Just a pinch of gora powder added to the pot, stir it all up proper and… bloody hell, still not right. Nowhere near as bad as the mess English cooks had made of curry back when Spike had been human, but then, that wasn’t saying much. Still had a lot to go before it could measure up to what his family’s Indian cook had been able to create when he’d been a boy.
Maybe steep the grated klin root a touch longer. Use some yaktopus broth inst…. His thoughts trailed off, Buffy filling his mind at the mention of her name for the beasties. Two. Bloody. Weeks. A couple of overseers had barged in and taken her away, and even after two weeks, no one would tell him where she was or why she’d been taken. Not really, anyway, just evasive bollocks about routine medical procedures.
He’d let it go at that, thinking at first that it was just a basic checkup. Humans, even ones with Slayer healing and constitution, needed those from time to time. But then a day had passed and another, and he’d known it was no basic checkup. Or at least that it had gone beyond that. He could have forced an answer. As one of Lady Sasszan’s gladiators, he had discipline rights over the slaves who saw to her gladiator house. Since most of them were human, the chip would keep him from actually hurting any of them, but they didn’t know that. He could terrify the information out of one of them.
Except… he didn’t really want to, because he was afraid he already knew what it was. Cancer. Her mum had just been diagnosed with a tumor in her noggin before they’d gone through the portal. What if Buffy had it, too? If it was genetic, then there wouldn’t as much of a worry just yet, but sometimes there were environmental causes. It had been a little over a year and a half without any symptoms, but Buffy was younger and a Slayer. And she might even have developed a different type of cancer.
Knowing for sure wouldn’t change anything. He’d just be left feeling helpless and worried, which was how he already felt. So, for now, he just waited, working on his goal of creating a passable curry. He took a deep breath to calm himself down and handed the pot over to one of the kitchen slaves hovering about. The flavor wasn’t terrible, and the others seemed to like his experiments well enough. Sometimes they were even taken up to the main house for Sasszan to try.
Right. Now to get a cup or two of broth heating while he grated up some more iln root. Once that was set to steeping, he could…. Spike froze as he caught a familiar scent and whirled around to face the source. There she was. Buffy. Standing in the entryway between the kitchen and dining area, looking lost and dazed. He moved in a flash, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close. He was so relieved to see her that his ability to read her didn’t catch up to things until he pressed his lips against hers in a kiss. She was stiff and unresponsive, but before he could pull away, she slapped him to the ground.
“Don’t touch me!” she shouted, voice shaky.
She shook her head and slowly backed away. “No, don’t call….” She shook her head again and fled.
Spike stared after her, hand absently drifting up to his bruised cheek. His eyes narrowed. No more pussyfooting about. He was going to get answers, even if he had to terrorize the entire bloody lot of house slaves for them.
She wandered through the market, too deep in her own thoughts to really pay attention to the sights and sounds. She’d managed to keep her mind blank during the initial recovery period, living each day moment by moment. She’d done the gentle walks they’d led her on, eating whatever they put in front of her whenever they put it there, and had just generally existed with as little thought as possible. Then they’d taken her back to the closest thing she had to a home right now.
Spike hadn’t been in their room, but her body had known where he was likely to be and her feet had taken her to the kitchen. God, the look on his face when he’d seen her, as eager and excited as a puppy, and it had made something inside of her loosen. She’d felt… safe. And with safety had come a flood of emotions she hadn’t been able to handle. She’d felt dirty and obscene, and he’d been touching her, and….
She shouldn’t have hit him. She knew that. But he’d held her, and she’d thought of all they’d done together, and suddenly she’d been back there, strapped down on that table while the doctor touched her, opened her up wide. She’d been out for the rest of it, but her imagination had filled in the blanks. She’d been cut to make more room, and the doctor had reached inside, into her most private place without permission, and he’d….
She choked back a sob and wrapped her arms around herself. Spike had called her Buffy. Rehva wasn’t right, wasn’t who she was, but she wasn’t Buffy anymore, either. Buffy had been free. Buffy had been a person. Whoever she was now was just a slave. Just a thing and any sense of freedom was only an illusion. She had no rights, not even the right to decide what happened to her own body.
