Dragged Back
Dec. 2nd, 2012 09:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournOnce again, I'm way late to the party: a decade this time. I've only just been watching Buffy for the first time ever, and got swept away with Buffy/Spike feels. I've read about 3 Buffy fanfics, so I feel like a full-on interloper writing for this fandom.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3850
Warnings: Unsafe sex, the tiniest bit of blood
Summary: Buffy has been resurrected, and nothing’s felt right since. She seeks solace in a place only her body knew would provide it.
A/N: This takes place immediately before Once More With Feeling (between S6E6 and S6E7), so at this point no actual (non-spell-induced) kisses have happened between these two. I conceived of this story, began to write it, then saw Once More With Feeling. Coming from a movie fandom, I’m very unused to canon carrying on doing things after I write a thing. Weird.
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
night_reveals
Buffy opened the door to Spike’s crypt, and only belatedly thought to knock. She crooked her finger and held her knuckle near the door, but ultimately just walked in. The dimness within had an instant, if slight, soothing effect on her nagging sense of unease.
Apparently her face still hadn’t mustered a genuine smile since her resurrection because she could hear people talking about her when she wasn’t in the room in hushed, worried whispers. When she could be bothered to feel anything about it, she was more annoyed than anything. They’d yanked her back to life, had no idea where she’d been, and they hadn’t given her five minutes to adjust before pestering her with concerns, demanding her attention, pressing her to take up the responsibilities of Joyce and Buffy and Giles all at once. And with Giles’s return, she thought it would get better but it wasn’t. More whispers. More concern. They didn’t know.
Spike did. Buffy supposed that’s why she was entering his place just then, when she’d really had no recollection of getting herself there. The last thing she remembered was Willow earnestly (insistently) saying, “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything.” To stop herself from saying, No. Once that was true, before you betrayed me,, Buffy simply mumbled something vaguely apologetic and walked out.
The door squeaked and Spike was noticeably absent. Buffy walked in anyway and stood for a moment, mouth set against the tears, the anger, the weariness that threatened to make themselves known.
“You know there’s such a thing as knocking,” she heard from behind her.
She spun, and saw Spike quietly pushing his door closed; Buffy noticed he wasn’t exactly asking her to leave.
“What are you doing here, Slayer?” Spike asked, the thinnest veneer of snark in his voice that had long since proven to be false, but kept up for appearances.
Buffy considered that. She didn’t know what she’d come for; she only knew that, as she’d explained to Spike before, the world was bright and hard, and something in her wanted to crawl under the blankets. Underground served just as well.
“Information,” she said curtly.
Spike hummed, bored. “‘Nother pesky demon buzzing around my little flower?”
Buffy scowled, but was oddly comforted by the taunt. This, at least, was familiar territory. “I'm not your little anything. And no, no demon this time. At least none that I know of,” she frowned, momentarily distracted by the thought that being away from Dawn meant Dawn was potentially in danger. Again. She shook it off — Dawn was in school and Buffy would have to let her be there, at least. “I just wanted to know...” She trailed off, and the question welled in her but it had no shape yet, no words to attach to it.
“If I was up for a li’l tumble? Bit of a romp down here in the darkness?” Spike smirked, but this time Buffy saw something else, some glint of real concern underneath it.
“Ugh, you’re so disgusting,” Buffy said, and took the opportunity to grab a bit of conversational space, to act as though they were simply doing this... whatever it was for no reason other than that they happened to be in the same room. She flumped down on the sofa, pouting.
Spike sat down beside her, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa in his usual sprawl, legs hanging open. Buffy felt a twinge of annoyance that Spike always took so much room. She nudged his knee with hers in an attempt to push back, but the second she made contact, she realized her error. Spike huffed through his nose and she could feel his leer, but he thankfully said nothing.
“So what is it, Slayer? Really. Finally realizing I’m the only one really here for you?”
Buffy ignored the question and simply said, “What was it like when you woke up in the coffin the first time?” She was surprised she articulated it, and it wasn’t exactly the question, but it’d do.
“Ah,” Spike said softly. “I think you know what that was like. So that’s why you’re here, is it?”
“Yeah,” Buffy said, pursing her lips slightly. Had she been paying more attention, she’d perhaps have wondered at how easily she and Spike did this: go from prickly jabs to stark honesty in a conspicuously absent heartbeat. But the fact was she was already spilling her thoughts and the flow obscured that line of thought. “You know I knew. When I woke up in the coffin, I knew who did it, and I was so angry.”
“Wanted to find who did it and kill them, didn’t you?” Spike asked, voice betraying a certainty that had nothing to do with Buffy.
