Title: Stitched Up
Era: BTVS s2
Summary: Something goes horribly, horribly awry with Willow’s ensoulment spell, and Angel’s soul finds an unexpected home – in his dirty laundry. Read now the tale of a Sock with a Soul; it’s on a mission to help the helpless, and it’s starting with Spike and Buffy.
Departs canon forever during Becoming Part Two. Has about the nuanced characterization one should expect from an Ensouled Sock AU. As seems to be my preferred genre now, this is a shameless smutty Spuffy farce, once I get that pesky canon drama out of the way.
Warnings: By the laws of California, Buffy is still under the age of consent (18) at the beginning of this fic, and will be for many more months. Spike doesn’t care (he’s evil) and Buffy doesn’t care (she’s a teenager who wants to be treated like an adult) and since Spike has the emotional development of a teen (or even tween) himself, we’ll call it good. She’ll be 18 before they get TOO far, anyhow. There will be sexual situations, bad language, character death (or characters-sucked-into-a-demon-dimension, which is close enough), and plain old explicit sex. Also an ensouled sock. If you keep reading, don’t blame me.
Chapter 9 is the SMUTTY chapter. FYI.
Chapter 9: A Sock Victorious
Spike chose to put off choosing. Just for a few more weeks. The slayer’s birthday was coming up, and she was all worked up about it. After doing some figures in his head, Spike had figured out why. After receiving the jolly gift of a soulless Angel for her last birthday, she didn’t need to receive the gift of Angel – soulless or not – again this year. Really, nobody should ever receive Angel as a gift, not even at those demented gift exchanges where all the gifts were shitty and mixed up and you spent the evening trading your gift up until you had the least shitty of the shitty gifts that you could manage and then everyone shared a good hearty laugh at how shitty all the gifts were.
Angel was a really terrible gift, was the point.
He kept the notebook tucked away and continued on pretending to do research, writing down false leads in his other notebook, the one Buffy knew about. Wouldn’t do for her to figure out what Spike was up to.
Not before he had decided.
When the Slayer’s birthday rolled around, he played it cool. The Scoobies had wisely eschewed the surprise party this year, settling for pizza and cake and movies at Buffy’s house. There were presents (Spike privately thought his was the best; he had been pleasantly surprised to find a DVD of “Dirty Dancing” – the real one – on a rack at the convenience store where he got his smokes, and the way Buffy turned bright red when she ripped off the tissue was priceless) and threats of birthday spankings (which did not happen, but if they had Spike knew his would definitely have been the best), and it all felt very strange to Spike, because it was wholesome and simple, and somewhere along the line he realized he was actually having a good time. He argued some movie trivia with the obnoxious one, had an oddly deep philosophical discussion with the werewolf, and even got teased by the redhead.
He knew all their names, but he was trying not to use them in his head. He didn’t want to get attached.
That night, Buffy appeared on the basement stairs after Joyce had retired for the night, as had become their routine, but she just stood there for a while, looking at him sitting on the edge of the cot, eyes big and somber.
“Everything all right, love?” he finally said, cocking an eyebrow at her.
“Yeah,” she said, almost absently. “Yeah, just kind of a flashback.”
Spike smiled, shaking his head. “You know, you don’t have to…”
“I know,” she said quickly, then came down the stairs, crossing the floor until she was standing right in front of him. “I know,” she repeated, curving her hand around his face, thumb grazing his cheekbone. “Can we just… can you just hold me tonight?” she said in a small voice.
Spike dipped his head in concession. “All right.” There had been other nights that they hadn’t done much of anything sexual – Buffy was still squeamish when it was that time of the month – but tonight felt different. He lay on his back, and she curled against his side, palm warm against his T-shirt, and she sighed contentedly and fell asleep almost instantly.
Spike didn’t sleep at all.
He looked at her, rubbing his thumb on her shoulder, other hand flat on top of hers, right over his unbeating heart, sometimes kissing the top of her head, and thought. He thought about Dru, his wicked princess, his salvation. He wondered if, in that far-off dimension, she had had any visions about him.
