Title: The Ewer of Enheduanna [1/4]
Setting: An AU Season 6
Length: 6,000 this part
Warnings: Extremely dubious-consent, since demons made them do it; enjoyment of said dub-con situation
Summary: A life-saving quest, a road-trip to another dimension, two friends pretending to be master and slave, and a tantric ritual that no one’s really sorry for. But what the hell does a long-dead Mesopotamium priestess have to do with anything?
Notes: I fully intended to have this finished for today, but then sb_fag_ends had their hallowe’en challenge and I was completely derailed – in the best way possible! So alas, this is all I have for you today, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless, and I will aim to have the remainder completed for one of the free for all days. Many thanks to bewilde for a series of last-minute and very piecemeal betas. Happy birthday to seasonal_spuffy, and happy birthday to me too ;)
The Ewer of Enheduanna
by The Moonmoth
Her eyes seemed to flicker with the candle-light in the chamber, now green, now gold, now black, and half a hundred expressions with it, all hinted at but never fully shown.
“Do you trust me?” he asked her, not for the first time, but she turned away without a word to look at the nearest of their robed voyeurs, face burning a furious red. Slowly, taking care to let her know it was coming, he reached out to touch her cheek, try to turn her back to face him. “Look at me.” He swallowed. “Please.” For a moment, he didn’t think she would, and god knew he couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to. Well, under normal circumstances. But her eyes kept flickering and eventually, she did.
“Hey,” he said when her eyes met his, at a loss. The whole situation was so far beyond the wacked-out Buffy had proclaimed it as yesterday, that he thought even her colorful vocabulary would struggle to provide an apt description. Wasn’t it just the way of the fucking world, how you could want something for so long, dream about it, and then… something like this happened to turn it around on you and fuck it all to hell (and no, something told him, she wouldn’t appreciate the pun just then).
“Spike,” she said, tense and low. “Come on. This isn’t a date. Can we just-” her voice faltered and he felt it in the pit of his stomach, a clenching, fearful sensation. “Can we just get on with it?”
And it wasn’t that he didn’t want to, or even that he couldn’t, but something about those flickering eyes, huge and luminous in this dim and cavernous chamber, gave him so much pause as to make his willingness moot.
“Look, Slayer,” he tried, stepping close so that his voice wouldn’t carry. “Buffy. I just… I’m sorry, okay?”
She snorted. “Oh please, like this isn’t a vampire’s wet dream,” she said, flexing her arms so that her chains were set to clanking. “We could practically be back in your crypt. The only thing missing from this picture is Dru.”
She was trying for humor, or a wry wit at least, and yeah, fair point, he had chained her up like this once last year, but he’d learned quite a bit about co-existing with a slayer since then, and non-consensual bondage, death threats and insane ex-lovers were not a few of her favorite things.
“I love you,” he said, frustrated. “Believe it or not, it matters to me whether-” He bit the words off, chewing on their futility. “Well, pet,” he said after a moment, aiming for his own brand of off-color laughs. “If you’ve been harboring any fantasies about me, now’s the time to dust ’em off.” Her eyes flashed hotly, probably with disgust, he thought. Her disdain for him had so many faces – he’d forgotten, with it having been absent these last few months, and all the more painful for it now.
She looked ready to say more but just then a gong sounded, a deep, mournful, carrying sound that seemed to rise up out of the dark and wend around them like the wind. Her eyes flickered again and this time he saw an almost desperate courage as her chest rose and fell with a steadying breath. He fought himself for a moment, to keep his eyes on hers and not her heaving breasts. The look she gave him was the same look she’d had when she’d suggested this whole mad venture, though it softened significantly when she caught sight of his expression.
“Listen, Spike. I do trust you. You know I do,” she told him, and he could see it in her eyes as she gazed up at him, a deep, strange feeling humming through him, tempered only by the ring of robed demons set around them like the numbers on a clock. “Just… do what you have to do,” she said, and it sounded decisive, so he closed the last remaining space between them and kissed her.