She nodded. “It’s probably a good thing it took me awhile to get out,” meaning for it to sound like a joke but falling well short. “I’m not even sure what I am any more,” she said, staring into the middle distance. “I already made it to heaven. Where do you go from there?” She let the question hang for a moment, completely at a loss for an answer. At the brush of fingertips on her shoulder, she snapped back to her surroundings. Horrified with herself for confiding (again, her traitorous brain supplied) in her enemy (inaccurate). In a hurry to silence dangerous thoughts, Buffy stood and stalked forward. “I have to... go. Now. I don’t know why I came.”
In her rush to get to the door, Buffy missed the shuffle behind her as Spike leapt to overtake her. His palm slammed on the door jamb just before she had the opportunity to open it. “Don’t,” he said. “I may be evil but you’re just cruel. Comin’ round here, lookin’ for a sympathetic shoulder whenever you need one, then buggerin’ off just to treat me like dirt the next time anyone else is around. I’m tired of it, Slayer.”
“Get out of the way, Spike,” Buffy countered, glowering.
“No,” he replied obstinately. “Because you don’t want me to. Fact is, sweetheart, you keep comin’ back. And do you know why? It’s the Slayer in you, the one that loves the darkness. You know none of your little Scoobie-two-shoes gets what it’s like in that pretty li’l head of yours. What it’s like to embrace the violence, the chaos, the hard fact of existin’ on this earth.”
“Spike,” Buffy warned, but she had no more specific argument than that, and she cursed herself for her lack of conviction.
“Maybe I wasn’t in heaven but I know what it’s like not to be left in peace,” he let that sit for a second before continuing, “I know what it is to think you’re done and how bloody exhausting it is to have to keep going.”
Buffy stared up stonily into Spike’s eyes, but his frank stare back was too open, too full of sympathy (can’t be sympathy, you need a soul for that) and she softened.
“But here we are, carryin’ on anyway,” he said, and before she could even consider what that meant for him, and for her, Spike’s hands scattered her thoughts by moving from the door to her face, thumb brushing a stray bit of hair from her cheekbone tenderly while his other hand took a hard grip on her shoulder.
“Spike,” she said again, only this time it was almost a sigh, and she squeezed her eyes shut against it. “What do you do?” she asked when she could breathe around the lump in her throat. “When it’s too much to keep going, what do you do?”
The hand on her face dropped softly to her neck and the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her pulse. “I fight,” he replied. “Same as you. Or...” He moved his body closer, and he shouldn’t have been warm but his proximity generated heat somehow, and she didn’t even want to look at that.
She placed a hand on his shoulder to push him away, but quite unexpectedly, her other hand pulled him in by the waist. Unbidden, her brain supplied her with the memory of the feeling of Spike’s lips when they were engaged. As unreal as that situation had been, the touching had been very real, and she’d since done her best to put it right out of her mind. She realized suddenly that she was staring at the lips in question, and darted her eyes back up to Spike’s.
“Penny for your thoughts, lo—” Spike began, but was stopped short as Buffy closed in in a rush.
As distractions went, it was pretty much perfect, with no time to question her own motives or what was right or even tasteful. And Spike, for his part, was the perfect partner for it because although Buffy was the one who moved in, Spike met her fervour with nary an utterance of surprise. Instead he pressed his lips to hers, slotting them neatly together before touching his teeth to her lower lip in an insistent nibble. The hardness of them, blunt as they were, was enough to remind Buffy of what was so attractive down here in the darkness. It was safe, yes, a place to air the truth without the harsh light of day to make it ugly, but it was also dangerous in a way she craved, a way she could handle and hold her own. She opened to him and without thinking, reached her tongue out to feel along the edges of those teeth, the dormant weapons she knew them to be.
What she didn’t expect was for that to draw a helpless, wanton moan from deep in Spike’s chest. She’d known tender, she’d known skilled, she’d known frantic, but she’d never heard such a lustful, needful sound directed at her before. When Spike pushed her backwards, she held onto him with fistfuls of material, dragging as much as he was pushing. She knew the location of the couch but he wasn’t headed that way, so she was forced to trust him not to crash her into a wall while they were still trying to kiss. She made it through a doorway and when her heels hit something hard, she fell to a sit on a surprisingly soft bed. As she hadn’t let go of her fistfuls of material, Spike came down on top of her, attempting to prop himself up with one hand while still kissing her but not pushing her all the way back, a move as courteous as it was surprising.
“Knew we’d end up dancing, just thought it would take longer,” he said.
“Shut up,” Buffy replied tersely before flipping Spike rather roughly onto his back so she could straddle him. “You talk too much.”
