Love’s Growth 3/3

Title: Love’s Growth
Author: Miss Murchison
Medium: Fic
Rating: R
Words: 777
Summary: For this story, I went to an old favorite, John Donne. Opening the book, I found myself reading “Love’s Growth,” and I’ve written three short fics based on lines from the poem. This is the third one, but they can be read in any order. In this ficlet Spike, and maybe a little remnant of William, consider the nature of love

I consider these outtakes from some of my happier Spuffy stories, where soulless Spike and Buffy have a conflicted but working relationship.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc.

This is the last of my fics for the day. I hope you enjoyed them. It was an interesting writing exercise for me, so different from the way I usually work!

Thanks again to enigmaticblues for keeping this community alive.

Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse…

What love was, Spike thought, was a pain in the arse.

A bloody, confusing pain in the arse.

He lay in Buffy’s bed, naked and still warm from the shower they’d just shared and where they’d fucked, waiting for his lady fair to finish the ritual of the Drying of the Hair so he could have her again. A strange moment to find himself getting philosophical.

Once upon a time, he’d been a bad poet, who believed that love was purity incarnate, that it was nothing less than a perfect union of souls. The human William had thought love was a thing of the spirit, but that was bollocks. If a vampire, a soulless creature, could feel love, it was something harder and more genuine than that. There was nothing spiritual about the part of him that ached for Buffy right now.

But where the confusion came in was that his love was more than just a hard bulge in the trousers. There were plenty of ways to take care of that without risking your unlife every fifteen minutes, fighting demons who should be your mates, going against your own bloody nature, just to keep a bint who should be your enemy happy.

Love was a invisible chain tying him to a blonde harpy who didn’t let him get away with smoking fags inside the house, much less following his nature and having a decent meal.

But he couldn’t break that chain. Trying just brought him more misery, while giving in to that tug…

Well, sometimes that could be the opposite of misery.

Spike rolled over on the bed, doing his best to look pathetic and battle-weary, although he knew the bruises and cuts were already fading. But she’d remember what he’d done tonight.

She came into the room, dropping the towel she’d wrapped around herself after washing off the traces of battle. She stood at the foot of the bed, a slight, pretty little thing. But his senses were never fooled. He could smell the strength of her in the blood throbbing through that small body, sense it in the gleam of those hunter’s eyes. “Thanks for saving Xander.”

He smirked outwardly and shrugged inwardly. Came with the package, didn’t it? Love the Slayer, protect her snotty baby sister and annoying friends. Otherwise, he’d be back in his cold crypt instead of here in her bed. A simple calculation, cold and concrete.

She climbed over him now, straddling him, running hot hands over him, promising all kinds of naughty things as his reward. His hands cupped her arse, ran up to fondle her breasts. Nothing spiritual about this.

The thing was, a hero like Buffy deserved the other kind of love, the mawkish spiritual kind, with all the high morals and the rest of the bollocks that went with it. Her knight in shining armor, that was what he should be, what she deserved. But he was no Sir Galahad, pure of heart. He didn’t give a rat’s ass whether Harris lived or died, not really. He’d only saved the boy to get himself here, in her bed, between her legs.

Except when she looked at him the way she was looking right now, he felt like he had done it for something more.

He rolled them over, slowing the pace of their passion, kissing her more gently than she had him, taking the time to taste every bit of her, signaling his intent of pleasuring her leisurely. She stretched like a cat beneath him, accepting this worshipful lovemaking.

Did she think this was some sign of altruism from him, that he could spend hours bringing her to climax after climax before enjoying his own? Or did she realize what a substantial reward he was receiving for his patience as his vampire senses drank in her joy, sharing in every thrill he sent through her body?

Her pleasure was his, in a tangible way that defied the notion of any spiritual facet to his love. Still, the thought nagged him that even without these rewards, he would feel compelled to drive those sighs of satisfaction from her lips.

So what was it then, that bound him to her? Was it some lost fragment of William’s soul clinging to the ideal of serving his perfect lady? Or was it just the equipment between his legs reacting to the heat of her blood and the beauty of her when she fought and when she fucked?

He was damned if he knew.

Love’s not so pure, and abstract, as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse…
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

Links to my other stories from this round:
Love’s Growth 1
Love’s Growth 2
The Choice of Weapons
The Howling of the Wolves is without World

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/346876.html