Title: “Black Friday”
author/creator: bewildered
era/season/setting: s4 post-Pangs
Rating NC-17 NOTHING BUT SMUT HERE
Summary: Let’s heat those leftovers up a bit, shall we?
Sequel to “Served Cold.” Basically just smut and silliness and more smut.
Author’s note: This fic is completely self-indulgent, just a smutty release valve for all the UST I’ve been writing and all the crappy life I’ve been living lately. I can’t say there’s no nutritional content, but it’s kind of like calling pumpkin pie a vegetable, or pretending Häagen-Dazs is a meaningful dairy serving. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Thanks to the_moonmoth & Sigyn for betaing at various points, as well as fraggleshrew, trilliumjente, zabjade, and everyone else on Chatzy who read bits and offered words of support.
Seasonal Spuffy notes: I originally wrote this with the intent of posting to EF/AO3 on Black Friday, but since SS has a free-for-all day on Thanksgiving y’all get a sneak peek! Hoping to have a beginning on another fic by the end of the round.
CHAPTER 2: The Morning
Spike could tell the moment the regrets and recriminations set in — the slayer went from lusciously limp under his hands to stiff and agitated in an instant, and he stroked along her body soothingly, intensely relieved that the cot they had destroyed had been made of aluminium or some such instead of wood. He quickly estimated that the nearest wood was the banister, a good two yards away, which he hoped would give him enough time to — well, not escape, because he was still chained, but at least remind the slayer that she had previously decided not to stake him for any number of good reasons, and wouldn’t she much rather come back to bed?
He himself would much prefer more sex to being staked.
After a moment, though, her muscles relaxed, and she lifted her head, meeting his eyes with an expression between embarrassment and rueful humour.
“It’s morning,” she said softly.
“So it is. We turning into pumpkins now?” He ran a hand around the curve of her arse, because it was there and slightly pumpkinish.
“It’s Friday,” she grumbled, showing the keen grasp of the obvious for which she was known, but then she pressed into his hand and let her legs drift further apart; he obligingly tucked his fingers in to soothe her in other places. Poor twig had to be sore after the thorough rogering he’d given her, he mused smugly, wondering when she’d be up to more. Though he supposed now that the sun was up, the forgiving night fled, he should revise that “when” to “if.” Pity.
She buried her face in his chest then. “Ugh. Tell me the sun’s not up.”
“The sun’s not up.” He stroked her hair. God, it was glorious.
“You liar.” She snorted a bloody adorable laugh into his skin.
“That I am, love,” he agreed.
She turned her face away from his to face the high window. ”I need to go get ready. I’m going to go visit my dad.”
“Sounds lovely.”
She laughed. “It’s really, really not.” She suddenly turned her face to his, kissing him like he was her only escape; he kissed her back until she relaxed again and snuggled into his shoulder. After a bit, she sighed and went on. “I mean, I love my dad, I really do, but I know what’s going to happen when I get down there. He’s going to be busy with work, even though everybody else in the world takes the day off, and so I’m going to end up sitting around his condo making awkward conversation with his secretary-slash-secret-girlfriend, who isn’t even ten years older than me, until he finally comes out of his office and we go off to some restaurant where he ends up on the phone working again, until I go to bed in his guest room and pretend I don’t know Brittany’s sleeping over. And then we wake up in the morning and do it again, until he puts me on the bus back home.” She nuzzled into Spike’s chest, seeking comfort, and he stroked her hair more. “I don’t know why I bother.”
“Then don’t bother,” Spike coaxed. “Stay here.”
“I can’t.” She wrapped her arms a little tighter. “You don’t know how hard I…. He used to visit. He’d come take me out on my birthday, go to the Ice Capades, get sundaes after at the fancy ice cream shop. Or take me out shopping for shoes, even though he hated shopping. Now, I’m lucky he even answers the phone when I call.” She scrubbed her face against his chest, leaving damp spots behind.
Bugger, were those tears? Spike felt the sudden urge to go to LA himself, just to pop the bastard in the nose. It would be worth the headache. He could pop Angel one while he was at it. “Don’t go. Stay here. Stay here and…” He gave up any pretense at subtlety and rolled Buffy over, nuzzling into her throat and sliding his hand right between her legs again.