With a wicked laugh, Spike allowed his wrists to be pinned down while he said, “If you wanted someone who kept their mouth shut, there’s plenty of blokes who’d love to shag you. You don’t come here because I whisper platitudes.”
“Seriously, you’re killing the mood,” Buffy said archly. Or rather, she aimed for arch, but sounded breathless even to herself. She gasped when Spike slid his hand up under her sweater and circled a finger over the hard nub of her nipple through the thin material of her bra.
“Doesn’t feel like I’m killing the mood.” Spike’s crooked grin was far too familiar, and Buffy shuddered to think what associations she’d always have every time she saw it after this.
“Ugh. Shut. Up,” she said, exasperated, and pulled off her sweater impatiently.
Spike fell blessedly silent as his hand slid up both sides of her ribcage, making her feel small even though he wasn’t much bigger than her. He sat up and she shifted back to give him room to balance as he arched over to close his mouth over one lace-clad nipple. His breath was hot, and she frowned as she wondered why that would be, and why he was breathing at all. It felt good, though, too good to ponder long and she ruffled her fingers through his hair, loosening it into soft waves. With her other hand she reached back and unhooked the garment. Spike took the hint and peeled back a bit of the material, looked up at her and reverently drew his tongue over the rosily erect flesh. It was too little, and too slow, and she couldn’t look away from his gaze; it was infuriating and intoxicating, like him. She breathed his name.
Also typical of him, he switched from teasing to earnest in a second, and turned his attention fully to the object of his ministrations, latching on for a hard suckle, enough to tug harshly at Buffy’s oversensitive nerves. She moaned softly and unconsciously ground her hips down onto him.
“Mmm, Slayer, you kill me,” Spike said before pulling her down on top of him and craning up to kiss her deeply.
“I have a name,” she replied mildly between kisses while blindly lifting his shirt to skate her hands over the hard planes of his stomach, feeling the ridge of the vee of muscle plunging down into his jeans.
“I know it,” Spike said, reveling for a moment in the feel of her hands on his skin before rolling her over and undoing her jeans. On the way she slipped out of her bra, feeling impossibly bare but not finding it in herself to mind. “I try not to think it too much, ‘case I say it accidentally at an inopportune time. Buffy.”
Buffy frowned in astonishment at him, never ceasing to be surprised by his declarations. Nothing in his tone belied insincerity, but she still couldn’t make sense of it. Instead of responding, she undid his jeans and propped herself up on one hand, sliding the other down the back of his pants to squeeze his firm flesh. He pulled his shirt over his head and she leaned in to kiss his ribcage, peppering a trail up to his nipple where she sunk her teeth gently, flicking her tongue over the pebbling skin there.
With an impatient growl, Spike suddenly moved back and, tucking his fingers under the waistband of Buffy’s jeans and panties and pulled down, expertly maneuvering the material over her curves. Buffy lifted, and together after a brief, perfectly coordinated move, Buffy was utterly naked under Spike’s greedy eyes. Distantly, Buffy thought she should feel disgusted, objectified, but instead she felt wholly desired. At the same moment she realized this would have been the perfect opportunity to dust him, had she come with that goal. By the same token, he could have bitten her — but then, that wasn’t true, was it? She truly had the upper hand here, and the thought made her head swim.
She gasped as she felt his thumb on her outer folds, and braced herself for a fast, rough entry. It never came, and she found her thigh hooked with his arm and felt his lips placing soft, licking kisses down the tender flesh of her inner leg while that thumb gently caressed her skin. It was more tender than she was prepared for with Spike, if she was prepared at all, and she craved something rougher, something to remind her where she was and who she was with. She drew her ankle harshly up his side and gripped his shoulder hard.
He nipped her delicate skin with his teeth, perfectly painful, and said, “Shush, petal. It’ll get harsher in a bit, I promise. Right now...” he placed another soft kiss, this time on the juncture between her cleft and thigh. His hands slid to her both her legs, pushing them apart and that — that was what she wanted: a little forcefulness to offset all that unsettling tenderness. She let her head fall back to the pillow as he kissed her wet folds, open mouthed and firm enough not to tickle, his thumb slipping through the outer reaches of her wetness to spread it further, fingers gently opening her folds to him. When his tongue came out to draw slowly up the centre of her, it was soft and exploring, alternating with soft sucking kissing and resolutely veering just around the edges of her hooded clitoris. She flexed her hips upward, but he pushed her back down and she uttered a little groan at his exquisite, aggravating patience. He mouthed her as though he was drinking of her, savouring her, and she wondered if this is how he’d drink her blood. She was too far gone to question where that thought came from.
