Enough

Am I not pretty enough? Is my heart too broken?
Do I cry too hard? Am I too outspoken?
Don’t I make you laugh? Should I try it harder
Why do you see right through me?
‘Not Pretty Enough’ by Kasey Chambers

His lips descended on hers and she pressed back against them. This moment was perfect. It was as if all time had stopped for just them. Trapped inside this bedroom. No, not trapped... safe. They were safe here. She was safe here.

His lips lingered on hers for a long moment before kissing their way across her cheek and then down her neck. Each kiss he placed was warm, soft, loving, and she felt the last traces of fear being swept away by that mouth. He began dancing his tongue along the side of her neck, and the energy in the room changed from comfortable to hot. Heated. She shifted beneath him, wondering if she should move or just stay still. She was very inexperienced, could he tell that?

As if he sensed that the fear was coming back his hand played along her thigh as a surprising distraction. His fingers dragged against her skin, leaving her gasping for something she wasn’t even sure existed. She bent her knees cautiously and was rewarded by a groan from him. He stopped his ministrations and looked up at her, eyes clouded with lust. Not love, lust.

“Are you sure?” he asked. And in one silent moment she entertained the possibility of telling him that ‘no’ she wasn’t sure. Not sure, not certain. Or anything else they said in those millions of chick-flicks that she must have dragged him to. But he was being romantic. Not calculating date-rapist. He just wanted to make... sure. Wanted her to be safe.

“Yes..” she gasped, her voice so breathy she even surprised herself. Was this what sex did to you? Made you into a monosyllabic, clichéd idiot?

He pressed one cool kiss just above her breasts before it became apparent that his attentions were focused elsewhere. Glancing down she saw, with perverse fascination, that he was holding himself in his hands, rubbing a hand along his length. She had parts of her body that she wanted him to touch, but she just wasn’t sure how to ask. And why did he need to touch himself, was she not good enough?

“Buffy...” he sighed, his eyes connecting with hers again. She quickly broke contact, feeling embarrassed. He pressed his lips once more to above her breasts, but now with more passion. His tongue darted out to taste her skin and trail interesting patterns across it. She moaned despite herself. One of his large hands descended upon her left breast, teasing the hardening nipple until it was almost painful. She felt the wetness between her legs and fought back the urge to blush again. This was natural. It was how it was supposed to be.

His other hand returned to her thigh, though this time on the inside. And slowly crept up the skin. After a moment she felt one finger tentatively touch her... intimately... and she flinched without thinking.

“Buffy?” he asked, quickly pulling back his hand, “Are you all right, do you want me to stop?”

She wanted to push him away and pull him to her all in the same instance. For some reason the After-School Special saying came into her head ‘you can never go back to just holding hands’. As a gesture of defiance she shook her head and wrapped her arms around his neck to pull him down into a deep kiss. He took no time in reciprocating, his hands immediately back on her body. Suddenly everything was going very fast. His fingers on her breasts, his lips on hers, the hardness pressing against her. She wanted it to happen and she wanted it to stop. The fear was quickly turning into terror, and she did the only thing she knew to silence it. She pulled him closer, her hands roaming his back as she forced her tongue into his mouth. The fear was irrational. He loved her, and she loved him. There was nothing to be scared of.

Then quickly, too quickly, he was pushing into her. Pushing his cock into her. And it was painful, and it was frightening, and it was exciting, and all of those emotions mingled with anticipation. Their lips broke apart and he stared down at her, his eyes wide and shocked. She looked back up at him. What was the matter, was she not good enough? The pain between her thighs was steadily growing and she wondered if something had gone wrong.

When he moved his head down again it was to place soft kisses upon her mouth. Chaste, innocence, soft kisses, as if he was worshipping her. He eased the head of his cock out of her, before pushing back in slowly. Buffy wondered if it was the pain that people talked about when they described orgasms. Because there was no pleasure here. Just need and heat and desire that made her feel... wrong. Dirty.

But he loved her. So it was all right.

“Just do it...” she whispered bravely, “...Quickly.”