He could use a comforting vision right about now.
But he lay there in the darkness, and thought about love and loyalty, about destiny even, cradling his enemy in his arms, all through the long silent hours of the night.
By the time he felt the sun rise, a faint prickle on the back of his neck, he had made up his mind.
It was just a little while after her birthday that Buffy finally admitted to herself that Spike had been acting weird.
Well, technically, he always acted weird, but he was acting weirder. To the point where she didn’t even recognize him at times. Softer, somehow. Peaceful. It was creepy.
He spent hours with Giles, talking about the books Giles had on his shelves, and one afternoon the two of them had done some sort of weird thing with one of them, involving a huge stockpot on a hotplate and a few gallons of some stinky herbal concoction. When she asked Spike later, he shrugged and said something about burning not being enough for some books. Giles had looked patently relieved afterwards, and Buffy could swear the book stacks were better lit all of a sudden.
One night, she came down the stairs to find that the basement, which had gradually become strewn with evidence of Spike’s residency, was neat and relatively bare, Spike’s belongings heaped into a few boxes. He had shrugged again, and said he preferred it clean, which was the first she’d heard of it.
Actually, he was shrugging a lot. Any time she asked him a question.
Buffy wasn’t stupid. She could tell Spike was getting ready to leave. He must have found something, been preparing to run off with Dru when the time came. He probably didn’t trust her to let them live.
Buffy was feeling faintly murderous towards Drusilla, that was true.
She didn’t want him to go.
She couldn’t say it, though, couldn’t ask him to stay, not when he was about to get his true love back, not when she was about to renew her relationship with Angel. Her real boyfriend. What was Spike supposed to do in Sunnydale? Golf? Would they go on cheery double dates, her and Spike and Dru and Angel, maybe bowling or the arcade? It was ridiculous.
It was better for him to leave.
The replacement Orb of Thessulah arrived, and Buffy didn’t even open the box this time, just tucked the unopened box at the back of a shelf. She found the box on the floor three times, which was weird, but each time she shook it and didn’t hear any tinkling glass bits, so she assumed it was still whole.
She wondered why Spike was ready to go when they still hadn’t found the answer, but she guessed he was just being prepared. Like a Boy Scout. (The image of Spike in a Boy Scout uniform made her giggle, but in a sad way, because she still didn’t like the implications.)
He was leaving her.
She couldn’t ask him to stay.
The sock was frantic.
Why why why couldn’t the magic that imbued it with mobility and intelligence and so frickin’ much soul have also given it some kind of fingers?
It was trying really, really hard to take care of the latest Orb of Thessulah, smash it up real good, but apparently it was packed in way too much bubble wrap to break as long as it was in the box, and no matter how much it tried, the sock just couldn’t get the box open. It was sealed with a single, flimsy strip of packing tape, hardly anything at all, but the sock had tried from every angle, with every possible part of its sockish anatomy, the cuff and the heel and the toe and all of the sock-bits in between, and it just couldn’t get the tiniest end of the tape up. And the knives in Giles’s collection – actually a fairly large assortment, for a library – were all too heavy for it to wield.
And it knew now that Spike, the devious bastard, had been researching behind its back.
How evil was that?!
The sock watched now as Spike tucked his secret research book back into his duster. The sock had tried on several occasions to get it, but the stupid duster was always just too close to Spike’s hand for the sock to risk. Even when he was mostly naked, the duster was right there next to the bed, and the vampire had really excellent eyesight; he had sometimes narrowed his eyes in the sock’s general direction in a way that made the sock Very Paranoid Indeed.
Well, if it couldn’t destroy the components for the ritual, and it couldn’t steal or destroy or otherwise derail the research, the sock had only one recourse: Amp up the romance quotient so the two idiots would take their relationship to the next level.
The internet would save the day.