When she was flushed and full, velvet folds ungorged under his lips and tongue and as wet as she had ever been, he finally, finally gave her swollen clitoris the attention she was so desperate for. He closed on it and sucked softly, rubbing his tongue up under her hood while she panted and gasped, clawing at his shoulders. He met her rhythm, stroking her firmly with his tongue while she vibrated with an orgasm she hovered on the edge of for what felt like an eternity, before finally falling over the edge when he circled his tongue. She shuddered right down to her bones, gasping out his name and rolling her head to the side with the intensity of it.
Coming down from her climax left her dizzy and breathless, and by the time she opened her eyes, she found Spike holding himself above her, kneeling between her legs and looking at her nakedly, head tilted in wonder. His lips were soft and swollen, glistening in the dim light. Unsure if he was about to say something and wholly unprepared to launch back into banter, Buffy grabbed Spike by the neck and pulled him down into a rough, deep kiss, tasting herself on his softened flesh.
Spike’s hunger was unabated during his ministrations, as Buffy discovered when she felt him plunder her mouth and wrap a strong hand around her hip. She barely had a second to feel his cock push at her wetness before he found his target and shoved in, her warm flesh cleaving to make way for him in a rush. Her mouth dropped open at the suddenness of it. Her legs wrapped around his torso, squeezing hard and trying to pull him in harder, deeper. She felt the rough scrape of the material of his jeans they never did get around to removing.
With her forehead buried in his shoulder, she missed the moment he shifted, but when she looked up once more to claim another kiss, yellow eyes looked back at her as desperate and wanton as the blue gaze had been. Satisfying her curiosity from earlier, Buffy arched up and ran her tongue over the sharp point of one of his canines. Spike growled low in his throat and yanked her closer, licking in deep. One of his teeth nicked her lip and she could taste the blood. Spike did too, judging by his groan, but he held back from whatever his more violent urges must be and simply shoved into her harder, rubbing himself off within her flesh.
He took without reservation, pulling on Buffy’s body to meet his thrusts and it was so different from what she’d known before; the others had held back, treated her as though she was weaker. She was oddly relieved; she could take whatever Spike dished out and he knew it. It turned her on more than she cared to admit. She let her moans and grunts get swallowed up in his mouth, beyond caring about dignity or grace. He was filling her up, driving into her and battering down her defenses and she simply didn’t care any more.
When he came, he grunted loudly and held her tight, cradling her head in his hand and pressing her to him. It was dark buried in his shoulder — dark and soft and dangerous and everything she’d come for. She panted, heaving in great breaths of air along with him, just holding on until his shudders and shivers subsided.
He finally eased his embrace and looked at her, face returned to normal (human? Not human, surely).
“You’ll be the death of me, Slayer. Or me of you, not sure which yet.”
Buffy huffed a laugh and said, “Shut up, Spike,” although it lacked bite and they both knew it.
Spike kissed her again, still panting a little. She wasn’t sure what she expected post-sex, but more kissing certainly wasn’t it. When he pulled out and flopped to the side, Buffy closed her mouth against her heavy breathing. That was what she expected. But Spike wasn’t simply rolling over and going to sleep; he shimmied the rest of the way out of his jeans and rolled towards her, propping himself up on one elbow.
“What now?” he asked.
Buffy frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, trace of irritation sneaking back in. “We’re not together if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Spike laughed. “No, I meant. What now. It’s barely mid-morning and neither of us is exactly employed. You want another go?”
Buffy looked at him incredulously. He shrugged. “Vampire. Healing powers and all that. Goes for refractory periods, too.”
It was tempting, truly. But Buffy looked at Spike and already was wondering what possessed her to do this. She had a whole life to get back to, and she’d never be able to face all the people in it with this behaviour hanging over her head. She sat up covering her chest and felt around for her scattered clothes. “I have to go,” she said, panic rising in her voice. When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, Spike grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. The force of his tug made her have to scramble to avoid falling on him. She found herself straddling his lap as he sat smirking up at her. “Where you going to go, pet? Out to the sunshine? Battle some bankers? Find Willow and the others?”
The thought made Buffy despair and she felt a lump of anger and fear return to her chest.
“Shh,” Spike said as he ran his fingers over her jaw and up to smooth the lines on her forehead. “All I meant was, you’ll have to deal with that sometime, but you can take a rest. Stay. Enjoy it for a while. There’re some things heaven can’t offer.”
Buffy had arguments and plenty of reasons this was a colossally bad idea. For starters she’d never be able to look her friends in the eye when mentioning Spike’s name ever agai—
Spike’s renewed erection shifted, swelling that little bit harder and she involuntarily lifted her hips to meet it. She tilted to rub her wetness (hers and his together, she thought dimly) along his shaft.