Two days ago…
Buffy woke with a gasp to a vampire plastered against her back. It wasn’t an ideal situation for any slayer to wake up to, but given that it was Spike, it wouldn’t have been too bad if it weren’t for the dream she’d just been having. The very naked, very sweaty, very sensuous dream, starring the same vampire who currently had his face smooshed into the back of her neck and one hand tucked possessively around her middle; the dream she’d awoken from just before the good bit, which had left her burning and unsatisfied with no privacy in which to deal with it.
As if to underline the point, a soft, inhuman roar sounded at the other end of the dormitory, followed by something that sounded like a cat hissing, and in the dark Buffy saw a brief flurry of movement several beds down before things settled again. Spike shifted behind her, arm tightening a little, and the small movement was enough to bring her focus down razor sharp to the imprint of his hand on her belly, the way his pinky finger had dipped just beneath her bellybutton into dangerous territory.
God, she hated this dimension, and it wasn’t even just for the weird, room-sharing demon inns, or the fact that she had to travel as Spike’s slave to avoid the constant attacks for no reason other than walking while human, or even the vicious and scarily large flying insects that came out at sunset every day. It was that, separated from her normal life with no one but Spike for company, it was somehow getting increasingly hard to remember that she shouldn’t want more from him than the friendship she’d finally ceded in the wake of Glory’s defeat. He’d really come through for her that night, and she appreciated it more than she would ever be able to put into words, but it wasn’t… she wasn’t…
He was in love with her; that was the crux of the matter. Since that moment on her stairs, when he’d told her she made him feel like a man, and shortly after, when he’d plunged from Glory’s tower with Doc’s knife in his kidney, effectively depriving the slimy little bastard of his sister-carving weapon – since then she’d really believed that he did love her, however that was possible. It’d made something in her loosen, lighten. And yeah, sometimes he was fun to flirt with on patrol, or trade barbs with depending on her mood, but she always tried to remember that she couldn’t return his feelings, couldn’t ever be more than friends, and he seemed to accept that too, because his weird attempts at courting or whatever were long in the past and they were… they were good. They were allies and friends. And if her libido sometimes thought there should be a ‘with benefits’ tacked on the end there, well, he’d saved her sister and maybe the world, and didn’t deserve to be toyed with like that.
But back home, she hadn’t had to contend with bed sharing, which was apparently the only way a human slave could stay with her demon master in this place. Buffy had seen the slave quarters – she’d rather share with an unconsciously cuddly vamp than face that again. It just meant waking up every morning since they’d set out on this quest tangled up in an intimate position with the object of her occasional, under-the-sheets-lusty-wrong thoughts. And her dream just now? Really, really not helping.
At her back Spike stirred again, mumbling something unintelligible, the movement of his lips against her neck making her skin prickle. His hips shifted restlessly against her ass and she felt his erection with an almost painful stab of lust, fantasizing for a moment about pushing his broad hand just a couple of inches lower to cup her between her legs and ease that goddamn ache, but her ratcheting heartrate seemed to wake him, as it always did, and as he always did, Spike froze before carefully disentangling himself and rolling onto his back.
He sighed, sounding pained, and Buffy tried to tamp down on the feeling of loss now that he was no longer holding her.
“You awake?” he whispered a minute or so later, even though he must know that she was. The maintaining of polite fictions – one to add to the growing list of Surprising Spike-Related Phenomena.
She rolled over nonchalantly to face him and whispered back, “Yeah. What time is it?”
“About an hour before dawn.”
“We should probably get going, then,” she said lightly, “cause if I’m not first at the wash trough I’m not washing, not after the tentacle thing at yesterday’s place, and a smelly slayer is a grumpy slayer.”
Even though it was dark, somehow she could tell Spike was grinning. “Had no idea before this little road trip that you were such a princess, love,” he said, cracking a huge yawn. “Thought the mighty Buffy Summers might be able to manage roughing it for a couple of days.”
She poked him in the rib, only not so hard as to make him yelp, because she really did want to get there before the others woke up. “Shut up. You didn’t see it.”
