First off, thanks so much for the comments on the drabbles I posted earlier. You guys are so lovely. I’m eager to reply, but I need to finish up my three-part fic offering before I do that. Many apologies for the delay.
Also, thanks to the extremely talented red_sunflower for the Spuffy icons she posted yesterday. This one seemed so perfect for my fic that I had to snag it! Along with a few others. Heh.
And speaking of the story, here’s the first installment. Chapter 3 is also done, but I have just a bit more to fill in for Chapter 2. I’ll be back with those later. I suspect the story may need some more polishing when all is said and done, but that will have to wait. In the meantime, hope it pleases…
Title: Something In It
Author: annapurna_2
Setting: Season 2, around the time of “What’s My Line – Part 1.” Then it… um… goes a bit AU. Heh.
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Spike makes Buffy an offer she can’t refuse.
Feedback: More than I want to breathe.
Author’s Notes: This was something of an interesting experiment for me, using a little different style. We’ll see how that works out. ::rolls eyes::
There’s a part of her that knows she’s dreaming. Always knows, no matter how she tries to shut it out. Recoils in horrified denial even as her deeper, slumbering self shivers in delicious yearning.
Her spine arches, head thrown back as she opens herself to the cool, thrusting tongue, her hands twisting hard in the sheets. Chest heaving, she thrashes and moans, legs longing to close themselves tight around his head. But she spreads them wide and lifts her hips, the better to wordlessly urge him on.
Strong fingers glide along her thighs, over a quivering belly, and across her chest. A hand settles on each breast, cupping and kneading, teasing nipples that are already achingly erect. His nose nuzzles her there and she thinks she’ll explode. But the fire inside continues to build. She’s helpless beneath the onslaught in a way she’d never sanction in the waking world. But here, dark fantasies play out and she’s free to lose control, free to give herself over. Free to act upon things she’d never condone.
It ends the way it always does. In a blinding burst of fire and ice, a sweet pleasure-pain that rushes through her with the force of a small tsunami, shattering the last of her inhibitions as she reaches down to haul him up, guiding his mouth to hers, devouring him, as she has just been devoured. Opening eyes wide to stare deep into his electric blue gaze…
And for an instant, her breathing stops.
Then she’s off the bed and reaching for a stake, heart thudding madly against her ribs. He rises from his seat at the edge of the mattress, hands lifted in a placating gesture as he backs off a few steps. But his eyes are laughing at her, and his posture is anything but conciliatory.
His white-blond hair gleams in the moonlight.
“Slayer.”
Her title rumbles out of him, all smooth and growling at the same time, as her fist tightens convulsively around the stake. He doesn’t miss the gesture and his eyes grow a little more wary, but he stops retreating and his steady gaze never leaves her face.
He smiles at her in such a way that it makes her wonder what she might have said, what she might have done as he sat on the bed watching her dream. The thought conjures up a sudden flush of arousal, a damning moisture between her legs, and she’s horrified at how easily her body can betray her.
His nostrils flare. His smile widens. Mortification turns to deadly anger.
“I don’t know how you got in here without an invite, Spike, and I don’t care. All I know is, it’s the last thing you’ll ever do!”
She spits out the words, channeling the smoldering heat inside into a different kind of fire. But it isn’t easy. She’s all too conscious of the skimpy satin camisole that strains across her chest and the matching tap pants that seemed such a wonderfully wicked idea when she imagined wearing them for Angel. Now, they leave the full length of her legs entirely too exposed and she’s all the more conscious of the gleam in his eyes. The way he continues to look, despite his imminent dusty ending.
As their gazes lock, something flickers in those blue depths, but she doesn’t have time to puzzle it out because she’s going to kill him. Then his hand is raised again in a “hang on” gesture, and that’s when she notices he isn’t wearing his trademark leather coat. She spots it draped across a nearby chair. Like it’s welcome there. Like it belongs. The sight of it raises her ire that much more.
But he’s speaking, and against her better judgment she waits and listens.
“Never mind the how then. Want to know the why? Want to know what would cause a sane-minded vamp to beard the slayer in her own den? Might be somethin’ in it for you. Somethin’…you care about.”
This time, the grin he flashes is of a different sort – one that means he knows something she doesn’t. Something she won’t like.
But she doesn’t give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait, even though there’s a sudden chill in the warm California night. “Right now? Can’t think of anything better than ridding the world of you. Unless it’s going postal on you and Drusilla, but she’s not here, so, darn…guess I’ll have to settle.”
He “tsks” at her, shaking his head in mock dismay. “Touched as I am to be such a high priority, Slayer, I think someone needs her horizons broadened.”
“And I think someone needs his ass dusted,” she counters. “And…hey! I volunteer you.”
But before she can follow through with that intent, he utters a name – one guaranteed to freeze her in her tracks. Angel.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Barely remembers to breathe.
Until, finally, she gets the words out. “What have you done?”
He’s still grinning, still laughing, but there’s a deadly edge to his tone that wasn’t there before. “Nothing…yet. Whether I do or not, Slayer, depends entirely on you.”
“Where is he?” Her voice is so hard she thinks he’ll smash to bits on it, but he only tilts his head and sticks his thumbs through black denim belt loops, fingers spread to frame the prominent bulge at his crotch. A whisper of the dream returns to haunt her. She doggedly tries to ignore it.
She repeats the question through clenched teeth. “I said, where is he?”
“Where you can’t find him, unless I want you to. And I don’t. Until we finish our business here. Don’t worry, though. Got some friends takin’ real good care of him.” He snorts softly. “Well, minions more like. But they’re very devoted. Real motivated, you might say.”
“If you hurt him—”
“Now, now…wouldn’t hurt a hair on the old man’s head. Not permanent-like, anyway. Know better than to sell you damaged goods.”
And finally they arrive at the heart of the matter.
“Sell?” Her arms cross, but his eyes follow the movement to her breasts and she quickly unfolds them.
He lifts his gaze and smirks. “See? That’s what I like about you, Slayer. You’re quick on the uptake. Never mind what those smarmy school-types think. You’re a hell of a lot smarter than you look.”
“Gee, thanks. Sorry I can’t say the same for you. So unless you’re trying to annoy me into staking you here and now, maybe you’d better stop wasting my time and tell me what the hell it is you want.”
He looks at her through lowered lashes, the kind any girl would kill to have. Deliberately licks his lips.
“Fair enough then,” he says, head tilting as his gaze takes her in. “Happens what I want… is you.”
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Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/35600.html