Perhaps the world outside could wait. Just a little longer.
**End**
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~3850
Warnings: Unsafe sex, the tiniest bit of blood
Summary: Buffy has been resurrected, and nothing’s felt right since. She seeks solace in a place only her body knew would provide it.
A/N: This takes place immediately before Once More With Feeling (between S6E6 and S6E7), so at this point no actual (non-spell-induced) kisses have happened between these two. I conceived of this story, began to write it, then saw Once More With Feeling. Coming from a movie fandom, I’m very unused to canon carrying on doing things after I write a thing. Weird.
Beta:
night_revealsDragged Back
Buffy opened the door to Spike’s crypt, and only belatedly thought to knock. She crooked her finger and held her knuckle near the door, but ultimately just walked in. The dimness within had an instant, if slight, soothing effect on her nagging sense of unease.
Apparently her face still hadn’t mustered a genuine smile since her resurrection because she could hear people talking about her when she wasn’t in the room in hushed, worried whispers. When she could be bothered to feel anything about it, she was more annoyed than anything. They’d yanked her back to life, had no idea where she’d been, and they hadn’t given her five minutes to adjust before pestering her with concerns, demanding her attention, pressing her to take up the responsibilities of Joyce and Buffy and Giles all at once. And with Giles’s return, she thought it would get better but it wasn’t. More whispers. More concern. They didn’t know.
Spike did. Buffy supposed that’s why she was entering his place just then, when she’d really had no recollection of getting herself there. The last thing she remembered was Willow earnestly (insistently) saying, “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything.” To stop herself from saying, No. Once that was true, before you betrayed me,, Buffy simply mumbled something vaguely apologetic and walked out.
The door squeaked and Spike was noticeably absent. Buffy walked in anyway and stood for a moment, mouth set against the tears, the anger, the weariness that threatened to make themselves known.
“You know there’s such a thing as knocking,” she heard from behind her.
She spun, and saw Spike quietly pushing his door closed; Buffy noticed he wasn’t exactly asking her to leave.
“What are you doing here, Slayer?” Spike asked, the thinnest veneer of snark in his voice that had long since proven to be false, but kept up for appearances.
Buffy considered that. She didn’t know what she’d come for; she only knew that, as she’d explained to Spike before, the world was bright and hard, and something in her wanted to crawl under the blankets. Underground served just as well.
“Information,” she said curtly.
Spike hummed, bored. “‘Nother pesky demon buzzing around my little flower?”
Buffy scowled, but was oddly comforted by the taunt. This, at least, was familiar territory. “I'm not your little anything. And no, no demon this time. At least none that I know of,” she frowned, momentarily distracted by the thought that being away from Dawn meant Dawn was potentially in danger. Again. She shook it off — Dawn was in school and Buffy would have to let her be there, at least. “I just wanted to know...” She trailed off, and the question welled in her but it had no shape yet, no words to attach to it.
“If I was up for a li’l tumble? Bit of a romp down here in the darkness?” Spike smirked, but this time Buffy saw something else, some glint of real concern underneath it.
“Ugh, you’re so disgusting,” Buffy said, and took the opportunity to grab a bit of conversational space, to act as though they were simply doing this... whatever it was for no reason other than that they happened to be in the same room. She flumped down on the sofa, pouting.
Spike sat down beside her, stretching his arm across the back of the sofa in his usual sprawl, legs hanging open. Buffy felt a twinge of annoyance that Spike always took so much room. She nudged his knee with hers in an attempt to push back, but the second she made contact, she realized her error. Spike huffed through his nose and she could feel his leer, but he thankfully said nothing.
“So what is it, Slayer? Really. Finally realizing I’m the only one really here for you?”
Buffy ignored the question and simply said, “What was it like when you woke up in the coffin the first time?” She was surprised she articulated it, and it wasn’t exactly the question, but it’d do.
“Ah,” Spike said softly. “I think you know what that was like. So that’s why you’re here, is it?”
“Yeah,” Buffy said, pursing her lips slightly. Had she been paying more attention, she’d perhaps have wondered at how easily she and Spike did this: go from prickly jabs to stark honesty in a conspicuously absent heartbeat. But the fact was she was already spilling her thoughts and the flow obscured that line of thought. “You know I knew. When I woke up in the coffin, I knew who did it, and I was so angry.”
“Wanted to find who did it and kill them, didn’t you?” Spike asked, voice betraying a certainty that had nothing to do with Buffy.