He didn’t seem to need confirmation of her words, and instead he thrust, once and sharply into her. The pain was white, and hot, and it hurt. A lot. She thought that being a Slayer would... No. Perhaps she was being punished. Perhaps this pain was her punishment for sleeping with a Vampire. No sooner had the thought entered her mind than she banished it. Being irrational had never got her anywhere.

He stayed inside her for a long moment and slowly the pain began to ebb away. Not entirely, but almost all of it disappeared. They kissed, once, lingeringly, and then he started moving inside of her. His strokes were long and steady, as if he was holding back . She didn’t even think to question though. This was probably how it was supposed to be.

“Oh God, Buffy... Love you... So much...” he whispered into her neck, his lips placing kiss after kiss. She simply concentrated on the feeling of it as the remaining pain dissolved into pleasure. Her fingers dug into his back even as his hands rested on her thighs, lifting them up higher. The feeling between her legs was quickly beginning to spread throughout her whole body, a kind of indescribable warmth.

She gasped his name, only once, and finally he seemed to let go. His next thrust into her was painful again, and the next, quicker also. She gritted her teeth and tried not to cry out. Tried not to tell him to stop. To get off her... It’d be over soon. It always was.

With the third thrust he groaned and she guessed, rather than felt, he had come inside of her. It was over. The world came crashing back around her and she was shocked that she had never even noticed it gone. Suddenly the pain was a lot more real, his weight above her more stifling, the perspiration on their two bodies more uncomfortable.

He pulled out of her slowly and she felt as if she was going to throw up. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel like this? Perhaps it really was God punishing her. Her thoughts were broken by a kiss from him. It was brief, but that was probably more her problem. He seemed to be fine, glowing, a smile on his face as he looked at her. His eyes travelling along her body. Suddenly she felt very naked and she pulled the fallen covers up and over her body, clutching them at her chest.

His brow furrowed. He was concerned. To stop him asking questions she smiled and stood up.

“I’ll just... use the shower...” she said. He smiled back and nodded, the last image she saw of him before she exited the room being him crawling up to rest his head upon her pillows, a satisfied look upon his face.

She padded across the landing to the bathroom and shut the door definitely behind her. Only when the light was on did she drop the sheet from her body and walk towards the shower. It was as if she was on auto-pilot as she turned the water on and placed a hand under it ‘til cold turned to hot. She was still cruising as she stepped into the shower and let the water run over her body.

Numbness was slowly spreading over her limbs, her mind. She wasn’t sure if she should cry. Would that be bad? He loved her. She shouldn’t cry. So it had hurt, she was the Slayer. She didn’t cry when things hurt. But then when things hurt her she killed them. She couldn’t kill him. She loved him.

Tentatively she brushed one hand down amongst the thatch of curls. It didn’t hurt anymore. Not much. It was probably just because it was her first time. Every night was her first time. In a sudden flurry of movement she picked up a brush. One usually used on the hard skin of her feet, and began scrubbing at her body. At first it was just random strokes, then she began to work from the top, down. Her neck felt raw by the time she’d finished with it, but she didn’t pause to think as she continued down one arm. The pain, this pain, was an easy distraction from thought. Thought and tears. She wasn’t weak, she didn’t need to cry over this. It was disgusting, she was disgusting, working herself up over such a small thing... Such a trifle.

Slowly Buffy put down the brush and stared at her one reddened arm that now felt like it was burning. She washed it carefully under the constant spray of water, before turning off the shower and stepping out into the bathroom.

Picking up a towel she dabbed at her body, then wrung her hair through. She’d have liked to have spent a few more moments cleaning up, but... He was waiting for her to come back. She loved him. And if she just kept repeating that, everything would be okay.

Before she knew it Buffy was walking back into her room again, sheet held around her with less protectiveness than before. At first she thought he was asleep, but when she closed the door and turned back around his eyes were open.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Thank you.” she breathed, climbing into bed beside him. One of his arms encircled her waist and he pulled her closer to him.

“Your neck’s red..” he said absently, placing a kiss upon the affected area.