She was apparently in agreement that subtlety was overrated, opening to him like a bloody orchid and kissing his hair as he fondled her, but a bit later she tensed again. “What if… what if he’s happy I don’t go? What if he didn’t want me to visit in the first place?”
Spike pushed himself up and away so he could meet her troubled gaze. “Then he’s a miserable wanker who doesn’t deserve your time.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like you do.”
Spike ran a hand along her, throat to belly to thigh. “Damn right I don’t deserve this. But we’re not talking about me. This is about you, love. What do you deserve?” He stroked her again. “What do you want?”
Her expression turned sly. “I want….” She reached out and wrapped a hand around his cock, and bloody hell, he was going to just dust right here, he knew it, but he managed to keep a shred of control, shifting over her until he was poised at her entrance. He wrapped his own fingers over hers and rubbed the tip right against her swollen clit. She gasped.
“This?” he purred, probing again, again, watching her face.
“God.” Her fingers tightened and she helped him probe and probe, until she was shuddering against him, until she broke, a rush of wetness and a sharp cry and her eyes squeezed shut.
Spike kissed her and unwound her clutching fingers, pressing her hands down on either side of her shoulders. “What about this?” He slowly thrust into her, the hot slide sending shakes down his legs.
She shifted under him, hooking her legs around his waist. “Yes. Yes, that.” She tilted her hips to him hungrily. “Do that.”
“Anything you say,” he said softly, wondering why it rang truer than truth in his head, and he gave her what she wanted. Which was apparently just what he wanted; he fucked her and fucked her, their hours of loving giving him enough control to play, to find out which angles made her scream the loudest, and when she rolled him over and started in on her own experiments, doing her damnedest to send him round the bloody bend, he happily lay back and went around that bend with her, over and over, until he finally could hold out no longer and shouted out his release, her satisfied laugh like a church bell in his ears, ringing out Matins.
Afterwards, still tangled and joined, he kissed her softly, brushing her nose with his.
“Don’t go,” he whispered.
She glanced off at the window again. “I promised.”
“Promise to a man who abandoned you and your mum? Seems he doesn’t treasure your word as he should.” Spike knew a bit about promises unvalued, promises betrayed; he could feel the edge of it in his voice, and he could tell from the look in her green eyes when they came back to his that she remembered the trampled-yet-steadfast loyalty that had led to their first truce.
“I don’t break my promises,” she said, eyes resolute. It made him wish they had a promise between them, one they both could keep.
But he shook himself out of that thought. This wasn’t about promises or loyalty at all, it was about getting the slayer to stay. So he reached down between them and gently thumbed at her clit; just enough pressure that she shivered, an involuntary mewl of pleasure coming from her throat. “What about your sacred duty? Isn’t that more important than your promise?” He slid down her body, kissing across her belly.
She ran her fingers through his hair as he moved lower. “I am very certain this is neither sacred nor my duty.” She opened wide to him, though, sighing as he lapped at her. It was maddening, the taste of her now, all ripe and well-loved, his own flavour mingled in, but even as his eyes rolled back in his head at the pleasure he kept his figurative eye on the prize.
“You’re keeping me off the streets,” he pointed out, letting his lips brush her as he spoke.
“You’re imp–” She broke off, panting, as he grazed her with his teeth. “You can’t bite or kill. You’re even less dangerous than most humans.”
“Is that so?” He pursed his lips over her hard nubbin, sucking, and then flicked it with his tongue until her thighs were shaking and he was fair certain she was right on the edge of coming. He left her on that edge, sliding up to lay beside her, propped on his elbow, his cock brushing her thigh, a reminder of just how impotent he wasn’t, how ready he was for more. He played with her breast absently. “Could get up to some evil doesn’t involve killing. Grand theft. Arson. Mail fraud.”
She glared at him. “Okay. Well, I can leave you with Giles.”
He grinned. “Or you can stay, make sure I don’t unleash all that evil on the world.” He reached down to stroke her again, keeping her on that edge, not quite sending her over.
“You’re just trying to manipulate me into staying here and… staying here today.”
“Not manipulation. I’m asking you. Stay.”
“What are you going to do if I stay?”
He leaned down and whispered a suggestion in her ear.
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” And he put his suggestion into action, rolling her gently until she was on her stomach, kneeling between her thighs.