She nodded. “It’s probably a good thing it took me awhile to get out,” meaning for it to sound like a joke but falling well short. “I’m not even sure what I am any more,” she said, staring into the middle distance. “I already made it to heaven. Where do you go from there?” She let the question hang for a moment, completely at a loss for an answer. At the brush of fingertips on her shoulder, she snapped back to her surroundings. Horrified with herself for confiding (again, her traitorous brain supplied) in her enemy (inaccurate). In a hurry to silence dangerous thoughts, Buffy stood and stalked forward. “I have to... go. Now. I don’t know why I came.”
In her rush to get to the door, Buffy missed the shuffle behind her as Spike leapt to overtake her. His palm slammed on the door jamb just before she had the opportunity to open it. “Don’t,” he said. “I may be evil but you’re just cruel. Comin’ round here, lookin’ for a sympathetic shoulder whenever you need one, then buggerin’ off just to treat me like dirt the next time anyone else is around. I’m tired of it, Slayer.”
“Get out of the way, Spike,” Buffy countered, glowering.
“No,” he replied obstinately. “Because you don’t want me to. Fact is, sweetheart, you keep comin’ back. And do you know why? It’s the Slayer in you, the one that loves the darkness. You know none of your little Scoobie-two-shoes gets what it’s like in that pretty li’l head of yours. What it’s like to embrace the violence, the chaos, the hard fact of existin’ on this earth.”
“Spike,” Buffy warned, but she had no more specific argument than that, and she cursed herself for her lack of conviction.
“Maybe I wasn’t in heaven but I know what it’s like not to be left in peace,” he let that sit for a second before continuing, “I know what it is to think you’re done and how bloody exhausting it is to have to keep going.”
Buffy stared up stonily into Spike’s eyes, but his frank stare back was too open, too full of sympathy (can’t be sympathy, you need a soul for that) and she softened.
“But here we are, carryin’ on anyway,” he said, and before she could even consider what that meant for him, and for her, Spike’s hands scattered her thoughts by moving from the door to her face, thumb brushing a stray bit of hair from her cheekbone tenderly while his other hand took a hard grip on her shoulder.
“Spike,” she said again, only this time it was almost a sigh, and she squeezed her eyes shut against it. “What do you do?” she asked when she could breathe around the lump in her throat. “When it’s too much to keep going, what do you do?”
The hand on her face dropped softly to her neck and the rough pad of his thumb brushed over her pulse. “I fight,” he replied. “Same as you. Or...” He moved his body closer, and he shouldn’t have been warm but his proximity generated heat somehow, and she didn’t even want to look at that.
She placed a hand on his shoulder to push him away, but quite unexpectedly, her other hand pulled him in by the waist. Unbidden, her brain supplied her with the memory of the feeling of Spike’s lips when they were engaged. As unreal as that situation had been, the touching had been very real, and she’d since done her best to put it right out of her mind. She realized suddenly that she was staring at the lips in question, and darted her eyes back up to Spike’s.
“Penny for your thoughts, lo—” Spike began, but was stopped short as Buffy closed in in a rush.
As distractions went, it was pretty much perfect, with no time to question her own motives or what was right or even tasteful. And Spike, for his part, was the perfect partner for it because although Buffy was the one who moved in, Spike met her fervour with nary an utterance of surprise. Instead he pressed his lips to hers, slotting them neatly together before touching his teeth to her lower lip in an insistent nibble. The hardness of them, blunt as they were, was enough to remind Buffy of what was so attractive down here in the darkness. It was safe, yes, a place to air the truth without the harsh light of day to make it ugly, but it was also dangerous in a way she craved, a way she could handle and hold her own. She opened to him and without thinking, reached her tongue out to feel along the edges of those teeth, the dormant weapons she knew them to be.
What she didn’t expect was for that to draw a helpless, wanton moan from deep in Spike’s chest. She’d known tender, she’d known skilled, she’d known frantic, but she’d never heard such a lustful, needful sound directed at her before. When Spike pushed her backwards, she held onto him with fistfuls of material, dragging as much as he was pushing. She knew the location of the couch but he wasn’t headed that way, so she was forced to trust him not to crash her into a wall while they were still trying to kiss. She made it through a doorway and when her heels hit something hard, she fell to a sit on a surprisingly soft bed. As she hadn’t let go of her fistfuls of material, Spike came down on top of her, attempting to prop himself up with one hand while still kissing her but not pushing her all the way back, a move as courteous as it was surprising.
“Knew we’d end up dancing, just thought it would take longer,” he said.
“Shut up,” Buffy replied tersely before flipping Spike rather roughly onto his back so she could straddle him. “You talk too much.”
With a wicked laugh, Spike allowed his wrists to be pinned down while he said, “If you wanted someone who kept their mouth shut, there’s plenty of blokes who’d love to shag you. You don’t come here because I whisper platitudes.”
