not allowing him any expression or choice in their sexual antics, some of the more well, forceful positions she'd insisted on, the bruising strength she'd used in getting him to submit… no matter what tenderness he'd tried to instigate. She hadn't allowed him to have his way for a moment.

“Rape’s not all about having a cock, is it, pet?”

Damned vampire could read her mind at the most inopportune times. “Guess it isn’t,” she whispered, unwilling to look at him and expose more of herself than she’d already done, but it was too late. Like a dog with a bone, Spike wasn’t going to let her take the easy way out.

“Was a bit different with us… no restraints but the ones we allowed to be forged.” Spike raised her chin, not allowing Buffy to hide from him any longer. “Doesn’t mean it was always pleasurable.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t get off…?” She knew it was a weak defense, but it was all she had to offer.

Spike’s anger rose, a little heartfelt cruelty making its way out of his mouth. “You tell me true, Slayer. Tell me you didn’t get off once under those bastards’ hands and I’ll tell you how much I enjoyed being nothing but your fuck toy… how I exist solely for the purpose of getting you off with no regard to my own wants and needs.”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet as she remembered the shame of several forced orgasms, and how unpleasant they actually were. “Mphry,” she mumbled, dissolving into tears once more.

Try as he might, Spike couldn’t retain his anger. A woman’s tears were always his downfall, and Buffy’s? Reality changing.

He gathered the sobbing girl into his arms, letting her cry it all out. As upset as she was, it was the best possible thing for her – feeling; real, raw, ugly and ultimately cleansing.

Buffy clung to him, her arms wound tightly around his neck and waist and her head tucked under his chin. As her sobbing subsided, Spike managed to ease her body onto his lap, her warm little breasts burning bright against his chest. Her bottom was rapidly causing a problem as her warmth began to raise certain issues with parts of his own anatomy.

As soon as she felt the rasp of Spike’s denim covered shaft against her naked center, Buffy froze. She’d forgotten the vulnerable state she was in and panic began to set in. She was poised to flee when…

“Power, Slayer. Remember it’s all about power,” the vampire crooned into her ear. “And you have it. And choices. If there’s somethin’ you want, tell me. If you need to move, tell me.”

“C-clothes would be of the good.”

When Spike moved to ease her off his lap, Buffy tightened her grip around his neck. Her body was sending such mixed messages. She couldn’t stand the thought of sexual contact, but she was petrified of being left alone.

Having dealt with Drusilla for so many years, the vampire just took it in stride, allowing Buffy to wrap her legs around his waist and hold on for dear life as he moved to his dresser, pulling out a pair of jeans and another t-shirt.

“Gotta keep these in one piece, luv. You’re pretty much looking at the extent of my wardrobe.” He surprised her when he handed her one of her own white cotton thongs, as well.

She managed a weak laugh. “Do I want to know why you have my underwear in your drawer, Spike?”

He snickered. “Only if you’re bored, pet. It’s a fairly straightforward tale.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” she retorted, beginning to relax for the first time since she’d been rescued. “Spike want, Spike take, Spike have. Am I close?” One limb at a time, she let go of Spike. Once standing on her own, she looked at the clothes, then dressed quickly.


“But not with me.”

“No, pet. Not with you.”

She stood in the middle of the floor, swimming in Spike’s oversized garments. “Spike…” she started, looking lost in so many ways.

“What do you want, Buffy?” he said, standing still – awaiting her request.

She held her arms out to him, looking like a little girl playing dress-up in Daddy’s clothing. “Would you just… hold me?”

Before the words were out of her mouth, Spike had her in his arms, and back into bed, once more huddled against his body, this time with two layers of clothing between them. He scooted back against the headboard for support, resting his cheek against Buffy’s hair.

“I’m so confused,” she murmured into his neck. “Can we… would you… talk with me? Is it too late for us to really talk?” Looking up at him, practically begging with her eyes, she asked: “Did I screw everything up again?”

“I’ve always been willing to talk, pet. You just stopped listenin’.” Spike sighed, remembering the days after her resurrection.

She nodded shakily, knowing there were probably some unwanted truths headed her way, and for a change, she was willing… no, needed to let Spike have his say. She owed him that, and so much more. “What’s wrong with me? D-did I really come back wrong, like you said?”

Shit! Of all the things she chooses to remember... “Slayer – Buffy, you know I said that to hurt you. Wanted to get a little back for the way you and your lot treated me.” This time it was he who avoided Buffy’s gaze. “I went for the sorest spot you had… fangs bared.”