She sighed happily and tilted her hips up, pillowing her cheek on her arms. “God, you’re evil.”
He thrust inside her. “Stay.”
“Okay,” she laughed softly. “I’ll stay.”
*
God, she was a terrible daughter. She was a terrible daughter, and she didn’t care, because she had needs, and she was a grown woman, and she really didn’t even need an excuse, she was going to stay home and have sex with Spike all day and she didn’t care. She didn’t care that her dad wasn’t going to care and… she just didn’t care.
She didn’t care so much she didn’t even bother to put on clothes when she went up to the kitchen to call her dad to cancel. He’s probably in bed with Brittany anyhow, she rationalized as the phone rang.
Buffy watched as Spike strolled over to the fridge, casually stepping around the patch of sunlight from the window, and opened the door, perusing the contents. She’d decided that at this point the chains were kind of superfluous and released him. He was as naked as she and apparently also didn’t care, and that was A-OK by her, because that butt she had been grabbing all night was really, really nice.
The ringing was replaced by a woozy “Hello?”
“Dad?”
Spike bent down to rummage at the back of one of the shelves and wow. Wow. Yeah, this was way better than the LA Greyhound station.
“Oh, uh, Buffy. I thought your bus was getting in…. Do you need me to come pick you up? This is kind of a bad–”
Oh, I bet it’s a bad time. “No, I…. Dad, something’s come up.” Spike glanced over his shoulder, lifting his eyebrows, and she turned away before he could show her just how “up” something had come. Then she turned back, because damn. “I can’t make it down there this weekend.”
“Oh.” He didn’t even sound disappointed, just confused. Like he was the only one who got to be distant. Not like she cared. Not when she had Spike there in her kitchen, not distant at all, ready to get up close and personal. Really, really ready.
“Sorry,” she said airily. “You know college.”
Spike gave her a measuring look, setting a jar of maraschino cherries on the counter and stalking towards her.
Buffy watched him walk as her father regained his equilibrium. “So you’re not coming?”
Spike dropped to his knees before her and hooked her leg over his shoulder.
“I’m not–” The first stroke of his tongue sent jolts of feeling out to her fingertips, and she forgot what she was saying for a second, her brain flailing about until it landed on the last word he said. “–coming.” Spike chuckled into her, and she kicked his back warningly, focusing on her words. “I’m not coming to LA today,” she said precisely.
“Huh. Well, I’ll just cancel–”
Buffy clutched at Spike’s head, not certain herself whether she was trying to urge him on or push him away, just feeling like she had to have her hand in his hair. “Oh no,” she managed to say with something like a normal tone of voice. “You and Brittany shouldn’t change your plans because of me. I mean, it’s really important to take good care of your secretary. Make sure she feels appreciated.”
She could almost feel him looking at Brittany, who was almost certainly right there in his bed. “Uh, I will.”
Oh god, what was Spike doing? And how the hell had they just spent — she tried to count, but numbers were apparently not a thing her brain was doing this morning — some number of hours getting all kinds of busy with each other and he was still doing things that felt like the first time all over again? “Well,” she gasped. “I don’t want to keep you from your clients. Maybe we can get together at Christmas, if I’m not too busy.”
Her dad said something back to that, probably something annoying, but oh god oh god she couldn’t word any more, she barely managed to thumb the button to disconnect and then she was clinging to the counter and her voice was yelling and her body was shaking and tears were coming from her eyes and Spike was laughing, he was laughing, the bastard, and she pounded on his back with her fists as she came apart.
When she came back to herself, he was still happily nuzzling at her crotch; she tugged on his hair until he looked up at her, wicked eyes peering appreciatively up the length of her body.
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking a bit of cold comfort might make you feel a tad bit better.” He pressed a tender kiss to her hipbone, curling his hands around the backs of her thighs. “Glad I did, too. Otherwise, wouldn’t have known how hot it made you, talking on the phone.”
“It did not!”
Spike’s eyes narrowed. “No? Feel that.” He grabbed her hand, quick as a snake, and pressed it between her legs, just where his tongue had been seconds before. “Feel it,” he hissed.
Dear god. “That’s because you were just…”
He stood, pressing his hand over hers. “How many times did I bring you off last night?” he said in a voice like shadow.
