Fic: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed [8/11]

Title: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed
Author: bewildered
Era: BTVS between s3 & s4
Rating: NC-17
Summary: When Buffy encounters Spike at her college orientation, the last thing she expects is to be hurtled with him into a demon dimension. Now they must battle together against hordes of unnatural creatures, talking beavers, and… is that a lion?

AU set between seasons 3 and 4. Don’t let the hints of plot fool you, this is mostly just an excuse for some smut. Well, smut and mayhem; it is Spuffy.

With deepest, most heartfelt apologies to C.S. Lewis for the mutilation of his characters and bits of his dialogue.

Warnings: NC-17 for violence and sex.  Lots and lots of beloved childhood character death. Sorry!

Thanks to the_moonmoth, who inspired this fic by sending me fic prompts and then egging me on as I got sillier and sillier, and then beta-reading thoroughly and awesomely. I am the luckiest ever.

Notes 5/28: Two more chapters today. Not quite done yet! But this is where it gets smutty. It will stay smutty. Sorry! (notsorry)

Click for a chapter index!

Chapter 8: Smuttery and Sudden Vengeance

Spike woke abruptly in the dawn, confused, because he had a warm snuggly body curled up by his side, and at first he thought the body should be cool, because he had only ever slept alongside Drusilla, but then he remembered Drusilla was long gone, the faithless bitch, and then he realized he could move, that his arms were wrapped around Buffy with hardly any pain at all, and he concluded with a rising sense of panic that he must have drained her in his sleep, because how else would he be feeling so much better? But if he had drained the Slayer, shouldn’t her body be cool by now, instead of warm and soft? And shouldn’t he have the taste of her rich blood on his tongue? And then he went right back to cursing himself, because even in his sleep he couldn’t do her in, and what the fuck was up with the panic anyhow? Bugger that.

But he did feel better, the pain less sharp and his muscles slightly stronger, and it was mystifying, until he realized his ever-present erection was far less painful than it had been – it was of course still there, because he had a warm slayer pressed up against his side, and his cock had certainly taken notice, but it was a pleasant want-to-fuck-erection, not a no-relief-in-sight-blue-balls-special – and he began to suspect that the blood his body needed to heal had been otherwise occupied keeping him rock-hard. Now that he’d had a bit of relief – and hadn’t that been a glorious surprise? He still felt a bit dizzy, remembering Buffy’s warm hand, the shy passion on her face – his bloody blood was finally content to do its fucking job. Fucking illogical vamp circulation. Beating hearts were so much simpler.

Lying in the dimness, Spike also remembered that bloody “guru” he’d met in the sixties – not that he had been a real wise man, just an ex-beatnik with more beard than sense – and his tantric theories. Unfulfilled lust, the weedy twat had claimed, was responsible for all the ills of the human condition; the road to perfect health and vigor was indulging one’s normal, healthy sexual desires as often as possible. Of course, he had then finagled this promising theory into the conclusion that all the nubile hippie girls in his little cult should logically fuck him, the guru, to ensure his long life, which was a diabolical plan that Spike had rather admired before he snapped the bastard’s neck, but perhaps instead of just being a devious sexual predator, he’d actually been on to something. Maybe coming in the slayer’s hot little hand had infused Spike with healing tantric energies – and if so, maybe they should do it again. And more. Find out just which sexual acts were the most healing, as a matter of scientific inquiry.

Spike was willing to do his part for science.

He was pleasantly drifting on a sea of hypotheses and planned experiments when Buffy stirred next to him, eyelids fluttering, and Spike was instantly alert, because he suspected she was the type for morning-after regrets and recriminations, and there was rather a lot of sharp wood lying about, this being a beaver’s dam.

He closed his eyes and tried to exude… innocence? Wounded-ness? Something-ness that might lead to not-staked-ness.

There was a sigh against his neck – delicious and terrifying – and an absent stroke along his chest, and then the bed jolted harshly as Buffy’s warmth heaved away from his side, her heartrate and breath fast and rough.

“No,” she moaned faintly. “This is… oh, no. No no no.”