Spike had picked a day very carefully – a Saturday just about halfway between Buffy’s birthday and Valentine’s Day, so as not to tread on either one, because even though he had stories he could tell Buffy about St. Valentine, he got the impression that she would still stubbornly stick to some romantic interpretation, because that was exactly how she was. Stubbornly romantic in the face of evil.
It was fucking adorable.
But a decision had been made, and he was sticking to it, and all that remained were the goodbyes. Not that he was going to say “goodbye” right out; he wasn’t a complete idiot. If he let Buffy in on his plans, she would beat him up and chain him up, and then probably wouldn’t even kiss him after all that foreplay. No, Buffy couldn’t know.
He had picked a Saturday because Joyce would be home during the day but gone in the evening at an opening at the gallery – more wine and cheese – and had through careful suggestion managed to plant the idea in Joyce’s head that she needed a new dress for the occasion, and that Buffy should of course go help choose it. (He had also, in an entirely non-subtle way, planted the suggestion in Buffy’s head that she might give Joyce the slip, pick up something red at Frederick’s of Hollywood, and she had seemed intrigued, but he wasn’t going to hold his breath, as Joyce had been keeping a sharp eye on Buffy’s expenditures since the oysters. Not that he had breath to hold.)
While they were at the mall, he got things set up in the basement. He wanted things to be perfect
One perfect night before it all ended.
He was just laying out some finishing touches when he heard the doorbell ring. After a quick check out the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a demon or, worse, a door-to-door salesman, he opened it to greet the postman.
“Got a package,” the man said, a little nervously. (Spike had gotten a good pissed-off look going on his face, in case of door-to-door salesman, and hadn’t bothered to shake it off.) “But I’m not sure if this is right. Is there a ‘Spike’ living here now?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Spike said in surprise.
The postman looked at him for a moment longer. “What happened to Joyce?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “I murdered her and buried her in the basement.” When the mailman continued to just stare at him, he sighed. “Oh, for… She’s at the bloody mall, you berk.”
“Oh.” The postman shook himself. “Anyhow, I need a signature.”
Spike scrawled his name on the clipboard, just SPIKE in bold, jagged capitals, and snagged the parcel, discreetly wrapped in brown paper. “This it?”
“Yes. Yes, that’s all.” The postman gave him one last nervous look before hurrying out into the sunshine.
Spike closed the door, frowning at the package. He hadn’t ordered anything off the internet – Joyce had threatened to stop buying mini-marshmallows if she saw any suspicious credit card charges – and he certainly didn’t have any friends who would have sent him a gift, even if anyone knew where he had been staying. (Actually, now that Spike thought about it, until coming to live in the Summers household he hadn’t gotten a fucking gift since he had become a vampire, and that was pretty fucking infuriating.) Maybe Buffy had ordered something for him? He ripped open the brown paper.
A VHS tape with a picture of a sinking ocean liner fell on the floor. He picked it up and frowned at the title:
The sock watched in anticipation from its hiding place beneath the couch as Spike looked at its inspirational present, face blank with what was obviously awe and gratitude. It had had a little trouble navigating the new online bookstore, but it had finally managed to find the movie it wanted. There had been several versions, actually, so the sock had just gone for the cheapest one, hoping maybe Joyce wouldn’t notice the charge.
It had a boat on the cover. Good enough.
Spike started to laugh, and the sock wondered if it was a happy laugh or an evil laugh or somewhere in between, and just what happiness-to-evil ratio would be best for the success of its plans, but then Spike shook his head and dropped the videotape in the trashcan, stuffing the brown paper wrapping on top of it.
In the trash!
This was what happened when you tried to be nice to a soulless monster.
The sock grumbled to itself and started to scoot off to take a nap in the laundry basket. It was done for the day. Tomorrow it could try and figure out how to make Buffy happy with the stupid vampire of her choice. Even if he was an ungrateful jerk.
Then Spike sighed, catching the sock’s attention, and fished the videotape out of the trash, taking it downstairs. The sock followed cautiously, and saw Spike stick it in a duffel bag that had been stuffed under the cot. Which was, well, not setting it up in the VCR like the sock had hoped, but now that it had gotten a good look at the basement, it had the idea that Spike was on the same page as far as planning a romantic evening. He was probably just saving it for the appropriate moment.