She tried to count, but numbers were still off in Jamaica or something.
“A lot of bloody times,” he went on. “You came against my fingers, you came on my tongue, you came with me buried inside you. Fuck, I think you even came once just from me whispering naughty things in your bloody ear.” He took her hand in his, pressed her fingers where she was hottest, set her to stroking. “I am becoming a bloody connoisseur of Buffy orgasms, and I assure you, you have never come so hard, nor so fast, as when you were on the phone with your dear old dad.”
She swallowed, eyes caught in his.
“So here’s a theory for you,” he said conversationally, still rubbing her own fingers against her. “You, Slayer, you’re a good girl. And not just good. You’re the Chosen One. Better than good. You’re supposed to be above all that. But secretly, deep down, you want to be bad.” Suddenly he lifted his hand from hers, freeing her, but oh god oh god, she couldn’t stop now, she just watched his eyes and listened as she stroked herself, gasping. “You want to roll in the mud,” he said, eyes on hers, his damp thumb caressing her cheek. The smell of her own arousal was sharp and pungent. “Throw convention aside, give yourself over to your primal instincts. Like you did last night, with me. And now, we’ve taken your bad, bad self and brought it out to play with the good girl, and it’s like… like matter and antimatter. You explode.”
She did, shuddering.
“I do not!” she managed to say.
“Don’t you? Here, let’s play a little game. You make another phone call. Call your watcher, your friends, anyone. Let’s set off a bomb.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She tossed her hair defiantly. “If that’s what you need for me to prove you wrong, let’s do that.”
“Fine,” he bit out, heaving her up to sit on the counter.
“Fine!” Buffy snapped, hooking her ankles behind his back as he thrust deep into her.
And it was fine. It was very fine indeed.
*
She called Giles, because he was literally the least sexy person she knew; she was still traumatized knowing he and her mom had… and then that Olivia person… Well. The point was that “Giles” and “sex” did not belong in the same universe, much less the same room. She was sure Spike’s game was going to be a flop, which made her feel a little disappointed, but she reminded herself that once she’d proved Spike wrong, they could finally go down to the basement again. Her plans for the day were suddenly wide open.
This time, there was no surprise attack on her ladyparts. She was proving a point, and she was honor-bound to prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt, so as she dialed Giles’s number, she relaxed back on the couch — on top of an old ratty afghan, just in case — while Spike ate up her naked body with his eyes. They had agreed on some ground rules: no touching until the phone connected, no kissing while she was talking, and absolutely no butting into her conversation, no matter how clever the quip. She was totally confident she was going to win this one.
But, you know. Afghan. Just in case.
He picked up the phone with his usual too-formal greeting, on exactly the third ring.
“Giles?” That was it, the checkered flag. She’d expected Spike to go right for her juicy nethers, but instead he leaned in and started kissing the inside of her elbow. It made her shiver.
Giles cleared his throat. “Buffy? Is everything all right? I rather thought we had an appointment this morning. You were going to bring Spike back before dawn….”
Crap. Was that what she’d said? It seemed like a million years ago. “Oh, sorry! Plans changed.” She let her head fall back, as apparently the column of her throat was essential to whatever lame point Spike was trying to make. “I’m not going down to LA after all, mom left me a ton of cleaning to do for the holidays and I figured I’d just get it all done today.”
Spike kissed her then, tongue cool against hers, and she eagerly kissed him back, tilting the phone so the earpiece was still near her ear but the mouthpiece was nowhere near her mouth, because they had to be doing some serious smacking, the way he was kissing her, not to mention the little moans when his hands found her breasts. Giles really, really did not need to hear any of that.
“Ah,” Giles said in that annoying British way he had of trying to pile like a bazillion words into one not-even-a-word. “Will you… Is Spike restrained there, then? Do you need me to stop by and–”
Buffy broke away from Spike’s lips. “No!” He grinned and ducked down out of sight, his lips curling around her nipple. His hands had drifted downwards as well, thumbs tracing crazy-making circles on her inner thighs. “No, uh, you don’t need to stop by. I’ve got Spike… He’s… I’m good.” Oh god. She had Spike, all right, had him kissing his way down her chest, and she barely managed not to shriek when he finally made it down to her thighs, planting a kiss on each trembling thigh before he bent to the main attraction, cool breath bathing her before his tongue began to taste. Oh god, what had she been saying to Giles? How long had she been holding her breath? “Spike’s good. Got his chains up in the basement.” He wasn’t in them, but they were up.
