Bogwitch (bogwitch) wrote in seasonal_spuffy,
Bogwitch
bogwitch
seasonal_spuffy

Fic: Black Widow (NC 17, Spike/Buffy, Buffy/Other)

shaddyr was unable to make her date, so I'm swapping with her as my story was already done.

So what have a I got? I have a dark, four-part tale of sex, violence and the violation of the mind...

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Black Widow
by Bogwitch



Warnings: Sex. Violence. Sexual violence. Strong language, including the ‘c’ word. Almost everything in other words.


Summary: Dark futurefic. Buffy has been missing for several years. When Spike goes to find her, he’s in for a very deep shock.

Timeline: Post-Chosen, Post Not Fade Away. Near future.

Pairing: Spike/Buffy, Buffy/Other.

Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: No characters were harmed in the making of this fic (okay, maybe a bit). They do not belong to me, but are the property of Fox Entertainment and Mutant Enemy.

Thanks to myfeetshowit, hesadevil, jans_intentions, sockmonkeyhere and calove for their beta work.




I



Sweat gleams in harsh lamplight. Glistens on bare skin. The bunk protests. Springs shriek in time with ragged breaths and the rise and fall of Buffy’s hips. Standard Army issue mattress. Rough blanket beneath her knees. Light metal frame that shakes as she fucks the vampire beneath her. A bed made for discipline and loneliness. Not for hours of this.

She’s close.

Just a little more.

She quickens the pace. Grinds her clit against the pubic bone of her undead lover. Needs the friction. Needs his cock. The Army lets her bring them back. They don’t give a damn as long as she dusts them when she’s done. Stops the incidents the base personnel will only gossip quietly about. Keeps her occupied.

But this one is almost spent. Can’t do much now but lie there while she takes what she wants. She’s had a couple of hours, tops. Not nearly enough.

The camera whirs above her. Tracks in detail across her body. Doesn’t miss a thing. Zooms in for close up where the vamp slips inside her. She smiles into the lens. Knows it’s up there. Gives them a show. Knows the DVD will be all over the base by tomorrow. Doesn’t care. Let them see. Let them find out what makes a Slayer tick. She could tell them if she wanted. Fighting and fucking. That’s all there is. But it’s more fun this way. Let them work it out.

A couple more thrusts…

She’s there. Gasps loudly. Stretches back. Spine tight as a bow as she comes. Small round breasts strain upwards into hard points. Lean athletic limbs taut in ecstasy. Wave after wave. Rides them out. Heart thumping. Throws herself forward as she shudders. Her hips keep a languid rhythm to draw out the pleasure to its max. The last ripples of delight pulsing within her. Slowly diminishing to a delicious ache.

She leans in close to the vamp’s face. Tempting him with her young hot blood. Just out of reach. Yellow eyes burn with hate, with wickedness. He growls. Been in game face the whole time. He’s starving. Ravenous. He pulls weakly against the chains that secure him to the bed. Fails to get free. Just like every other time he’s tried this week. He strains desperately towards any part of her he can get at. Her neck, her chin, her breasts. Pointless. Yesterday, she stuffed a rag in his mouth and pulled out his fangs.

Her hand reaches under the pillow. Searches for a moment, patting the mattress until she finds what she’s looking for.

Got it.

Leans back again. Pelvic muscles squeeze him until his eyes roll back. Stakes him as he comes. Leaves her kneeling naked in greasy dust. Sly smile. All done. The kill feels as good as the climax.

She gets up. Stretches. Grabs a towel. Washes away the sweat and the semen from between her thighs. She’s adjusted well to life bunker bound. Her quarters are private. She has her own shower, her own privileges. But they don’t like her mixing with the soldiers on base. She’s dangerous and some of the lunkheads have the scars to prove it. She’s an experiment, not personnel.

She remembers only a little of her past life before the Government wiped it away. A few stray images that leak through her programming now and then. Faces she doesn’t recognise, places she doesn’t know. They don’t make sense.

But all that really remains are impressions of disconnected emotions she can no longer feel. A bitter turmoil of grief, fear, love… loss. They make her cry in her sleep and when she wakes she doesn’t understand what she’s seen. So she pushes them away out of thought.

