A fic – She Likes That

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So it’s my day to post. I’d like to thank enigmaticblues for maintaining the comm and all the awesome writers and artists whose work mine is not fit to touch the hem of. I have a fic and a few icons for your enjoyment this time.

Many, many thanks to betas bogwitch and confusedkayt,who both gave me invaluable help and suggestions.

Ever wondered just how Spike knew to suggest ice on Buffy’s neck?

Fic: She Likes That
Rating: Not entirely sure of US ratings, but mild R I would think.
Pairing: Spuffy. (duh)
Set in Season 6, some time after As You Were
Disclaimer. Not mine. But Joss isn’t playing with them right now…

She Likes That 

In the dappled moonlight two figures could be seen even from a distance, pale hair glinting as it caught the light. Their shadowy opponents were harder to make out, but that didn’t matter. They were dust, or as good as, already. Nobody attacked a master vampire and his Slayer and lasted long.

Together they fought, energy flying from one to the other, the joy of battle in their eyes. As one vampire dived, Buffy swung a low kick, hooking the vampire’s ankle with her foot, landing on her back but unbalancing her opponent In that moment it staggered forward onto Spike’s waiting stake, and powder again filled the air. The second revenant howled and launched forward, hands grasping at Spike’s throat. He leaped away and the creature landed neatly on the Slayer’s outstretched hand and stake. It had a momentary expression of ludicrous surprise. Then it, too, vanished.

“That was quick. Think they’re losing the knack?” Spike leaned down, offering Buffy a hand.

She shook her head and smiled at him, suddenly shy. “No, I think it’s our team-work. We’re getting better at it.”

“Getting better at a lot of things, love. Wanna go do more practice?” He leered at her, his tongue swirling suggestively along the line of his upper teeth.

Buffy scowled. “I think I’ve told you before. You’re a pig, Spike.”

“Oink oink.” He strolled towards her, the intensity of his gaze belying his easy gait.

Buffy stepped back. And yelped.

From the ground beneath her roots curled up, wrapping around her half-lifted foot, then her ankle. Thickening as she watched, the brown tentacles curved and spiralled their way up her leg, gripping her calf like a gaiter.

Buffy gasped. “Spike! There’s something holding my foot!” She bent to grab and wrench the thing off and annoyance turned to panic as the writhing tendrils grasped her hands and wrists, swathing them too in a pulsating mass. One-footed, bound hand and remaining foot, Buffy fell back, a gravestone hitting her in the spine but at least keeping her partly upright.

Spike moved with savage momentum. He bunched together the thrashing cords and wrenched viciously up and out. As he hauled Buffy towards him her neck and head slammed against the granite edge which had already bruised her back. A sucking, grating noise seemed to go on forever, then the thing gave way with a sharp pop. Its pustular head erupting  and enveloping them both in an  iridescent slime that burst from half a dozen mouths.

Entangled as she was, Buffy squawked her revulsion. Spike was more practical, tearing and twisting through the slippery mess until quite suddenly all was still.

“Can I just mention – euw?” She spluttered. “This has to count as gross even by my standards. And they have reached Olympic levels, believe me.”

Spike snorted and gagged. Waves of sour, putrescent odour wafted up as the foulness melted away.  At least he wasn’t going to have to hack the stuff away from Buffy’s legs. Thankful for once that his lack of a metabolism rendered breathing optional, he bent to sweep away the rotting ooze.

As he did so, Buffy winced. Instantly he turned concerned eyes towards her. “You OK pet? Bit of a surprise, that nasty, but Uncle Spike sorted it.”

“Uncle? I don’t think so, Mister. No, I’m fine. Really.” She pushed herself to a semi-standing position, the toes of the foot which had been attacked barely touching the ground. Then she grimaced with the pain.

She was blatantly lying. No point in arguing with her – in a single cool move he raised her in his arms. “No you are not, Slayer. Can’t fool me. Gonna have to give you a lift just for a bit. My place or yours?”

He knew he was on to a winner there. No way would she want Dawn to see – and smell – her like this. The crypt was closer too.