The sock rubbed its ribbing together gleefully and slithered down to take up a vigil in the laundry basket.
Everything was going according to plan.
It paused, though, halfway down the stairs. Did it really need to watch them? By now it was, frankly, a little tired of all the noise. It supposed the stuff they were doing felt good, since they certainly seemed to enjoy it, but from its perspective it was all just a little… odd. Uncomfortable.
Perhaps it should give them some privacy, here at the end. Then it could take one last run through the washer, for old times’ sake, and head off on a new adventure. That sounded good.
It scooted back up the stairs and found a comfy spot under the couch – that way it could watch the movie, if Spike decided to incorporate it into his evening. Such a timeless romance.
The sock soon fell asleep, dreaming of icebergs.
Buffy waited until the sound of her mother’s SUV was fading down the street before heading downstairs to join Spike. Honestly, one mysterious oyster dinner – nobody had ever admitted to placing the order – and suddenly she couldn’t even be trusted to order her own pizza, she had to make do with frozen. Even though she was a totally responsible adult now. She sighed as she opened the door to the basement.
And froze. The expected harsh glow of fluorescent lights was absent, replaced by a soft, warm glow, like sunlight or… FIRE!
Oh god, was Spike on fire?
Buffy started to run down the stairs, panicking, but about halfway down she realized that that was a ridiculous conclusion to jump to, and besides she could see candles sitting on the dryer now, which made a lot more sense than a burning vampire, given the sexy hints he’d been dropping all through dinner. She couldn’t stop her momentum though, so she stumbled to an awkward halt in the middle of the basement floor.
Spike was staring at her, frozen in the middle of lighting yet another candle on one of the storage shelves, and there was a long moment where they just looked at each other. Finally, Spike grinned, smugly, as if he knew just what she had been thinking. “Hello, pet.”
Buffy laughed as if barreling down the stairs in a wild frenzy was just the sort of thing she did every day. “Hey.” She gestured at the lit candles. “Special occasion?”
Spike shrugged. ”You’re here.” Which would have been a totally romantic thing to say if it hadn’t been accompanied by the exact same shrug he’d been giving her for weeks, any time she asked him anything important.
She folded her arms. “No, really. What’s the occasion?”
Spike looked at her steadily, then laughed, shaking his head. “Made a decision,” he said at last, walking slowly towards her, that lazy, prowling way that made her knees melt. Along with all sorts of other parts of her.
“Uh-huh.” Buffy narrowed her eyes, willing all her parts to stay non-liquidy. “And what did you decide?”
Spike didn’t answer, just kissed her, hard and possessive, sliding his hands around her waist, and that was basically it. Meltdown.
She would ask him what he had meant later.
He was starting off gentle tonight, and Buffy shivered as he slowly pulled her top over her head, because that meant that he was planning on a marathon and wanted to warm her up first. She hadn’t been able to get anything new after all, but she had changed into her red lace bra and matching panties while her mom was changing into her new dress, and Spike hummed his appreciation into her mouth, running his hands lightly along her body, down to the waistband of her leather pants, before reaching down to skin off his own T-shirt. Buffy smiled tenderly and slid her hand down his quivering stomach to stroke his hard length through his jeans.
Spike closed his eyes then, pressing his forehead against hers. “Take them off,” he said roughly.
Buffy’s hand froze on him. “What?”
“You can… You can take them off. If you want to.” His eyes opened then, the expression in them strangely vulnerable. “You can have whatever you want.”
Buffy bit her lip. “Are you sure?” She stroked him again. “I thought there were rules.”
Spike let out a little laugh of disbelief. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I’m sure. Bugger the rules.”
They both watched Buffy’s shaking hands as they slowly undid the buckle of his belt and popped the button of his jeans, but as Buffy slowly eased down the zipper and curled her fingers around his hard cock, his head fell back. “Fuck,” he muttered, hands clenching at his sides.