“S-so I’m normal? I’m not w-wrong?” she stammered, the tears threatening to fall again.

Fix this, you git. Honesty’s your best bet. “You’re not normal, pet. You’re the best bloody Slayer I’ve ever fought. The one girl in all the world… blah, blah, blah. You will never lead a normal life, never have a normal beau, and more than likely not live to see a hundred years. But you’re not wrong. You’re… you! Nothing else but you. How can that be wrong?”

Instead of feeling reassured, Buffy began to wail. “Then I’m just a bad, miserable person. I’m horrible, and… and… perverted, and should be locked away where I can’t hurt other people.” With a look of horror etched upon her face, she whispered: “I’m Faith, without the murder.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“I treat people like dirt. All they want is for me to be happy Buffy, and I can’t be bothered to give them the time of day. Oh no, not me. I’m too busy beating up and fucking the local neutered vampire! Better yet, I make him do stuff to me I can’t even spell and call him evil.”

Buffy scrambled off the bed, throwing her hands in the air like a madwoman. “No tenderness for Buffy the Vampire Layer. She doesn’t deserve it. I’m a vampire killer by Calling, and I fuck the hot ones. No wonder those morons went after me. They could smell it on me! I must be sending out all kinds of evil, horny pheromones.”

Spike had had it. Buffy was getting more agitated by the second. Talking wasn’t doing anything but heaping more blame on herself. Time to take things into his own hands. With a roar, he tackled the girl onto the bed, straddling her hips and pinning her arms above her head before she had a chance to react.

This time she was having none of it. Take back the power! The Power! POWER! Buffy locked her fingers together, pushed her hands backwards into the pillow, and punched upwards, at the same time bucking her hips; dislodging Spike from his perch. Grabbing his shoulders, she managed to flip them around so she was astride his hips, grinding his shoulders into the mattress, panting with unshed emotion.

“That’s my girl.” Spike grinned, thrilled to see some of his words had actually reached the girl. He felt her thigh muscles twitch and the look in her eyes unnerved him for a moment. He’d seen it before, just before she’d hauled off and beaten him when he’d dared to take the liberty of calling her ‘his’.

For all his bravado, Spike was unable to control the small flinch that crossed his face.

“Oh God!” Buffy cried out, having seen the vampire’s reaction. “I’m sorry!” she screamed. “Sorry, sorry, so god damned sorry!” all the while pounding a soft tattoo on his chest with her fists.

“Slayer, you’re the only bint I know who can make a tender apology with her fists.” Spike grabbed her wrists, stilling her actions; wrapping his arms around her back when she collapsed in tears onto him. “S’all right, pet,” he soothed. “You didn’t hurt me. Love taps, is all.”

When her breathing slowed and evened out, and he was fairly sure she’d fallen asleep, Spike whispered into her ear. “We can change it, make things better. Love you, baby. Makes all the difference in the world.”

Spike slowly turned onto his side, rolling the sleeping Slayer off his chest and gathering her into a tight spoon against him. She wriggled backwards, unconsciously eliminating any space between them, her warmth and the deep solid rhythm of her breathing finally soothing Spike into slumber.


He awoke cold and alone as usual. With a sigh, Spike pushed himself upright, stretching the slumber out of his neck and shoulders with a vertebrae-popping crack. He’d hoped things would be different, that she wouldn’t just run off without a word, but he was grateful that she’d decided to try and take her life back – hopefully feeling a little stronger than she had been the day before.

Walking to the fridge to get his breakfast, he found a note sticking out of the door.


Words aren’t enough for what I have to say to you. I don’t know if I’ll ever find the right ones. I didn’t want you to think I’d run away again without talking to you, but you looked so peaceful and I’d put you through so much, I didn’t have the heart to wake you.

I need to get back home for Dawn. Who knows if anyone was actually home to take care of her last night? I’m sure she was worried about me, hence the early leavingness of me.

Come by the house later for dinner. I’ll get an order of spicy buffalo wings for you, and pick up some of Willy’s finest – maybe kill my first human rat at the same time. Anyway, Dawn’ll be thrilled to see you.

Just…thanks for being there.


It had been so long since he’d been welcome at her house, Spike was stunned. And immensely pleased. Maybe, just maybe, things had taken a turn for the better… for them both.

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