Despite her words, though, Spike was cautiously optimistic, because, one, she hadn’t leapt from the bed to get any of the ubiquitous sharp wood; two, she also hadn’t punched him in the nose; and three, her warm hand was still on his chest.

And her fingers were starting to trace freckles again.

What he wanted to do was drag her down for a solid snog, get her hands in more interesting places, but he could tell she was… skittish. A flight risk. So instead he stretched, like he was still asleep, arching his back and his stomach just enough that – ah, yes. There was a rush of cool air as the sheet slipped just low enough to slide right off his cock.

Buffy’s muttered litany of denial stopped abruptly.

Spike growled sleepily in his throat, casually running a hand down his body to scratch at his hip, then curve in to subtly cup his cock, just in case she hadn’t noticed it yet.

Well, no, actually not subtly at all. Subtlety was not Spike’s strong point, especially when he was randy and quivering with fear and excitement. Subtlety could go bugger itself. He gave himself a nice long stroke.

“Are you awake, Spike?” Buffy said softly, and he wondered for a moment whether she wanted him to be asleep so she could secretly molest him, or if she wanted him to be awake so she could openly caress him, but in the end he just needed to look at her, because this keeping-his-eyes-shut was bloody ridiculous, and the sun was probably in her hair. He gave another good stretch and growl, and let his eyes open halfway.

Oh god, the morning sun was in her hair. She looked like a goddess, even with her face all apprehensive and conflicted. “Morning,” he said, voice rough with lust. She just kept staring at him with troubled eyes, and so he put his hands to his bandaged chest, making a show of hissing in pain.

Instantly Buffy’s face shifted to concern. “Oh god, does it hurt worse?” Her mouth crumpled into sadness. “Was it… was it something I did?”

Oh bugger, not guilt. Spike rose up on his elbows, grinning. “If it was, you can bloody well do it again.” God, please please please do it again! He slid one hand onto her thigh; it was steady and confident, and her face lit up.

“You’re feeling better,” she breathed.

Spike shrugged, curving his hand a little higher; she was sitting cross-legged, and from his angle the seams of her jeans were all pointing to what he suspected was the hottest, wettest, most delicious quim of all time. “Much improved,” he purred.

He was surprised when she fell forward and hugged him. “You’re getting better,” she repeated, and somehow the thought of fucking her went all the way to the back of his mind, replaced by something warm and soft and tender.

“Suppose I am,” he said huskily, and then she was kissing him, lips sweet and urgent, and god if it wasn’t the best kiss ever, and now the soft tenderness was joining forces with his desire, washing over him in waves, and he cupped the sweet nape of her neck in his free hand while the one on her thigh traced her inseam up and up until he found her center, tucking his fingers down until he had her cradled in the palm of his hand.

She jerked back then, looking him in the eye, and he thought he should be saying something sexy, something evil, something confident and manly and arrogant, but instead he just licked his dry lips, and whispered, “Please,” and stroked the denim, carefully pressing the seam into her. “Please,” he begged again, and her eyelids fluttered almost all the way closed, and she relaxed against him.

“Yes,” she said, and her voice was like the breaking dawn, a queen voice, a goddess voice, and then she hissed against his lips as he stroked her firmly. The jeans were rough under his fingertips, the seam hard and stiff, and he put the roughness and the hardness to use, rubbing them against her until she was gasping into his throat, but he had to know how soft she was, god, she must feel like heaven, and he thumbed open the button on her jeans and tugged impatiently at the zipper, and she was helping him now, wriggling her hips as he yanked the denim down just enough to make room for his hand, stroking her over her panties, once, twice, and then ducking under the edge of the elastic, tracing her sweet seam down and down, and god oh god she was so hot, so wet, so perfect, and his fingers were shaking now but not from pain as he explored her, ah, yes, there, and she cried out sharply, digging her fingers into his shoulders.