“Has he revealed anything of interest?”
Besides the fact that, apparently, orgasms can come in a baker’s dozen? “He’s been fairly… informative.” Like right now, when he was informing her ladybits that they were gorgeous and lickable, and murmuring all sorts of educational swear words into her thighs, and whoops, there she went again, because apparently Spike was more about making her come than bakers were about baking. She tilted the phone away from her mouth again, covering the mouthpiece up for good measure.
“Well, do let me know if you need assistance.”
Dammit, she was losing. She was losing. Because the more Giles yapped, the more she wanted Spike inside her. “I’ve got this, Giles. You can just… read something. Or shop. Did you know today’s the biggest shopping day of the year?” Her brain was going in circles, like the Wheel of Fortune, except all of the little wedges were “Ways Spike Could Do Buffy” and as the wheel in her head clicked around she vaguely wondered what would happen if she hit the Bankrupt spot, except she was dizzily thinking that there was no possible result, no way Spike could do her that she would not end up a winner, even if she didn’t buy a vowel.
Giles harrumphed. “Yes, I was rather aware. Which is why I had planned to stay in and question Spike.”
Dammit. She conceded defeat. Or maybe she was claiming victory. Either way, she reached down and clutched at Spike’s shoulders, urging him back up. “Well, now you don’t have to. You can….” She couldn’t think of anything else Giles did besides read, and she really didn’t care, because Spike had gotten her subtle hint and had hooked her leg over the back of the couch, eyes hot, his legs tucking under her other leg, and she didn’t see how that was supposed to work but oh, it did work, he was inside her, pumping slowly, and god god god it was glorious. “You can just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Well, I shall.”
Buffy twisted the mouthpiece back to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “Okay then.”
“Buffy, are you all right?”
That depends on your definition of ‘all right,’ Buffy though dizzily. “Oh, I’m just… just peachy keen. Gotta go now. Got some dust bunnies need slaying.” Not to mention some vampires that needed fucking; she caught at Spike and twisted and wrestled until she had him where she wanted him, leaning back in the center of the couch with her riding him. He was looking at her like she was the apocalypse, all the horsemen rolled into one, and she felt like it, too, like she was bringing about the end of the world as she impaled herself on him over and over and over, and it was a surprise when Giles spoke again and she realized she was still on the phone.
“Right. Well, I suppose we can discuss Spike further once you’re free. Perhaps this evening? You can tell me what you’ve learned.”
Oh, hell no. “Yeah. I guess so.”
Giles said something in response to that, something that was probably important, but Spike chose that exact moment to accelerate, twisting his hips as he ground up into her, sending her eyes rolling back in her head.
“What was that?” she managed to say between thrusts.
“When will you be coming?”
She looked down at Spike, and he grinned up at her. “Yes,” he murmured darkly. “Do answer the man’s question.”
“Oh,” Buffy gasped, and “oh,” and “oh” again, and then she was coming, blindingly; she barely managed to cover the phone’s mouthpiece with her hand and thrust it as far away from her as her arms could reach in the hopes that Giles wouldn’t hear the garbled, muffled cry that was all she could allow herself, or the muffled oath that Spike buried in her breast as he followed her over, and as the wave crested and she started to come down, she realized she still hadn’t answered Giles, and she was still not really able to fathom times, or numbers, or social pleasantries, and so she set the phone to her ear and bluffed. “Um. I’ll let you know.”
Giles sighed, but in a bloody-teenagers-and-their-social-lives kind of way, not in a way that indicated he had any sort of clue he’d just been a part of Buffy’s world shattering. “Goodbye, Buffy.”
“Yeah, see you soon.” She pushed the disconnect button with her trembling fingers. Or tried to push it; it took her a few tries.
Wow.
“You win,” she said softly, weirdly not feeling like she’d lost.
Spike looked up at her, his face as dazed as she felt. “Suppose I did,” he laughed faintly. “What did I win?”