“Well, no,” he conceded, “but it wouldn’t be the first time a long, pink appendage has popped out in the-”
“Oh my god Spike!” she hissed, aggrieved, only it came out as more of a squeak given where her mind had been only moments before, and Spike clapped his hand over her mouth, half pressing her down into the mattress with his body while he shook with silent laughter.
“Quiet,” he whispered needlessly. It was very dark in the dormitory, but his face was close enough to hers that she could make out his expression, and it was that rare one of genuine amusement that was somehow infectious, and how weird was it to be in bed with Spike – willingly – more than a little turned on and smiling at each other in the dark?
“You are such an asshole,” she whispered, pushing his hand away.
“Yeah,” he said, in that fond tone that did something hot and liquidy to her knees and the pit of her stomach, “but I’m the asshole who’s going to get you into the masters’ bathroom.”
“Are there showers?”
“Sweetheart, there’s soap.”
“Oh god,” she groaned softly, before realizing just how pornographic she sounded. Clearing her throat she warned him, “No peeking.”
He grinned again, a very different kind of grin, producing a very different kind of heat in a very different place. Almost thoughtfully, he fingered the slim leather collar at her neck.
There was a moment, stretched and teetering, when her whole body tensed and he expected her to recoil from him, as she always had done whenever he’d been this close. She’d brushed off the bed-sharing they’d been forced into all week with surprising ease, and they’d somehow managed not to talk about the whole embarrassing sleep-cuddling thing, but he knew from long association that he couldn’t invade her personal space without an instinctive reaction from her. So reining in the urgency their situation had wrought in him, he cupped her jaw in his hands and kissed her gently, once, twice, and hovered against her lips, pleading with her silently to let him have this, the illusion of her willingness.
“Spike,” she murmured, mouth moving against his so sensuously it made him shudder. “What-?”
“Three times, remember?” he replied roughly. “This whole thing’ll go easier if you can…” He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against hers, willing himself to stop trembling. They had to do this, he knew they did, and he’d probably even enjoy it, but some better part of him that Buffy had long ago stirred to life wouldn’t let him shake the thought that all the joy and light and happiness she’d given him since she’d finally granted him access to her life would disappear. No matter what she said, that part of him knew that after this, the trust she’d placed in him would be gone, and he just needed something to distract himself from how painful it all was. “Just imagine I’m Christian bloody Slater, all right?”
Her chains clinked and he felt, rather than saw, her smile – ever so faintly. “I see what you’re doing,” she said softly. “And thank you. But you know what’d help more than anything?” He drew back just slightly to look at her face. Her expression was droll. “Not being naked in a room full of religious demon nutjobs.”
Spike swallowed. He’d made himself keep eyes his above her shoulders, he wasn’t even sure why, but he was naked beneath the long robe they’d dressed him in and the thought of opening it up to cocoon her inside with him, all that skin against his own, was…
“Yeah,” he croaked, “I can do that.”
And there was no way of doing it without his erection bobbing against her stomach or hip, and so he bit his lip and resisted the urge to rub the thing all over her. She didn’t flinch at the intimate touch, however, just watched his eyes as he tucked the edges of the robe around her as best he could, and waited until he was done before she tipped her chin back and said, “Now kiss me again.”
Four days ago…
Willow’s spell, it seemed, had dropped them in the middle of a forest. The yell told her there was something about this fact that needed her attention, but she was lying on her back on a bed of soft pine needles watching with bleary eyes as the sunlight filtered down through the trees, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
Wait, sunlight. Spike.
“Spike!” she yelled, scrambling to her feet, but once her head stopped swimming she saw there was a distinct lack of combusting vampire. Instead, he was standing in a shaft of light like the freaking second coming, poking himself curiously.
“I’m not burning up,” he said, almost absently.
“Yeah,” Buffy said, trying to hide the breathlessness of her receding panic. “I can see that.”
He held out his hands, inspecting them back and front. Weird how he looked in daylight, even paler than usual, but softer somehow too – younger.
“Must be different rules in this dimension.” He closed his eyes for a moment, face turned up, seemingly enjoying the feel of the sunlight on his face. Maybe not younger, but… boyish, delighted. Strange vamp.
