So, I failed utterly to meet my proper posting day, as I was in the throes of leaving my job and incapable of paying attention. At least it means I have something to post today – two somethings, in fact. One is just another chapter of my interminable WIP, <i>After the Deluge</i>. The other is this little piece of very nearly entirely PWP. Certainly more pr0n than plot.
Title: At the End of the Day
Genre: Just sex, really.
Warning for explicit sex. (R? NC-17? I don’t really understand the subtle gradations.) No violence beyond a normal Slayer’s life.
Mid S6. Buffy’s tired, dispirited and, as always, in denial.
At the End of the Day
At the end of a shift there was nothing Buffy wanted more than a long, hot shower.
If she told herself that often enough she would begin to believe it, eventually. It wasn’t for a shower that her route home took her through a certain cemetery so often, and it wasn’t soap and a soft sponge that she found in a certain crypt, night after night.
After that distraction, when she got home, whatever time of night or morning it was, she really needed a shower. No soft sponge then; nothing worked to remove the layers of filth on her and in her, only a harsh scrubbing pad and often not even that. She poured cheap scented shower gel over her body to drown out the powerful aromas. She scoured and rubbed till every inch of her flesh was sore and red, and followed that with icy water drenching her for ten minutes at a time, to wash away the uncleanness.
It never worked. Slayer healing meant that the next morning her skin was rosy, whole, smooth, intact. Her body smells were normal – whatever that was. All to do over again.
This night was different . As usual after the job finished she did a quick patrol, checking the local graveyards for any vamps hanging round in need of a good slaying. Whatever.
Nothing. Nada. She even booted open the door of a crypt or two, just to check. Zilch. Just the smell of mold and old bones. Just as it should be, just what she wanted and hoped for, yes. Kinda frustrating? Of course not. Couldn’t possibly be.
At the corner of Revello a small, creature jumped her, one that hadn’t got the memo about pissed-off Slayers, the non-approaching of. She ducked under its leap and stood back, foot tapping. Green, slimy, snot demon. Just how much of a cliché did she need? It screeched at her.
“You shouldn’t be annoying the neighbourhood with that nasty noise,” Buffy was too tired to fight suddenly, “Just run along home to mama
snot-monster and we’ll call it quits for today, ‘K?”
The thing paid no attention, launching itself at her and trailing gloop down her coat. The one clean coat she owned. Enough was enough, even for a pissed-off wage slave who’d found no R&Rat all that evening. It shouldn’t take long.
It didn’t take long – hardly any time at all. Sidestep, grasp, twist, head goes one way, rest of the demon goes another. By the book, you might say.
No book she’d read included the information that this sort of demon exploded when decapitated, leaving the sort of slime Ghostbusters’ special effects men only dreamed of.
So, shower it was, then. And ransack the kitty to pay a cleaner for the coat.
Buffy pushed the front door open, and called up the stairs. No reply. Willow and Dawnie must have gone out as they’d said they would, then. Fine.
She dumped the baggie of lukewarm burger on the counter, wiped a smear of grease from it, noticed another just inside and swept the whole revolting concoction straight into the garbage. Decisive Buffy rides again.
Slumping at the table took less time than usual. The slime was caking, going crispy in her hair and down the back of her neck. Stylish.
Slump over, she flicked the cow hat into a corner and trudged upstairs. She didn’t feel weary. Just drained. Clean was good, right? Showering, smelling of flowers or spice or vanilla, all of the good, right? She remembered she’d known that. Once.
Snagging a robe from the hook in her room, she slipped into the bathroom. Layers of demon snot-encrusted clothes slid, or at least crackled, off. The nylon scratched her legs as it slithered down, followed by underwear that had been silky smooth and sexy. Once. Too many boil washes later it was gray. Just like its owner.
She stepped under the shower. She twisted the shower-head to create a concentrated, narrow jet she could focus where the worst of the slime clung. Needles of water pummelled her flesh and chased the green stains down her body.
Buffy filled a cupped hand with shower gel. It was a generic type, the sort they sold in big flasks in dollar stores. The sort she could afford on her income. The smell was pungent – thyme, mint, some sort of artificial fruit odour, mixed into something not actively unpleasant, but not actually attractive either.
She eased the gel over her abdomen and up around her breasts, rubbing her washrag underneath, where the grime and grease of the day always seemed to cling. Her nostrils never quite rid themselves of the stench of rancid fat and burgers, and her body sent waves up to attack her senses as she warmed up.
Annoyed, she turned the jet full on her breasts. Her nipples tingled, just a little. Now that was one way of dealing with post-work non-slayage frustration. She aimed more precisely, nipping and rubbing at the tips as she did so, rewarded by a flow of familiar, insistent sensation.
A little more gel on her hands and she stroked downwards, no longer even pretending to think only of cleaning herself. The smoothness of the foam eased her right hand into place, while she pointed the shower jet directly next to it, pulsing it back and forth in time with the kneading, rubbing, demanding rhythm of her fingers. Gentle waves of sensation travelled up her torso, met, interwove, built into something more powerful. She rested her head against the soap dish o give herself some stability as her entire body began to shake.
The door swung open. Buffy did not shriek, but she did stiffen and jerk her right hand up to her hair.
“Well, well, well.” An amused, familiar voice. “Looky what the little Slayer does to keep herself happy.”
Way to kill a mood right there. Buffy yanked the translucent curtain aside. Smirking against the doorpost, Spike lounged, tongue against teeth, eyes wide and blue. Not hot. Not in the slightest bit hot.