“That was definitely….” Words were not adequate; she melted into a kiss, snuggling and wriggling until they were lying side by side on the couch. One thing she could definitely say for Spike — well, one thing that wasn’t a sex thing — he did not skimp on the snuggles, seeming perfectly content to stroke her hair and her back and kiss her temple and just wallow in afterglow.
“It was,” he finally sighed into her hair. “It was definitely. You’re a bloody miracle, pet.”
“Am I?” She kissed him lazily.
“So,” he murmured into her lips. “I think we have proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that you, Buffy Summers, have an… interesting phone kink.”
She glared at him. “I’m not kinky.”
“Aren’t you?” Spike glared back, clearly stung. “Not like kink is a brand of evil, you know. Just means you get hot for something a little left of center. Like most people do.”
“Oh.” Buffy flushed. “I knew that. I just, you know. There’s always that stereotype that kinky is bad.”
“Oh, and the slayer can’t be a little bit bad?” He rubbed his feet against hers. “Dip a toe in the mud?”
“Maybe a little,” she mumbled wryly. He’d won, after all.
“So there you go.”
“Of course, it could have been because of the embarrassment,” Buffy said thoughtfully, now that she seemed to have two neurons to rub together again. “I mean, my dad is my dad, and Giles is kind of like a dad, and dads are the last people a girl ever wants to know about her sex life. Not that my dad is the shotgun type. But, um, Giles is the crossbow type.”
“I seem to recall his also being the Molotov cocktail, flaming baseball bat type,” Spike said wryly.
“Really?”
“Did a bloody number on Angelus, remember? Though I suppose you were only there for the end bit, where Angelus was returning the favor.”
“Huh.” Thinking back to then, the flaming factory and Angel all evil and Jenny just dead made Buffy feel all ooky; she buried her face in Spike’s chest, and he stroked her hair as she brought her brain back to the present.
“Anyhow,” she said at last. “Maybe it would be different if it were someone else on the phone. Someone I don’t feel so weird about knowing I have a sex life.” She shoved the knowledge that everyone she knew knew about at least some of her sex life, thanks to Angel’s soulless rampage. She was so not thinking about Angel today, not any more.
“Perhaps so,” Spike agreed.
They snuggled a bit longer.
“Well,” Buffy said at last, tracing circles on Spike’s chest. “Really, there’s only one way to find out.”
“And just what are you proposing, Slayer?”
“Just, you know. We can, um, try it again. With someone else. Someone less dad-like.”
He slanted an unreadable look her way. “Again?”
She rapped her knuckles lightly on his chest. “I ditched my dad for you. Would you rather play Parcheesi?”
He didn’t answer that, just pulled her over into a deep kiss, sinking his hands into her hair
“So, not your mum,” Spike mused when they’d melted into cuddles again, apparently giving the matter serious thought.
“Ew, no.”
“So,” Spike said easily. “Who is it that knows you have a sex life?”
Buffy knew just the person.
*
Spike was lost.
He knew where he was, of course. Buffy’s house — Buffy herself — had been something of a lodestone to him since he’d first faced off against her; no matter where he’d gone, even when he and Dru’d been in South America, he’d always been aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that’s where the slayer is, like a compass needle in his brain that always pointed Due Buffy. Of course, it was because he hated her so; he’d needed to know what direction to send the hatred, Radar Hate, like that Golden Earring song except loads better.
He had hated her with all his heart.
Now he wasn’t sure.
Looking at her, all pink and gold, her face screwed up in thought as she pondered — of all things — where and how she wanted to get shagged next, it was like his whole body was made of iron filings, drawn inexorably to her, and he was starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that it wasn’t hate, that it hadn’t been hate for a long time, that his obsession with Buffy had its roots in something far, far worse, something so terrible he’d chained it in the deepest caverns of his heart, except now she’d smashed those chains, setting the black beast loose to unfurl its noisome wings and wreak devastation all through Spike’s world. It was sick. It was unthinkable. It couldn’t possibly be true.
There was no bloody way Spike was in love.
“The floor, I think,” Buffy said decisively, apparently unaffected by Spike’s black glare. She picked up a few throw pillows from the couch. “If we’re going to really get accurate results we don’t need to be worrying about balancing and stuff.”
“Accurate results,” Spike repeated, piling a shield of sarcasm on the words.