“Spike? What in hell are you doing?”

“Going my way, love. You coming or what?”

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

She nestled against his body. Definitely not a resigned slump. Definitely a nestle. He grinned.  Rhett Butler carrying his Scarlett, he strode through the cemetery, for once kicking open his own door.

He laid her on the table-tomb as if she were the finest eggshell porcelain. “Wait there, pet. Back in a sec.”

He vanished down the hatch before she had a chance to snap back at him. He rummaged through the fridge, then swarmed up the ladder with an ice-pack in his free hand. “Figured you might need this. That thing was doing a lot of twisting and mangling. You’re going to have a shiny bruise or six there.”

“Spike, I’m a Slayer. Healing comes in the package.” But she reached gratefully for the chilled pad and moved to place it against her ankle. Bending her head to look at the affected area, however, she froze and made a slight whimper. Instantly he was next to her.

“What is it, love? Something else hurting? That pretty little noggin of yours?”

Painfully she raised her head to glare at him. “Noggin? What in hell is that? If it’s what I think you mean you are so going to suffer for calling it little.” The movement was too much, though; she squeaked once more. “It’s my neck. I think I bumped it when you lifted me up from that grave.”

“Might have known it’d be my fault.” He sighed melodramatically. “Let me look. No, don’t try to move – leave it to me.” With infinite gentleness he turned her over onto her side. There was no sign of bruising.

Expertly he felt along her vertebrae. “Nope, no breakage as far as I can tell. And I know what I’m doing with necks.”

She shuddered and he cursed himself. She really didn’t need reminding of how many necks he’d snapped in the way of business, back in the day. Best distract her.

He swung her back into his arms and headed for the hatchway. He manoeuvred her through the opening, then dropped lightly to the floor below,  avoiding contact with anything that might harm her.

“Hey, look. There’s a bed here. Might as well use it – there’s a first time even for that.”

Buffy scowled at him. That was more his Slayer. Didn’t like being reminded they’d always managed to miss it, before. He placed her softly on the coverlet, hair shining against the golden fabric and busied himself with water and cloths. “Gotta get that stinking gloop off you,” he explained as he knelt and stroked the facecloth gently up and down her leg.

“Squeeze it, lift it, chill it. Right?” He grasped her ankle firmly, grabbed three pillows from the heap and rested it on top. Reaching  for a shirt, he tore it in two. Deftly he bound the ice-pack firmly in place, wrapping the rags round the leg. “Not going anywhere in a hurry were you, Slayer?”

“Looks like I don’t have a choice. But Dawn…”

“Dawn will be fine,” he responded firmly. “Red’s there with her. “

She sighed but relaxed into the bed.

“Not exactly how I’d imagined you in my bed, love, but I have to say you look pretty fine there.”

“Not really in the mood, Spike.”

The scarred brow lifted. “Presuming a bit there, Slayer. Not everything has to be rough ‘n tumble, you know.” He reached above the fridge and took down a bottle reverently. “Got some special anaesthetic here.”

She turned her head to follow his movements and grimaced. He was by her side again at once. “How’s the neck?”

“Not so good. I think I wrenched something.”

He twisted the cap off the bottle and swigged deeply, then handed it to her. She scowled in disgust and tried to push it away.

“Hey! That’s good stuff that is. Got it from Giles. He ought to know. Fifteen year Lagavulin, nectar of the gods.” Holding it up to the light, he gazed worshipfully into the golden liquid. “C’mon, pet. Do you good it will.”

“Spike. Remember kitten poker? Me and booze? Unmixy.”

He smiled reminiscently. Oh, he recalled that night all right. “No kitties here love. Just a little – take the edge off the pain.”

Buffy shoved with what force she could – which, from a supine position with damaged legs and neck, wasn’t exactly much. “Get the message, mister. No tipsy Buffy.”

His eyes opened wide in innocent denial. “Didn’t think I needed to get you tipsy to have my wicked way these days. Just want to stop the hurties. Got to do something love.”  He tapped his head and stood up with fluid grace.