“Wonder if you’ll freckle,” she said dryly, raising her eyebrow at him when he turned to give her a narrow look.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Slayer,” he groused. “Never did get much time to enjoy my ring, though, did I?”
“Oh and you were going to, what – spend all your time at the beach frolicking innocently in the waves?”
“Well,” he said, switching instantly from boyish to very, very not-boyish, “probably not innocently.”
She thwapped him on the arm before stomping off down what she hoped was a trail amid the foliage.
“Come on, you remember what Willow said, we need to find a town or something and get directions.”
That, of course, was when the first attack happened. Fifteen minutes later, panting and covered in demon gore, Buffy staggered away from the pile of bodies surrounding her over to the other pile of bodies surrounding Spike, wiping her sword on some convenient moss along the way.
“Guess we can classify the locals as unfriendly,” she said.
Spike’s t-shirt was ripped at the neck and he was fingering a tear in his duster’s lapel mournfully. “That, Slayer, you can say again.”
The second and third attacks came on the dirt road they’d finally stumbled across, which made sense in a way because – clear targets – but in a completely different way made absolutely zero sense at all because what was the point of a road if everyone just got attacked on it?
“Why,” Buffy grunted between punches to the last-demon-standing’s face, “Do. You. Guys. Keep. Attacking. Us?”
“You want him to actually answer that, you might have to stop pummeling him,” Spike said easily from behind her, the soft, familiar sounds and the slight muffling of his voice indicating he was lighting up while he watched her, probably lounging against a tree looking more attractive than he had any right to, post-punch up.
Buffy glared at her captive, fisting his collar. “I don’t know, are these even the English-speaking variety?”
“Huh, good point,” Spike said as he came to stand at her shoulder. “Harkrak’lar?” he said looking at the demon. “No? Grrzzztnump? How about, uh, jallon thallan.”
“Huh?” Buffy said, looking back at him, just as the demon grunted and said, “Thallan! Thallan!”
Surprising Spike-Related Phenomenon number one: he spoke a whole bunch of demon languages.
“He says,” Spike told her after a lengthy and frustratingly incomprehensible conversation, “that humans aren’t allowed to just run around willy nilly, and any found out in the wild are fair game to be captured and taken to market.”
“Market?” Buffy asked, confused. “They buy them things? That doesn’t sound… so…” She caught sight of Spike’s expression. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.
“They take them to market – to sell,” he said. “Humans in this dimension are slaves, by law.”
“What?” Buffy turned back to the demon to glower at him, who shrank back and let out a pitiful meep.
“Easy, Slayer,” Spike said, openly amused now. “Our friend here has agreed to escort us to the nearest town if you promise to stop hitting him.”
“But – he – what –” she spluttered, so filled with outrage she couldn’t settle on a target.
“Don’t worry,” Spike told her soberly, a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Since I’m a demon, I’m allowed to own slaves. You can be my property, Slayer.”
This time, she kissed him back, and for a moment everything fell away, no demons, no rituals, no life or death. Just Buffy, naked, kissing him with slow, exploratory kisses. Unable to resist he buried his hands in her hair and held her to him, kissing her deeply. It brought their bodies together more tightly, her breasts rubbing against his chest, and he couldn’t help the deep groan that escaped him at the sensation. It felt like a bloody dream. Except, of course, that her hands were manacled above her head to an enormous stone pillar in the middle of a cavernous ritual chamber, and so not only would she not be touching him back, but she wouldn’t be—
No, no thinking about that now, he told himself. The situation was as it was, and they were going to do this. No point getting bogged down in regret that she was only permitting this to save Giles’s life – there’d be plenty of time for that later.
She shifted against him, skin sliding against his just the minutest amount, but he felt every inch that they were touching, and shuddered. Buffy tasted divine, a more concentrated version of her scent, and the feel of her tongue against his when she opened for him made him burn all the hotter. She would turn him to ashes before this was done, he was sure of it – just the thought that her pussy would feel as hot as her mouth once he was inside her was nearly enough to see to that.
“Buffy,” he groaned, trailing kisses down her cheek to her jaw. “God, I want you.” He couldn’t help himself. Already he was rutting against her, small, shallow thrusts.