She grabbed for a towel and pulled it toward her, but Spike reached out and flicked it out of her hand before she had a firm enough grip. He leaned in, sniffing harshly.
“Mmm. You smell good, love. All clean. You make me feel all dirty.” The lascivious grin as he said that last word left little room for misinterpretation. “How d’you fancy getting dirty with me, eh?”
Buffy lacked the energy to reply, or to react as he moved in toward her. He flicked off his clothes with a casual, effortless (and, yes, damned sexy) speed which allowed him, somehow, to keep a hand or finger trailing up and down her breasts most of the time.
He didn’t bother with his boots until he raised a knee to step into the tub with her. Then two kicks and a rub against the tub and they were gone, leaving clods of mud on the edge. By then she really didn’t care about the cleanup as he moved in behind her, cupping each breast in one cool hand and his voice, suggestive, low and rumbling, in her ear, the cool of his breath making it tingle.
“You want to help me get dirty or clean, pet?” He turned her round so she could see the cool, smooth planes of his body glinting as the water cascaded down him and caught the light. She followed the cascades of water downwards and caught her breath.
No matter how wrong, how far too frequently wrong it was, the sight of his erection, long, hard, all for her, brought tingles to places she never used to think could tingle. Her mouth watered and she leant in to him, tongue tracing the rivulets as they coursed down to gather in the sandy curls, sparkling in the droplets.
She pushed, hard on his chest and he slid back and down, laughing, into the few inches of liquid pooling in the tub. She knelt and leaned her head till the tips of her hair just caressed him, the only part of him she could spare any brainpower to think of right now, though his fingers, reaching forward and rubbing at the tips of her breasts didn’t hurt none.
She looked up at him, shaken a little by the utter adoration in his face for a moment, then bent to her work, swirling tongue and lips round his tip, nibbling the spongy softness for a moment, infinitely gently, before taking her lips and teeth around and down, so he entered her mouth more and more deeply and she could clamp right around the root and suck, hard, so he cried out.
She could never get enough of this. His vulnerability and complete trust, the textures of smooth and rough, naked and hairy, ridged and polished, all working together. He was gasping now, muttering endearments, words of encouragement, “That’s right, love, my beauty, my goddess. Your little tongue and your lips, just so. My god I love you, love you so much…”
She stopped and glared at him. It was one thing to pleasure herself by pleasuring the vampire, but quite another to allow that sort of language into the mix. She needed to shut his mouth.
Buffy rested back on her heels for a moment, then gripped his hips and yanked his body flat in the water, turning herself as she did so and lowering herself down to engulf his face. She braced herself with elbows on the sides of the tub and returned her head to give his genital some more loving (no, not that, never loving) attention, as his moth and, oh God, his lips and that long, form tongue gave her body the extra attention she needed.
The waves of sensation travelling up and down her body, from mouth to soft, demanding moistness and back, were enough for some minutes. The shower water flooding over her head, though, pushed straggling hair into her eyes and caused not so much discomfort as distraction. Reluctantly she lifted herself up, away from his questing mouth, ignoring his moans as she removed herself from his face.
The handle on the side of the tub gave her just enough leverage to twist her body round. His thighs and flanks were gloriously smooth and slim enough to allow her knees on either side as she sank triumphantly onto him, engulfing him entirely as she leant forward to gnaw at his lips, suck and bite his tongue, then lose it all as the shuddering of her body demanded her total concentration and the sensations forced themselves up and through her and out of her mouth in moans and cries and screams.
He was staring at her, entranced as his own body followed hers over the edge, losing physical control but never, disturbingly, that total focus on her face, that utter adoration she didn’t want or need. Now time or space to think of that, though, as the physical sensations demanded every ounce of attention she had left, as they crashed through and beyond her, taking her floating out of her life, the sordid bathtub sex, the cheap cosmetic smell, the repulsive vampire beneath and with in her. (Yes, repulsive. Of course he was.)
At least, after forever but much too soon, it was over and she subsided bonelessly onto his chest, head resting on the smooth, hairless planes, eyes shut. His hands smoothed her back, stroked her hair. He knew better than to talk for a moment, to spoil her abandonment by reminding her of what she had just done and what she had done it with. Just for a few seconds she relaxed, utterly safe and content.
A bathtub is not a comfortable venue for sex or afterglow, though, and all too soon she was aware of cramps, of potential bruises, of fluids that had nothing to do with the water company. She lifted herself up and away from their joining.
“So, now you slap me round and throw me naked into the street, right?” There was something both resigned and painful in the vampire’s voice.
“”No, but you do get out of my bathtub, right now. I still need to get clean.”
“I think I can help with that too, pet. Lean forward.” His hand snaked round and inserted the plug firmly in the drainhole. He gripped and turned the faucets, then retreated to sit on the edge of the tub at the far end. “Lean back against me.”
Buffy couldn’t argue. Her sex toy vampire gave good massage, when she let him. His hands, as firm and intense as they’d previously been soft and coaxing, began to rub and knead, deep and long, finally easing away from her the stress of a long day.
When she woke she was in her own bed, and alone. Strange he hadn’t taken advantage again, strange he was gone. Definitely not a pity, though, Never anything to regret about his absence.
Nope. Nothing and never.
Thanks for reading. Comments are much-appreciated, indeed, craved.
I have now posted Chapter Twenty-Two of After the Deluge on my own LJ. Readers, comments and feedback are all much appreciated there too.
Finally, many thanks to the mods for running the comm and to all the other posters for producing such gorgeous stuff.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.dreamwidth.org/331997.html