Buffy looked at him through her eyelashes. “I think we owe it to ourselves to be thorough.”
“Thorough.” God, he’d turned into a parrot.
“Willow would expect nothing less.” Buffy tossed the pillows down, arranging them into a nest. “She is a huge advocate of the scientific method.”
“Is she, now?” Spike sat in one of the side chairs. “She going to co-author our paper, then? Send it on to the journals?”
“We’re writing a paper?” Buffy blinked, then laughed. “Oh, yes. I’m sure the Super Fancy American Journal of Kinky Vampire Sex will be totally interested in our findings.”
He chose not to break it to her that a journal with basically that very name (worded more academically) did in fact exist and was highly entertaining. “Shall I draw up a cunning cunnilingus graph?”
Buffy eased down into her nest, watching Spike through heavy-lidded eyes. “Do I want to know what that is?”
Spike sank down to the floor himself, crawling towards her. “Well, the lingus comes from the Latin for tongue.” He reached her ankles and lifted one foot, planting a hot kiss in the arch. “Three guesses what the cunni part means.”
She lifted an eyebrow and grinned in a way that said she knew exactly what it meant. “Toes?” she said innocently.
Spike obediently gave her sweet toes, callused from hours of patrol, their due worship. “Strike one, love.”
“Hmm…” Buffy lolled back on her cushions. “Knees?”
Spike slid up and tenderly kissed the inside of each knee. “Strike two.” He started to kiss up the inside of her thigh, because it was there and fucking glorious.
She reached down and wove a hand into his hair. “Oh, gosh, let me think….” He kissed up and up as she “thought,” veering off at the last minute to kiss her hipbone. “I know,” she laughed softly. “Belly button!”
Spike laughed as well, surprised at the way it sounded almost happy. “Strike three.” He dipped his tongue into her navel; she quivered at the touch.
“This is what I get for taking French,” she sighed dramatically, tightening her fingers in his hair. “You’ll just have to teach me what it means, Mr. Latin-knowing-guy.”
He kissed the curve of her belly. “Weren’t you going to make a phone call?”
“I was, wasn’t I?” She stroked his cheek. “I mean, this is for science.”
“So it is.” Easier to pretend it was than to confront the truth. Spike eased back until he was kneeling between her ankles again, hands on his knees. “So. How’s it to be, then?” He made his voice deliberately brisk. Because no bloody way.
Buffy blinked, eyes a little glazed. “Huh?”
He grinned. “How, exactly, do you want it? In the spirit of scientific inquiry.”
“Oh.” She smiled back, shy again. “I, um want it… kind of slow. To, you know, take our time, so we can really make those… thorough observations. I mean, we keep getting kind of….” She trailed off.
“Wild? Passionate?” He licked his lips showily. “Apocalyptic?”
“Yeah. That.” She poked at him with one foot. “Can we do slow?”
“Slow as treacle,” Spike purred and caught her foot, gently massaging the ball. “Just the tongue?”
“To start,” Buffy murmured.
“Mm. And to finish?”
She smiled dreamily. “Slow.”
“Slow.” Spike placed a soft kiss in her arch. “D’you want it slow from behind, love? Down on your knees? Or did you want to ride me, show me who’s boss?” Another kiss. “You liked it sideways, as I recall, the one with your leg up–”
“Like this,” she interrupted, arching in her nest. “Just here. Slow and, um, can we do sweet? Like we’re in love.”
“I can do sweet,” Spike whispered back, ignoring the pointless stab in the vicinity of his heart, because… No. Bloody. Way. “Dial.”
Eyes fixed on his, Buffy lay back and dialed, easing into a pose worthy of Marilyn Monroe.
“Hey, Willow!”
Willow’s voice was just loud enough for Spike to hear. “Oh, hi, Buffy! How was your bus ride?”
Showtime. He lifted Buffy’s foot to his mouth and started sucking on her toes, one by one.
“Oh, I didn’t go,” Buffy said breezily, throwing an arm over her forehead while she watched Spike. “I have some… things… and… Anyhow! I think I left my notes back at the dorm, and I wanted to study for that Psychology quiz we have on Monday.”