The shock wasn’t that she replied, but that she said, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?” he murmured, reaching her neck. He heard her gasp as he placed tender kisses down her fluttering artery.
“Tell me… how this would go, with us, if… if we were home.”
He had to screw his eyes shut for a moment, to rein himself in. She wanted dirty talk? Was that really what she’d just asked for? He’d tried to get out of her, last night, what things would get her off quickest, what she liked, what he could do for her. In customary fashion, Buffy had gone wide-eyed and embarrassed, before running off to the restricted part of the temple where he couldn’t follow. He was a good lover, he knew that, knew he could figure it out as they went if he had to, knew he could do that especially well with her, as used as he was to listening to her body, but that it had felt like a punch in the nose was putting it mildly. Now she was telling him, and he found himself disproportionately touched by her wording – not, if I were willing, but, if we were home. As though the only important thing here was the location. He went with it.
“Got a lot of different scenarios,” he said into her skin. “Had a lot of time to think about it, you know? Hard and fast amid the grave markers, when our blood’s up after a good fight. Under that tree outside your house. Got a nice little fantasy where a sparring session turns into something more… passionate. You and me, we could bring down the Magic Box if the mood took us.” He licked back up her neck to nibble on her earlobe, murmuring right into her ear, “But my favorite? We’re in my crypt, candles flickering. Maybe you got knocked around a bit more than usual on patrol, and I’ve brought you back to patch you up. You’re sitting on the sarcophagus upstairs, while you let me tend to you, and then you kiss me.” She turned her face into his, seeking the kiss, and he took a long, wonderful moment to give it to her. When they broke apart her eyes were closed, head thrown back, and he couldn’t help but reach down and gently cup one perfect breast, weighing it in his hand with a growing sense of wonder. When he flicked her nipple with his thumb, it hardened instantly into a tight little bud, and Buffy gasped again, chest rising and falling as she started to breathe more heavily.
“You pull my t-shirt off,” Spike continued, skipping a whole section she didn’t need to hear just then, in which she confessed her feelings and admitted how stupid she’d been all this time trying to deny them. “And I return the favor. You’re not wearing a bra so I get to go straight for these.” He smiled a little to himself as he squeezed both her breasts now, rocking against her in a steady rhythm. His own arousal was so heightened it was almost painful, but the sensation of her growing slick against his shaft as he slid it against her slit had still got to be one of the most erotic things he’d ever felt. “You wrap your legs around my waist and I lift you down, carry you to the nearest wall, and prop you there, get some friction where we both need it.” He twitched his hips against her a little harder. “You make me hard enough to feel like I could pop my fly, and just when I think I can’t take it any more you reach between us and open my jeans, pull me out in your hot little hand.” God, just the thought of what he was missing out on, with her hands out of commission… Trying to make up for it, he let his own hands slide around to her back and down to the dip of her sacrum, where he hesitated. Stupid, really, given what they would do before this ritual was over. Pushing those strange, uncertain thoughts away, Spike let his hands go lower, until he was cupping her arse. “I put you down just long enough to tear the rest of your clothes off, and you do mine.” Kneading her cheeks, lost in the feel of her smooth skin and firm flesh, he started to move her hips rhythmically against his. Her expression flickered, almost a frown with her eyes still closed. “You rip my jeans as you pull them down, you’re like an animal, so full of need, and then you practically jump on me, take me to the floor, pin me there.” He sucked on her neck and felt rather than heard the vibration in her throat that might have been a soft, soft, moan. “When I push my thigh between your legs, against your needy little clit, you cry out and grind yourself against me.”
He’d been fondling her body all this time, whispering roughly into her ear, thrusting against her mound, and while it seemed like the fantasy was getting to her, he still didn’t expect it when she parted her legs, just enough to be an invitation. Groaning helplessly, he slid his leg between hers and felt a shudder rip through his body as slowly, a little tentatively, she started to rock against him of her own accord.