“Seriously, you’re killing the mood,” Buffy said archly. Or rather, she aimed for arch, but sounded breathless even to herself. She gasped when Spike slid his hand up under her sweater and circled a finger over the hard nub of her nipple through the thin material of her bra.
“Doesn’t feel like I’m killing the mood.” Spike’s crooked grin was far too familiar, and Buffy shuddered to think what associations she’d always have every time she saw it after this.
“Ugh. Shut. Up,” she said, exasperated, and pulled off her sweater impatiently.
Spike fell blessedly silent as his hand slid up both sides of her ribcage, making her feel small even though he wasn’t much bigger than her. He sat up and she shifted back to give him room to balance as he arched over to close his mouth over one lace-clad nipple. His breath was hot, and she frowned as she wondered why that would be, and why he was breathing at all. It felt good, though, too good to ponder long and she ruffled her fingers through his hair, loosening it into soft waves. With her other hand she reached back and unhooked the garment. Spike took the hint and peeled back a bit of the material, looked up at her and reverently drew his tongue over the rosily erect flesh. It was too little, and too slow, and she couldn’t look away from his gaze; it was infuriating and intoxicating, like him. She breathed his name.
Also typical of him, he switched from teasing to earnest in a second, and turned his attention fully to the object of his ministrations, latching on for a hard suckle, enough to tug harshly at Buffy’s oversensitive nerves. She moaned softly and unconsciously ground her hips down onto him.
“Mmm, Slayer, you kill me,” Spike said before pulling her down on top of him and craning up to kiss her deeply.
“I have a name,” she replied mildly between kisses while blindly lifting his shirt to skate her hands over the hard planes of his stomach, feeling the ridge of the vee of muscle plunging down into his jeans.
“I know it,” Spike said, reveling for a moment in the feel of her hands on his skin before rolling her over and undoing her jeans. On the way she slipped out of her bra, feeling impossibly bare but not finding it in herself to mind. “I try not to think it too much, ‘case I say it accidentally at an inopportune time. Buffy.”
Buffy frowned in astonishment at him, never ceasing to be surprised by his declarations. Nothing in his tone belied insincerity, but she still couldn’t make sense of it. Instead of responding, she undid his jeans and propped herself up on one hand, sliding the other down the back of his pants to squeeze his firm flesh. He pulled his shirt over his head and she leaned in to kiss his ribcage, peppering a trail up to his nipple where she sunk her teeth gently, flicking her tongue over the pebbling skin there.
With an impatient growl, Spike suddenly moved back and, tucking his fingers under the waistband of Buffy’s jeans and panties and pulled down, expertly maneuvering the material over her curves. Buffy lifted, and together after a brief, perfectly coordinated move, Buffy was utterly naked under Spike’s greedy eyes. Distantly, Buffy thought she should feel disgusted, objectified, but instead she felt wholly desired. At the same moment she realized this would have been the perfect opportunity to dust him, had she come with that goal. By the same token, he could have bitten her — but then, that wasn’t true, was it? She truly had the upper hand here, and the thought made her head swim.
She gasped as she felt his thumb on her outer folds, and braced herself for a fast, rough entry. It never came, and she found her thigh hooked with his arm and felt his lips placing soft, licking kisses down the tender flesh of her inner leg while that thumb gently caressed her skin. It was more tender than she was prepared for with Spike, if she was prepared at all, and she craved something rougher, something to remind her where she was and who she was with. She drew her ankle harshly up his side and gripped his shoulder hard.
He nipped her delicate skin with his teeth, perfectly painful, and said, “Shush, petal. It’ll get harsher in a bit, I promise. Right now...” he placed another soft kiss, this time on the juncture between her cleft and thigh. His hands slid to her both her legs, pushing them apart and that — that was what she wanted: a little forcefulness to offset all that unsettling tenderness. She let her head fall back to the pillow as he kissed her wet folds, open mouthed and firm enough not to tickle, his thumb slipping through the outer reaches of her wetness to spread it further, fingers gently opening her folds to him. When his tongue came out to draw slowly up the centre of her, it was soft and exploring, alternating with soft sucking kissing and resolutely veering just around the edges of her hooded clitoris. She flexed her hips upward, but he pushed her back down and she uttered a little groan at his exquisite, aggravating patience. He mouthed her as though he was drinking of her, savouring her, and she wondered if this is how he’d drink her blood. She was too far gone to question where that thought came from.