“Too much?” Buffy whispered.
“Never,” he said fervently, dipping his head down to kiss her again as she stroked him. “But – god! – if you keep that up I’m gonna…”
Buffy grinned then, diving in for a quick nip at his Adam’s apple. “Maybe you should lie down for this part,” she said, voice solicitous. Her hand tightened on him.
Somehow they made it over to the bed, wrestling his jeans and her pants off in the process, until Buffy was on top of Spike, feeling wicked in red lace, while Spike was completely naked. She looked him over, making a show of it, before sliding down so she was kneeling between his legs. He looked up at her like she was his queen as she curled her hands around his cock again, feeling his contours.
“What do you want, Spike?” she said softly, watching his face.
“Everything,” he gasped as she stroked him. “Anything. Whatever you want, love. God, your hands…”
“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “Anything I want?”
“Anything,” he vowed.
She leaned forward and gave the curved head of his cock an experimental lick; he groaned, clutching the sheets into knots. “Do you like that?” she said with a sweet smile.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
“Do you want more?” Buffy insisted, leaning forward so her warm breath washed over him.
“God, yes,” he begged. “Please.”
Buffy was tempted to tease him more, but his eyes were wild and somehow terrified, and she had mercy on him, sinking down to take his cock into her mouth.
It wasn’t what she’d expected – she hadn’t known what to expect, really, but it hadn’t been this, the feel of him between her lips; he tasted coppery, and the skin was so very smooth and soft under her tongue. She tried nibbling down the sides, licking up from the base, swirling her tongue around the swollen tip, and through it all Spike swore and pleaded and sobbed, and she loved it, that she had brought him to the edge of hysteria just with her mouth.
She knew just how he felt.
She slid one of her hands over to his, and he clutched at it, weaving his fingers into hers; she kept the other loosely curved around the base of his cock, stroking gently as she looked up at him. He met her eyes with a look of total adoration. “Tell me what you want,” she said softly, letting her lips just barely brush the tip of his cock as she spoke.
He laughed brokenly. “Am I supposed to be able to talk, kitten?” His voice was slurred, as if he were drunk.
Buffy blew on him, grinning when his cock jerked. “Yes,” she said. “Tell me.”
Spike swore, a stream of curse words that ended with, “Lick me, pet. God, your tongue…” His voice cut off when Buffy gave him a long, firm lick, all the way from base to tip. Then another. On the third lick, she added a little flick of her tongue, just at the end. His hand gripped hers convulsively,
“Now what?” Buffy said, taking just the tip into her mouth for a moment, because she wanted to.
Spike just laughed. Buffy loved the sound of his laughter. She started laughing too, she couldn’t help it, and she took him into her mouth as far as she could go while she was still chuckling. His back arched, and he swore again through his laughter.
“God, Buffy, I’m going to…”
Buffy sucked as hard as she could, and he shouted, and she felt his cock quiver and jolt between her lips, and then she was surprised into choked laughter when he came in her mouth – not surprised that it happened, but surprised because she hadn’t known how it would feel, and now she knew, it felt like power, but also a little weird, unexpected, the taste and the sensation, and her mouth was dripping as she laughed and he took her by the arms and dragged her up and kissed her, sliding his tongue against hers and kissing her lips and her chin and her cheeks, until she was clean, and he rolled her over, so she was up against the wall, kissing down her neck, and then she was under him and he was looking down at her, face triumphant and worshipful.