“Oh. Is it? The water was a little too hot.” she lied easily. He accepted her explanation. She thought he was going to go to sleep then, and she let out a relieved sigh. But instead he asked another question.

“Do you love me, Buffy?”

“Of course I love you.” she answered automatically.

“Of course you do..” he smiled, reassured, “And even if I... change... you’ll still love me, right?”

The question seemed to make her sad, but she couldn’t quite remember why.

“Yes. Of course. I’ll love you forever, Angel.”

“Even if I do something wrong...?”

“Yes.”

“Even if I hurt you?”

“...Yes.”

“Even if I... die?”

Her throat tightened, “Of course.”

“Of course.” he echoed, his voice intoxicated by sleep moments before his body was.

Buffy stared at the smile on his face, innocent and loved, as he slept. She had to remind herself a few times that Vampires didn’t breath as she looked at his static chest. Consciously she turned around so that she wasn’t looking at him and stared at the clock beside her bed. Just past two, like every night. She laid her head down on her pillow slowly and closed her eyes. Begging for sleep.

***

The woman paced through the streets of the town, her white dress spilling out on the tarmac of the pavement, yet never dragging as she moved. Every now and again she would skip a few steps,

“Step on a crack: break your mothers back.” she said, loudly, in a singsong voice.

A man huddled in a shop doorway slowly pulled his blanket up over his head. Perhaps he had spotted that she seemed to be purposefully stepping on each crack. The woman noticed his chagrin and snapped,

“Oh, like you’ve never heard that one before!”

But she wasn’t angry. She might have been sent on a fool’s errand. But she wasn’t angry. She settled a happy smile on her face to prove it. She felt that the Warrior was close. The Saviour. The person she was searching for. And it wasn’t so much that she was scared for her people -- let them all burn, they usually liked that -- it was really just something to do. Something she’d been ordered to do, true, but still something to do.

The woman hopped from the pavement to the road, and winced as gravel stuck into her bare feet. Pain. Great. Just another reason to smile. She lifted up one foot and brushed the semi-imbedded stones away before continuing on her way through -- and across -- the darkened high-street of Sunnydale, California.

***

It seemed as if no sooner had she closed her eyes than Buffy woke up. Really woke up. From sleep, and from the dream. It was kinda stupid, she thought, for a Slayer to have a reoccurring dream about sex with some of the dead undead. But it happened. Every night. It was as if she was leading a double life when she slept. It could have been a Slayer-dream, she supposed. Slayer nightmare. Except it wasn’t telling her anything about impending doom. It was just shaming her. Telling her she should feel bad. Making her feel bad. After what she did to Angel. And how she handled his death. And possibly even about how she couldn’t get over it. Move on. Forget one undead boyfriend for another.

If Spike hadn’t been a Vampire that excuse might have been believable. He had dogged her during her waking hours just as Angel did while she slept. And she didn’t even love him. She wanted him though. And she put up a good enough pretence of the other. Not that he loved her either, she had no disillusionment on that subject. He’d only ever mentioned the word ‘love’ to her once. And that had been months ago when they’d first officially hooked up. He was using her as much as she was using him. But it would be over soon, she guessed. And that idea somehow made her feel better.

Buffy turned her head to the side, her mind tripping from one Vampire and back to the other. Angel. The dream. That night, which almost mirrored that her own first time. Buffy stared at her clock through the darkness of the room and found it was only just past two in the morning. She waited for the tears to start falling, as they usually did. Falling from her eyes and into her pillow until she could sleep again, unhindered, and then wake again in the morning with the dream and its aftermath seeming never to have happened. She waited, but the tears didn’t come. No release. No sorrow. No pain. Just waiting. After a long moment of trying to cry she stopped. It was useless. She was useless. She’d just have to go to bed unsated, just like dream-Buffy.

But as she tried to fall into the promised oblivion a question from her dream sprang up in her mind again to disturb her. Abridged. And in a different context. Or possibly not, it was all so foggy. And she just couldn’t help wondering if it was valid. True. If the answer she thought was true. Whatever it was about the question, it kept haunting her. Touching her. Intimately. Raping her confidence at the moments she need it most.

Was she not good...?