Spike trailed kisses up her instep. He could tell the conversation was already heating Buffy up, making her all tender and sensitive. Was tempting to just worship at her feet the whole time, see if he could bring her off just with that, but she was already opening to him, he could see arousal spreading through her body like the bloody dawn, her skin turning pink, her nipples tightening, her breath quickening, he could scent her glorious fragrance turning to musk, and he needed it all, needed all the senses, needed touch and taste to complement the sight and the sound and the scent, he needed it like nothing he’d ever known, and he wasn’t going to deny himself just for the sake of curiosity.
He was not, in the end, a very good scientist.
“We don’t have a quiz on Monday.”
Smart girl. Making Buffy work for her pleasure. Spike was kissing his way up Buffy’s shin when she reached down to stroke his face again; he caught her hand in his, sucking her fingers into his mouth one by one as he continued to glide inexorably up her body, kissing wherever he could reach.
“Pop quiz,” Buffy said, quivering. “I mean, you know Professor Walsh. She’s totally the pop quiz type.” Spike licked up her torso to her breasts, admitting to himself that this was the fastest treacle the universe had ever seen, but unable to resist those sweet pink buds.
“Oh, you’re right, she is. Maybe I should study too? Want me to bring you your–”
“No!” Buffy clutched Spike’s head to her with her free hand, gasping, apparently also less dedicated to slow, methodical science than she’d pretended. “No, you don’t have to bring them.” Spike caught at her nipple with his teeth, tugging gently; she hitched in a loud breath that she managed to turn into a word. “AhhhI’ve been cleaning here, and it’s, um, super dusty. Ah-choo!” That clever coverup earned her a nibble at the other breast.
“Oh, okay then. Um. So why did you call?”
Buffy’s head fell back. “I left my notes there. I was thinking maybe you could, well, read them to me.” Spike licked up the column of her throat, already salty with sweat, and then sweetly kissed the curve of Buffy’s cheek, meeting her eyes. “Slowly,” she said, pupils dilated. “So I don’t miss any of the big words.”
Willow’s voice was incongruously chirpy as Spike captured Buffy’s mouth for a languid kiss. “Oh! That way it would be just like studying together, except less dusty!”
Buffy ended the kiss as sweetly as it had begun. “Yep,” she said. “That’s just what I was thinking.” She nudged at Spike’s ribcage with her knee, shifting beneath him until she was cradling his cock in warmth and heat, pulsing her hips slowly against his.
Oh, god. Bugger slow; Spike knew he was going to dust if he didn’t taste her right that moment, and so he did, sliding down and taking a long lick of her quim, and bugger she tasted even better than before, how was that possible? How could she possibly taste better than perfect? But she did. He licked and licked, devouring her quivers and secret sighs like they were caramel corn, her hand in his hair urging him on.
Willow continued on, oblivious. “Okay, gimme a second. Um, where should we start?”
Buffy was already hitching beneath his tongue, her voice thready. “Maybe, um, with that stuff from last week? That should take a whi– Ah– Ahh–”
Spike pursed his lips and sucked — gently, he knew she was sore — and she came apart, burying her cry of release in one of the pillows. God. God. Spike buried his own face in her thigh, resisting the urge to weep.
Willow remained silent, obviously waiting for the sneeze.
“-Choo!” Buffy hastily squeaked. “Sorry, dust. So, um, notes?” She looked at Spike as he slid back up her body, biting her lip and then nodding.
Slowly, slowly, he sheathed himself in her; she sighed, reaching up to wrap her free arm about his head, playing gently with his hair.
“Oh. Oh, of course,” Willow said over the phone. There was a rustling of papers from across the wires, and a rustling of fabric as Spike began to pump into Buffy, slow and sweet, his forehead pressed to hers, gazing into her wide, naked eyes, terrified at what she must be seeing in his but unable to look away. “I’m using my notes, because yours are…. Well, mine are color coded, so they’re easier to read. Here goes. ‘Sigmund Freud…'”
Spike tuned out Willow — wasn’t for his benefit, the phone call — and began his own litany, in time with his glacial thrusts.
No bloody way.
No bloody way.
No bloody way.
Bugger.
No bloody way.
But as he kissed her and made sweet love to her and worshipped her with all that was in him, he could hear her bloody ridiculous valley girl voice smugly telling him the truth.
Way.
God, she was infuriating, even in his head. But she was also right.
He was bloody well doomed.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/634895.html