“My turn,” he growled, and slid down her body, hooking his hands behind her knees and spreading her wide, and she nearly screamed when his tongue touched her swollen clit through the lace of her panties. He licked her hard, then gently, tongue delving deep into her and swirling around her folds, and occasionally slipping lower to tease at – she couldn’t even think it, but it all felt so good, she nearly wept as she came, sharp and brilliant. Spike sat back on his heels long enough to tug her panties down her legs and toss them behind him, then gently turned her sideways on the cot, tucking the pillow behind her so she was half-propped against the wall and her crotch was right at the edge of the thin mattress, then sank to his knees beside the low bed, curved his arms around her thighs and licked hard, all the way from back to front, eyes locked on hers the whole time. She managed to free one hand from clutching the mattress to stroke the hair back from his face, run a gentle hand along his cheekbone, and he laughed against her and somehow captured both of her hands in his, pressing them into the mattress beside her hips as she arched to meet his mouth and his tongue and – oh god! – his teeth, just barely grazing her where she was most sensitive, and she came again, and this time she did scream, she didn’t bother holding it back because she knew Spike loved it as much as she did.
She was quivering and trembling and couldn’t quite work her legs, but Spike slid up again, kissing her tenderly, and tugged her arms and legs around until they were lying together, his elbows on either side of her head as he looked down, and he was sliding his hard bare cock against her, gliding easily through all her wetness.
“Can I fuck you, Buffy?” he asked in a low voice. His eyes were deadly serious.
She looked up at him, feeling just as serious, and nodded. “Now, Spike,” she whispered urgently, and he didn’t wait any longer, just slid a hand between them to adjust his position, and then he was inside her, and it was perfect.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes closed, as he began to rock against her, and she managed to convince her thighs to work well enough to wrap her legs around his waist, and he grinned, pumping harder.
Oh, god, she hadn’t known, she hadn’t known, or she would have demanded he break his rules on the very first day, begged and pleaded until he gave her what she wanted, because she hadn’t known how it would feel, his delicious cock sliding through her, deeper and deeper, until it almost hurt, but the best pain ever, and he was swearing into her lips, half-kissing but not quite, like he couldn’t quite coordinate it all, and he suddenly slipped his hand down between them, pressing his thumb hard on her clit while he slid in and out, delving his tongue deep into her mouth, and another orgasm took her by surprise; she gasped against his tongue, sucking on it reflexively, and he thrust and thrust and thrust as she clenched about him, and just as she was coming down he jerked his head back and she felt him jolting inside her, and she smiled up at him and he smiled down at her as they both eased into sweet lethargy.
They lay there for a few minutes, limbs still tangled; he was still mostly hard inside her, and he pulsed slowly, miniscule thrusts as he kissed her eyelids and her earlobes and her shoulder, and after a while she felt the tension building again, and she rolled him over so he was on his back and she was sitting up, knees tucked in against his ribcage, toes curling slightly under his ass. She rocked against him, watching his face.
She was still wearing her lace bra, and she took his hands in hers and set them on her breasts as she rocked and rocked, his thumbs rubbing the rough lace against her tender nipples. His eyes flared as she reached around behind her to undo the clasp, and he helped her slide the straps over her arms until she could toss it aside, and then he slid his hands up to cup her bare breasts, letting her nipples pop out between his fingers, and he pinched and kneaded, eyes locked on hers as he reared up to give each nipple a flick of his tongue. Buffy bit her lip, whimpering at the way his cock surged inside her with the movement, shifting into a new, succulent angle.
“More,” Buffy said, though she didn’t recognize her own voice, and then he had his arm around her waist, free hand on her breast, tipping her nipple up for him to suck and lick and – god! – nibble, until she was mewling into his hair, clutching his head to her. He chuckled against her – the vibrations ran right through – and switched to the other breast, sucking intensely. He was all the way hard again now, and Buffy felt her subtle rocks turning into needy thrusts, until she finally shoved him back on the cot and threw her head back as she rode and rode, and he slid his thumbs into her center, spreading her folds wide and rubbing against her clit as she moved, both thumbs together, and she arched back and came, screaming except no sound came out but a harsh gasp, and she collapsed on his chest.
He was still rock hard inside her, taking little sharp thrusts that made her shake, and she lifted her head and kissed him as he slid easily inside her. “More,” she said again, and he kissed her hard and sat up, pressing her back until she was laid out over his knees. Which was again different, but delicious, the way he angled inside her.