Four days ago…
The demons of this dimension weren’t especially big or scary, averaging somewhere around Spike’s height with floppy ears that reminded her of Clem, though their skin was mustard yellow and more scaly than… whatever it was Clem’s skin did. They wore clothes, too, which was always a plus, even if there was a distinct medieval peasant vibe going on. Their guy, who looked kinda like a gremlin and who Buffy had consequently christened Stripe, seemed talkative enough once they’d come to their agreement, although who knew what ground a friendly conversation between demons might cover? But given that she couldn’t understand a word they were saying, she found herself watching Spike’s body language minutely, and realized that she could actually tell the difference between Peaceably Making Smalltalk Spike and Just Playing Along Spike, and it did seem to be the former. What it all boiled down to was, take their weapons away and they were a pretty civilized species – as far as these things went, with demons.
Stripe disappeared pretty quickly once they came up to the so-called town, which to Buffy looked more like a scattering of thatched dwellings in a big pit of mud, but at least he’d already given them directions. Or so she’d thought. When they ended up in some kind of clothes shop, she started to have her doubts.
“Seriously, Spike?” she asked, watching him finger some kind of shirt in a shade of blue that admittedly would look very good on him. “Clothes? While we’re questing? You’re worse than Cordelia.”
“Slayer,” he said witheringly, “given the sweet little socialite you were when we first met, I’d have thought you’d understand the importance of blending in with the local fashions.”
Buffy gave him a look. He looked right back. She crossed her arms. He raised an eyebrow.
“We don’t want to stand out,” he finally said, slowly, as though speaking to a toddler. Unfortunately, it made sense.
“I was not a socialite,” Buffy muttered, before turning to look at the smaller, presumably female, collection of clothes on offer. It didn’t look promising.
It looked even less promising half an hour later when, having discovered that the slave clothes were in a separate little room in the back, windowless and smoky from some extremely rustic looking candles, she came out of the store in one of her new outfits, the second stuffed into her rucksack with the rest of her supplies and weapons, feeling like she was wearing a sack. The fabric was rough and smelled of smoke and vaguely of hay, a nondescript light brown skirt that fell almost to her ankles (good in one sense at least, because she hadn’t brought a razor and no one wanted to see stubbly Slayer legs) and a horribly shapeless blouse that she’d tucked in to the skirt, to at least pay lip service to the fact she had a waist. Thankfully she’d brought a couple of camisoles with her, and that kept the worst of the itchy fabric away from her skin, but it didn’t improve the fact that she felt like she’d just stepped out of American Gothic. All she needed was a pitchfork.
Things only continued to get worse once she’d found Spike again, leaning against the front of the shop with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He’d bought the blue top, made from some much softer-looking material than her clothes, and in a strange, wrap-around style that should’ve looked way feminine but somehow had the opposite effect. Possibly because it exposed his chest in a deep V and yeah, just as she knew but always tried not to remember, Spike had a fantastic chest.
“Great,” she sighed as he came over.
“Something wrong?” he asked, giving her that shit-eating, fake-innocent look she loved to wipe off his face.
“Oh, no,” she said snippily, “nothing wrong, just having to stand here looking like Amish-Buffy next to…” she waved her hand up and down the figure he was cutting, “that.”
He smirked, but thankfully didn’t comment on what she realized a moment later she’d let slip – that he looked undeniably attractive.
“Poor Slayer. Them’s the breaks of being a slave in this dimension. Don’t worry, though, your master will treat you well. Oh,” he said, biting his lip at her furious expression, “if looks could stake.” And damn him for making that attractive too. “Well, sweetheart, if you can get over your burning fashion envy, I got something for you.”
“What?” she asked suspiciously, because their friendship was not the type of friendship that involved the giving of gifts, and besides that he looked far too smug.
“As my slave, you have to be marked as such, or we’ll just continue to be attacked,” he said, putting on earnestness now.
Buffy crossed her arms. The scratchy fabric of her blouse chafed at the soft skin on the inside of her forearms, only irritating her further. “You’re not tattooing me,” she told him flatly. “Or painting me with any magic sigils. Or putting me in a collar—” His expression gave him away. Her arms fell back to her sides in disbelief. “You’re putting me in a collar?” she whined.