One of her hands slid down her torso to rest on her lower belly. She still had her ovaries and everything used for sex was still intact and usable, but she didn’t feel like a real woman anymore. A voice in the back of her mind faintly argued with her, pointing out that she wouldn’t feel that way about anyone else, but it had no impact on how she felt about herself. Back home in Sunnydale, Riley had been pulling away because she hadn’t been enough of a woman for him. And now? Spayed like a dog, part of her cut out and discarded as useless and unneeded?
Spike’s more of a woman than I am, now, she thought with a broken, pained laugh. Always wanting to talk about their emotions and define their relationship. Did they even have a relationship anymore? The thought that they might not stabbed at her heart. She wanted him, wanted the comfort he could give, but when he’d hugged her…. God, she didn’t want to lose him.
The way he smiled, the clever banter, just being with him. Those vivid blue eyes, framed by gorgeous lashes, and the long, silky curls…. Her steps slowed as thoughts jumbled around in her head, trying to find a new pattern that she could live with. Not a real woman anymore…. Spike….
She bent down, feeling almost like she was in a dream, and pulled a knife out of her boot. She couldn’t use it to harm anyone outside of the arena, but it came in handy sometimes. She gathered her hair with her free hand, then sliced through it, freeing herself of its weight. It was a freedom she had, but only because her owner had allowed her to have it. Short hair, but that wasn’t enough. She needed….
The slave nodded slowly, plans firmly in place, and headed towards a specific shop.
Spike stared at the blood, watching it travel across his hand from his shredded knuckles, each drop going its own way. Chaos theory, wasn’t it? Was what that bloke in Jurassic Park, the one played by Jeff Goldblum, had called it. What had the character’s name been, again? Didn’t matter. In the film, it had been water. But here, it was blood, each drop affected by hairs and veins and tiny imperfections in the skin, changing the flow.
Chaos…. He liked chaos. He’d love to unleash some on these people, make them pay for what they’d done. Making them slaves, and then what they’d done to Buffy…. He’d finally gotten it out of a little kitchen girl, one who had snubbed the Slayer at times. They’d both thought it because she was a human who’d been made a gladiator instead of house slave, but that hadn’t been the case. Or at least it hadn’t been all of it. Buffy had been intact, and the kitchen girl hadn’t. And now Buffy wasn’t either.
Spike shuddered and closed his eyes. God, no wonder she’d slapped him down like that. She’d been violated, and he’d just gone and manhandled her without a thought in his head. To be fair, he hadn’t known what had happened, but he should have been able to read her body language. He should have…. Ian Malcolm, his brain suddenly supplied. The name of the bloody chaotician from Jurassic Park.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the pointless thought, and flexed his fingers. He’d heal soon enough, but for now, the pain was soothing. When he’d found out what had happened, he’d gone outside to stare at the pretty little brick wall surrounding their pretty little garden. And then he’d punched it until all the pretty little streams of blood had come out. And now he was back in their room, sitting on the bed and staring at his own blood like it would reveal the secrets of the sodding universe.
Life wasn’t fair. As the man in black had said, anyone who told you different was selling something. But this…. God, she wasn’t even twenty-one yet, and an important choice had been stolen away from her. He couldn’t help thinking of the past, of a night over a hundred years ago. He’d wanted children before that night, and then that dream had been taken away from him. At least he’d said yes, hadn’t really known what he’d been agreeing to, mind, but he’d said yes, and he’d never really regretted that moment. Not the same at all to what Buffy had to be going through. He couldn’t even imagine what….
No, maybe he could. The bloody chip. Couldn’t feed and couldn’t reproduce. Not that he was really interested – other than Willow, who he still thought would have made an adorable vampire – but that was still a choice that had been taken away from him. Still not really the same, and he imagined it wasn’t something she’d want to hear. She’d beat him down as much as the slug in her head would allow if he tried to say he understood because of that, and she’d be justified in it.