Placing the bottle respectfully on the nightstand, he returned to the fridge, rummaging and humming tunelessly. He was aware of Buffy trying to watch him, enmeshed in the soft bed. God, it must annoy her to be so helpless.

He reached in, retrieving a tray of ice cubes and a plastic bag, streaked with red  No point in wasting good blood. He sucked the last drops and licked his lips. Need to keep your strength up somehow, old man.

He dumped his spoils beside her and slid his hands beneath her body, rotating her gently so she hardly felt any movement, but was on her side, the ankle still raised but her back to the vampire. “Stay still, I have an idea. All your little acheys gone with Dr Spike.”

He ran his fingers lightly up her back, then kneaded gently. Buffy jerked in alarm. “Spike! This is my spine here. Shouldn’t we leave it alone?”

Lips just touching her ear, he murmured. “I do know what I am doing, sunshine girl. Just let me get the hands nice and chilled.”

He tumbled the ice inside the bag he’d drained, twisted shut the closure and laid his fingers across the top. “You see, there’s an advantage to being room temperature. Chill my fingers, they stay chilled. Same with any bit of me really. You might like to explore that idea some time.” He wafted his cheek across her hair and felt her shudder, just a little bit. He paused to pop two red-stained cubes into his mouth and sucked  with relish. ”See, go’’a do this right. Go’’a take heat off, sto’ the b’uising.”

Buffy hissed with irritation. “Spike, what are you rambling about? I can’t make out more than a word in five of what you’re saying. What have you got…” Her voice stilled suddenly. He could sense the shiver travel up her spine.

Spike’s moist tongue, literally as cold as the ice he was sucking trailed from neckline to hairline, tracking the vertebrae as it did so. Fingers prodded gently from each side, trailing chills with them. Even his breath was arctic. 

He swallowed the ice in order to be able to speak; once his mouth was cold it would take far too long for it to melt. “This OK for you love? Gotta reduce the swelling you know. Yours, that is.”

She moaned just a little and wriggled back to spoon into him, but he stilled her with a hand. “Not planning anything but this tonight. Just lie there and take your physical therapy like a good girl.”

He placed another ice-cube in his mouth and slipped his cold hands under her shirt to run them up and down her upper back, pressing and stroking. He held the ice between his teeth and ran it in lazy circles on her neck till it had all melted, then trailed his tongue and lips over the heated, chilled flesh to lap up every drop of moisture.

 As soon as his mouth was empty of ice he started a commentary. “You like that, don’t you? Feel the cool? Those bruises, all soaking away.” He groaned. He was not going to start anything, but God her skin felt so soft and silky. Concentrate, Spike. Keep the swelling down.

 He developed a rhythm, running up the edge of her spine, circling at the nape of the neck and back down the outside. He felt the knots dissolve and the flesh ripple under his hands, the slight roughness of his fingertips grating along her backbone. She settled beneath his hands, her breathing deepening as he worked on her, her body shivering under his touch.

Ten minutes was as much as he could cope with. At least without ripping her clothes off and encouraging all his urges into play. He gritted his teeth. “I was born a gentleman and I’ll bloody well behave like one for once,” he muttered.

“How’s it feel now, love?”

“So good. So very good.”

“Told you I’d look after you. Time to take you home though now, ‘fore we both forget ourselves. Don’t want to risk that beautiful neck of yours.” Was he being hopeful, or was there a soft sound of disappointment there? He swung himself to his feet and held out a hand. “Think you can stand now?”

Buffy rose. “Pain in my neck? Almost gone. At least, the one that isn’t blond and standing in front of me. My ankle’s throbbing a little, but it’s mending. Time to go.”

If she stayed any longer he’d be thinking of the ice swirling all over her body, teasing nipples erect, tracing lines up and down her spine again. No. Definitely time to leave. He stood back to allow her to pass and she smiled up at him.

“Spike? Thanks for the medicine. You know what, though? That ice thing you did? Too good to waste on bruises.”

He smirked. Next time could be very interesting indeed.

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/225477.html