“I got you a nice one,” he promised, pulling something from his pants pocket, but to Buffy’s satisfaction, looking a little less pleased with himself now. “Spent ages choosing it.” And when he held it out to her, she could see that it was actually very pretty – a beautiful green stone that changed to gold and back to green as it turned, fastened to a simple strip of leather thong like a choker. It was the kind of thing she might’ve chosen for herself, back home, but here it would mean something a bit different.
“Here,” Spike said, taking it out of her fingers, and stepped behind her to place it around her throat, tying it in a loose knot at the back of her neck. She realized she had swept her hair up for him automatically, and that she was suddenly hyperaware of his every movement. His breath on the back of her neck sent her skin into goosebumps.
When he was done, she reached up to touch the stone where it sat at the base of her throat, and tried to work out why she didn’t hate it.
“How are you paying for all this anyway?” she asked, to change the subject.
“Picked our friend’s pocket before he legged it,” Spike said unconcernedly.
“You stole from Stripe?” she spluttered, appalled. He’d shown them the way! He’d…
“You were going to tear his head off with your bare hands,” Spike pointed out, and that shut her up, because once again he was right.
He felt incandescent. He felt like he was burning up. Buffy was riding his thigh while he drowned in her kisses, a series of soft, helpless little sounds escaping her throat as she got wetter and wetter against his leg.
“God, I love you,” he whispered, as she tore herself away to breathe, and at his words her eyes shot open as though she’d just realized where she was, and with whom. He froze as he watched her, and found himself getting angry though he tried to hold it back. Not like any of this was her fault; not like his anger would serve a single fucking purpose right now. Then he realized she was still rubbing herself on him, watching him right back with heavy-lidded eyes, lips kiss-pink and eyes a little hazy, and his anger was forgotten, or at least channeled into something else. He began to lean back in to capture her mouth but she bit her lip and that stopped him.
“What?” he asked softly. “Something you want? Just need to ask, petal.”
“I’m… I’m good to go,” she said huskily, not quite meeting his eyes. “You can use your fingers now.”
The first part of the ritual – making her come with his hands. He might have been trembling, he couldn’t tell. His whole focus narrowed down to her flushed mouth, and when they kissed again he could’ve sworn she leaned up into it. He let his left hand run with slow purpose down over her breast and her stomach until he reached her mound, the neatly trimmed hair scratching lightly at his fingertips, and her hips jerked at the feel of his hand there. Carefully, gently, he parted her lips and ran two fingers over her, all her sweet little bumps and mounds, until he reached her pussy. She was really wet, much wetter than he’d realized, and as he teased around her entrance, gathering up her honey, he couldn’t stop himself from murmuring a heartfelt, “Fuck,” against her mouth, balls starting to tighten as his own inevitable wave threatened to crest.
Fingers slicked, he slid them back up to her clit, plump and swollen and practically begging for attention, and started a slow, circular massage. “How’s this?” he asked against her cheek, too afraid to look at her face, but the sound that rose up from her throat came straight from his fantasies.
“Good,” she panted, hot breath gusting against his ear. “The… the speed is good, just… harder. Oh god.”
She was trembling now, muscles tensing, chains clanking as she strained against them. Her skin had broken out in a light sheen of sweat that seemed to make her glow in the torch light. Spike’s eyes fell from her mouth to the hollow of her throat, where his mark of ownership had rested until this morning, and he bent to kiss her there, a wet, open-mouthed kiss with the clear intention of marking her all over again. She bucked against him, a convulsive movement, and he could feel everything tensing and coiling within her. The feel of her hot little button quivering beneath his fingers, the taste of her skin, the wordless sounds she was making, everything in her was telling him she was desperate to come. Working more wet kisses up the column of her throat he went back to her ear, nuzzling aside the sweaty tangle of hair, and told her, “Let go. Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes met his for the most fleeting of moments before they fell shut and she arched against him. He kissed her again – he couldn’t not – and swallowed her cries as finally, everything unwound and she crashed into orgasm, and took him with her, and they twitched and trembled against each other, and breathed each other’s breath. Even the long, mournful sounding of the gong seemed distant, just then. All there was, was her.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/520583.html