His thoughts were interrupted by Buffy bursting in through the door, hair all but shorn and a package under her arm. She didn’t say anything or even look at him, just marched into the connected loo, slamming the door closed behind her. He stared at the door blankly for a moment, feeling vaguely ill. Nothing wrong with her cutting her hair, he’d have done it to his own ages ago if it wouldn’t have meant turning his brain to mush, but she hadn’t just decided on a change of style. Something like this so soon after a trauma? She had hacked away at her identity, not just her hair.
“Buff–” he began as she came out of the bathroom, then stopped, staring. She was naked but for a strap-on harness, a fairly realistic-looking dildo jutting out from the hole in the front. And she’d a bottle of lube clutched in her hand.
His libido sat up and took notice of all the delightful possibilities, but the rest of him was busily trying to figure out just what the bloody hell was going on.
She didn’t answer, just swiftly walked over to him, grabbed him by the wrist, and yanked him to his feet. Then she slammed him against the wall, and he had to fight back a gasp of pleasure. He loved it when she took charge and got rough, but now was not the time, despite the fetish gear. She’d been through a sexual trauma, she was…
Oh, god. Nnngh. She was leaning into him, hips undulating slowly and rubbing the toy against his hardening length. She moved, urging him forward just enough to get her hand between him and the wall, stroking along his back like it was a canvas meant to hold the colors of her passion. Up and down, each down going lower and lower, until she pulled her hand away. And then it was back, slick with lube as it settled firmly on his arse, fingers caressing and sliding down and inward and….
“Buffy,” he panted out, shifting to give her better access.
“Senka,” she breathed huskily, and at first, he thought she was calling him by the name Sasszan had given him. “I’m Senka.” There was a soft thump as she dropped the bottle of lube, freeing her other hand to undo his ponytail so she could bury her fingers in his hair. “Such a pretty girl,” she whispered. “Rehva. A pretty name for a pretty girl.”
He shivered at her words, eyes going wide. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to gender play, but this…. She was escaping, he realized. Building up a new persona to hide away from both the slavery and what had been done to her. She was a strong woman, the slayer, but she was a slave with no physical way to fight back. The only way for Buffy to be free was… to not be Buffy anymore. He could try to force her back to reality, break the fragile cocoon she’d built to protect herself. Or he could support her and give her what she needed.
Well, easy enough choice, that. He closed his eyes and surrendered himself to her.
Senka sighed and stretched before nuzzling the woman in his arms. He felt good. All powerful and masculine and sated. He brushed his hands over Rehva’s cool, supple flesh, fingers tracing the contours of her muscular form. She stirred, long, dark lashes fluttering as her eyes opened.
“Hey,” he murmured.
“’Lo, Bu….” Senka tensed as Rehva started to say that name. “Pet.”
He relaxed and smiled. He liked pet. It was what he was. A pet. A slave. It’s what they both were, and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to do them any good. But at least they had each other. He stroked her harder, the feeling of power surging as she moaned softly and her body reacted to his touch.
“Going to make you feel good,” he murmured, kissing her tenderly.
He trailed his way down her body, kissing, licking, and nibbling. And there it was, a sweet prize he hadn’t allowed himself to sample nearly enough. He pressed a gentle kiss to her inner thigh, then took her into his mouth. Nothing would change their role as slaves, but in this, he had power. He could take care of his girl. In all ways.
I’ve gotten complaints about this chapter before, so I wanted to make a few things clear here. I have no issues with people who are trans. I have trans family members and am myself gender fluid. This chapter is in no way implying that trans people are trans just because of trauma. Nor is it actually saying that Buffy is trans.
While what happened to her was a medical procedure, it was very much a sexual attack. That added with her not used to being completely helpless has caused her to basically reject her identity, right down to rejecting herself as a woman. It is not healthy, but a lot of coping mechanisms aren’t. It also has nothing to do with being transgendered, so it isn’t intended as transgender commentary. Buffy is disassociating herself from the trauma, which means disassociating from herself as a female, since the trauma of having female organs removed against her will couldn’t have happened to someone who doesn’t have female organs to begin with.
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January 4, 2021 12:01