“How do you want it, love?” he asked in a raspy voice, running a possessive hand all the way from her breast down to her knee, still moving inside her, tiny hard pulses that made her eyes roll back in her head.
She laughed breathily up at him, and tried to think, and finally gasped out, “Number three.”
“A fine choice,” he grinned, and wrapped his arms around her and heaved her up, and for a moment they were separated – she couldn’t help but whimper, just a bit, at the sudden emptiness – and then her face was nestled in his thin pillow and her rear end was in the air and his knees were between hers, wedging them wide open, and then his hands were on her ass, caressing and then spreading, and then his cock was sliding into her again from behind, his hands pulling her hips back hard to meet him.
“Is this good?” he asked roughly, thrusting hard, and she nodded against the pillow. He was deeper like this, deeper than she had imagined he could be, gliding easily in and out of her; she squeezed around him and they both cried out together at the increased friction.
“Harder,” she demanded, and he gasped out a laugh and gave her harder; she tilted her hips up to meet him, sliding one hand down to press against her clit, and he slid his thumbs into the crack of her ass at the same time, and she came again, nearly ripping the pillow apart in her other hand.
Spike slowed for just a bit, placing a tender kiss just between her shoulder blades, smoothing her tangled hair over her neck. “Buffy,” he whispered against her spine, and she shivered.
Then his hand was over hers, between her legs, and he was fucking her hard, his finger next to hers on her clit, and there went another orgasm, like an electric shock, and then another, and he was swearing again, naughty words spilling from his mouth like a waterfall – at least the ones she could recognize were naughty, and she assumed the rest of them were naughty and British – and he pressed his hand into her belly and shuddered inside her, collapsing over her back for a moment, before oozing around until she was on top again, slick and sweaty and shivering, and he tipped her mouth to his for a tender kiss, lips clinging to hers sweetly.
When Buffy could breathe again, she said, “Wow.” Which was not especially eloquent, she supposed, but Spike should be happy she remembered words at all.
And he seemed to be, hugging her tightly. “Yeah,” he replied.
Buffy felt vaguely embarrassed, because she was all wet with his spendings and hers, but Spike didn’t seem to mind; actually, he seemed fascinated, sliding his hands through their mess and smearing it all over her, and then he slid down her body and started to lick her, everywhere, and she thought maybe she was supposed to feel more embarrassed at that, but she just smiled contentedly and lay back and enjoyed it. Especially the part where he found her clit, lapped tenderly at it until she came again, a sweet sigh of an orgasm, and finally he eased back up to take her in his arms. They lay there for a long while, letting the candlelight play over them as they indulged in light caresses and spare, clinging kisses.
“Tired, love?” he said eventually.
Buffy tipped her head up, lifting a challenging eyebrow. “What do you think?”
“I think…” Spike slid a hand down, testing. “God. I think you want more.”
“Good answer,” Buffy grinned, pushing him onto his back. “Number twelve?” she asked, cupping his cheek in her hand.
He nuzzled into her palm. “All right,” he said offhandedly, eyes heavy-lidded, hands curling around her thighs. She smiled down at him in victory.
Buffy had really wanted to try Number Twelve.
Spike let himself stay until Buffy was asleep, his arms tight around her, hands stroking her hair and her smooth bare back, but when she was finally out, faintly snoring in that way he thought was adorable but she would probably be embarrassed about if he told her, he cautiously eased out from under her, gently lowering her head to the pillow, and pulled on his clothes in the darkness.
It didn’t take him long to pack, just throw his stuff in his duffel bag – clothes, extra packs of cigarettes, the Sex Pistols CD, a few odds and ends – and he knew he couldn’t stick around, he needed the whole rest of the night. But he knelt beside the cot one last time, stroking Buffy’s hair back from her face, just watching her sleep in the dim shadows of the night for a few last moments. Finally he kissed her on the forehead, set his note on the pillow beside her, and slung on his duster.
Shouldering his duffel bag, he headed up the stairs.
He didn’t look back.
End Chapter 9
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/535479.html