When she was flushed and full, velvet folds ungorged under his lips and tongue and as wet as she had ever been, he finally, finally gave her swollen clitoris the attention she was so desperate for. He closed on it and sucked softly, rubbing his tongue up under her hood while she panted and gasped, clawing at his shoulders. He met her rhythm, stroking her firmly with his tongue while she vibrated with an orgasm she hovered on the edge of for what felt like an eternity, before finally falling over the edge when he circled his tongue. She shuddered right down to her bones, gasping out his name and rolling her head to the side with the intensity of it.
Coming down from her climax left her dizzy and breathless, and by the time she opened her eyes, she found Spike holding himself above her, kneeling between her legs and looking at her nakedly, head tilted in wonder. His lips were soft and swollen, glistening in the dim light. Unsure if he was about to say something and wholly unprepared to launch back into banter, Buffy grabbed Spike by the neck and pulled him down into a rough, deep kiss, tasting herself on his softened flesh.
Spike’s hunger was unabated during his ministrations, as Buffy discovered when she felt him plunder her mouth and wrap a strong hand around her hip. She barely had a second to feel his cock push at her wetness before he found his target and shoved in, her warm flesh cleaving to make way for him in a rush. Her mouth dropped open at the suddenness of it. Her legs wrapped around his torso, squeezing hard and trying to pull him in harder, deeper. She felt the rough scrape of the material of his jeans they never did get around to removing.
With her forehead buried in his shoulder, she missed the moment he shifted, but when she looked up once more to claim another kiss, yellow eyes looked back at her as desperate and wanton as the blue gaze had been. Satisfying her curiosity from earlier, Buffy arched up and ran her tongue over the sharp point of one of his canines. Spike growled low in his throat and yanked her closer, licking in deep. One of his teeth nicked her lip and she could taste the blood. Spike did too, judging by his groan, but he held back from whatever his more violent urges must be and simply shoved into her harder, rubbing himself off within her flesh.
He took without reservation, pulling on Buffy’s body to meet his thrusts and it was so different from what she’d known before; the others had held back, treated her as though she was weaker. She was oddly relieved; she could take whatever Spike dished out and he knew it. It turned her on more than she cared to admit. She let her moans and grunts get swallowed up in his mouth, beyond caring about dignity or grace. He was filling her up, driving into her and battering down her defenses and she simply didn’t care any more.
When he came, he grunted loudly and held her tight, cradling her head in his hand and pressing her to him. It was dark buried in his shoulder — dark and soft and dangerous and everything she’d come for. She panted, heaving in great breaths of air along with him, just holding on until his shudders and shivers subsided.
He finally eased his embrace and looked at her, face returned to normal (human? Not human, surely).
“You’ll be the death of me, Slayer. Or me of you, not sure which yet.”
Buffy huffed a laugh and said, “Shut up, Spike,” although it lacked bite and they both knew it.
Spike kissed her again, still panting a little. She wasn’t sure what she expected post-sex, but more kissing certainly wasn’t it. When he pulled out and flopped to the side, Buffy closed her mouth against her heavy breathing. That was what she expected. But Spike wasn’t simply rolling over and going to sleep; he shimmied the rest of the way out of his jeans and rolled towards her, propping himself up on one elbow.
“What now?” he asked.
Buffy frowned. “I don’t know,” she said, trace of irritation sneaking back in. “We’re not together if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Spike laughed. “No, I meant. What now. It’s barely mid-morning and neither of us is exactly employed. You want another go?”
Buffy looked at him incredulously. He shrugged. “Vampire. Healing powers and all that. Goes for refractory periods, too.”
It was tempting, truly. But Buffy looked at Spike and already was wondering what possessed her to do this. She had a whole life to get back to, and she’d never be able to face all the people in it with this behaviour hanging over her head. She sat up covering her chest and felt around for her scattered clothes. “I have to go,” she said, panic rising in her voice. When she swung her legs over the side of the bed, Spike grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. The force of his tug made her have to scramble to avoid falling on him. She found herself straddling his lap as he sat smirking up at her. “Where you going to go, pet? Out to the sunshine? Battle some bankers? Find Willow and the others?”
The thought made Buffy despair and she felt a lump of anger and fear return to her chest.
“Shh,” Spike said as he ran his fingers over her jaw and up to smooth the lines on her forehead. “All I meant was, you’ll have to deal with that sometime, but you can take a rest. Stay. Enjoy it for a while. There’re some things heaven can’t offer.”
Buffy had arguments and plenty of reasons this was a colossally bad idea. For starters she’d never be able to look her friends in the eye when mentioning Spike’s name ever agai—
Spike’s renewed erection shifted, swelling that little bit harder and she involuntarily lifted her hips to meet it. She tilted to rub her wetness (hers and his together, she thought dimly) along his shaft.
Perhaps the world outside could wait. Just a little longer.
**End**