That stuff isn’t important. Doesn’t want to know what they mean.

She’s all fixed now. Her mind feels cleaner. Uncluttered. Unburdened. The turbulence of all that emotion has gone. Life’s simple. She lives to fight and to kill and to fuck. Doesn’t want anything else.

She dries herself. Pulls on a set of loose black fatigues. Formless on her tiny body. Anonymous. Makes her way to the Mess Hall. Sex always makes her hungry. She sits and eats alone. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try. Eats as the Army boys leer. They talk about her. About what they’ve seen her do. About what they’d like her to do to them. They all want her. But they do not touch. Too scared of her. Scared of her power. Scared of her strength. Scared of what she is capable of. She’s been ordered not to touch them and she doesn’t anymore. They’re not hers to play with.

That’s fine with her. They’re too fragile anyway. The human boys can’t compare. Can’t give a Slayer what she needs.

She ignores them. Checks the clock. Nearly time. She has her appointment with the docs. Medical check. Make sure she’s functional, that all her enhancements still work. This is the new improved Buffy. The one with 100% more of everything. They made her faster, better, sharper. Made her into a real Killer.

They scan her. Give her the pills she needs to take. Measure her blood pressure, heart rate, brain activity. Note it all carefully down. The retina check is a little off. Reactions a little slow. Something’s not quite right, but the stats still fall within parameters. Not gonna be a problem.

They want to add some updates to the chip in her head, just to make sure. Wire her up. Start the download.

It’s gonna take awhile.

The Colonel wants to talk. Okay. She’s going nowhere. Hands her a bunch of photographs. Ragbag bunch of youths hunting in a pack. Ten or twelve of them. Normal Saturday night kids if the game faces didn’t give them away. They’re new at this. Someone’s been turning them wholesale. They look pretty dumb too.

“HSTs,” the Colonel says. “Gang of vamps. Hang out by the Central Station. Lots of clubs round there. Been feeding on kids out having fun. This one,” he adds another photo to the wad. Some guy. Punk type. White hair anti-camouflage.

Kinda hot despite that.

“Bit different. Loner. Average height. Slim build. Blond hair. Blue eyes. Designated Hostile 17 by the Sunnydale Initiative operation before it escaped, but known normally as Spike. It was I.D’d for us by an Agent Riley Finn, a Special Operative formerly attached to that unit. Rumours are that it has a soul, but we can’t risk it. Too many innocent lives at…”

She’s not listening anymore. Stares at the photographs instead. She doesn’t care about the innocent. It’s a distracting abstract she doesn’t need. She needs something to kill. That’s all.

The picture of Spike captivates her. Can’t take her eyes off him. There’s something about this one that draws her in. The others are stake fodder. They won’t survive long even without her. This Spike looks powerful. A real fighter.

Spike.

Stupid to name them when they disappear so quick, but this is the one she wants to remember.

The docs let her go. She’s done. Goes back to her quarters and gets ready. She hasn’t been down near the Station for a while, but she still knows all the good clubs. The dark ones the vamps like best. So she dresses for dancing. Saturday night urban battle wear. Chooses clothes she thinks he’ll like. All black. She’s done with colours. A tight-fitted corset top with bondage-style chrome clips. Tiny tight-fitting hot pants. Sheer hose. High-heeled boots laced over her calves. Not made for running or fighting these boots. Made for bait. Lure him out of the shadows. Teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.

Her mirror catches a harsh bob of dark hair, cut straight to her chin. Covers the surgery scars under her hairline. It’s a short and practical style. She means business. Her skin is pale. City skin now. California tan and summer blonde a faded memory she can’t quite catch. Over it goes a mask of heavy cosmetics. Red venomous lips. Dark dusky eyes full of Black Widow secrets. Long twilight lashes to seduce him into her web.

She grabs the stake from the rumpled, dusty bed. Holsters it in the back of her hot pants like a six-shooter.

She’s ready for him.

TBC





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Tags: creator: bogwitch, era: post-series, form: fic, rating: nc-17
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