“Gonna make you come,” Spike crooned into her ear, and Buffy nodded against his shoulder, shifting to face him, and he hooked his thumb under her knee, cocking her leg up so she was wide open to him, shoving the jeans further down over her perfect ass, the hand in her hair tugging until she lifted her head for another kiss and he stroked her hard, nibbling on her lips, inhaling her gasps, and… yes, that was it, he could feel her starting to tremble against him, her thighs quivering like butterfly wings, and oh god, she came under his fingers like fucking magic, wet and glorious, and he stroked her wetness into her and kissed her forehead, so softly, letting her ease down, but then she tilted her hips to his fingers again, hungrily, and he laughed into her hair and gave her more, stroking and flicking and she was building again, so fast, so incredibly hot, and he couldn’t get enough, oh god, the sun in her hair and the way she shook and her breathy gasps, and when she came again with a squeak, he buried his forehead against the column of her throat and shifted his wet fingers to himself, thrusting his cock into his deliciously slick palm until he was coming too, they were both wet and spent and somehow laughing, because this was madness, it was wrong, they couldn’t do this, Spike knew it, but god god god he was never going to give this up. Never.

Buffy was unusually silent, pressing soft little kisses against his forehead, and he wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tight as she nuzzled into him, and then suddenly she pushed away, leaning over him, eyes somehow wild, tangled hair glowing in the sun. “Was I… Did I do it right?” Her eyes were vulnerable and apprehensive, and Spike suddenly remembered Angel, gloating. To kill this girl… you have to love her. And he knew in that moment that this, this was her weak point, this sweetness, this desire to give. This was the way to kill her. Angel had been right after all.

Except Angel wasn’t here. It was Spike and Buffy, and sun and flowing water, blood and battle and sex, and he looked up at her and stroked her hair back from her forehead and smiled, feeling like the sun was beaming out from him. “Yeah,” he admitted. “You did it bloody perfect.”

She smiled the sun right back at him.

*

The great lion stalked back and forth before its gathered army of beasts, tail lashing with rage.

The lion was huge, shaggy, and bright, his velvet paws huge and terrible, his eyes overwhelming; the beasts that surrounded him in a semicircle – leopards and centaurs, bears and foxes and eagles, mice and badgers and horses and even a unicorn – all trembled in the face of his outrage and fury.

“It is intolerable,” the great cat snarled. “These brazen intruders, challenging my rule of this green land.”

“Actually,” one of the centaurs pointed out nervously, “They’ve been kind of… keeping to themselves. Just, you know. Hanging out. In the beaver’s dam. Doing, um, things.” A few of the younger centaurs elbowed each other, sniggering at the tales that the tree-spirits had sent across the forests.

“They slew the beavers. And my loyal faun.” The lion’s whiskers were rigid with anger.

The gathered animals glanced uncomfortably at each other. “That is true,” said a cautious bobcat. “But, well. You know that faun had, um, boundary issues.”

“Mr. Beaver owed me twenty gold pieces!” the badger interjected.

“It is of no matter,” the lion growled. “They have come, and they must be vanquished.”

The army of animals shifted nervously. “Yeah, about the vanquishing,” a nervous-looking bear ventured. “They are, well, pretty strong.”

“They killed the White Witch and her dwarves!” a voice from the back of the crowd chimed in.

“Not to mention everyone else we’ve sent against them,” another voice grumbled.

“Even the wolves,” muttered a third.

The lion swept his multitude with a scorching glare. “Enough!” he roared. “We march for Beaversdam this day. Many – nay, all of you may die, but that is a small price to pay to take our country back from these vile usurpers!” He turned and stalked into the woods, his golden mane like the sun.

The unenthusiastic army sighed, following their god-king to certain doom.

*

“You know I have to stake you.”

Buffy was proud of herself for managing to get that sentence out. For one thing, she really was starting to think she didn’t want to stake Spike at all, and was trying to think of loopholes in which letting him live didn’t make her a disgrace to her calling. For another thing, she was having trouble thinking at all, given what Spike was doing with his tongue.

Despite the vast improvement in Spike’s health, he was still weak and in pain, which they had discovered when he had rolled Buffy over onto her back, growling that he’d show her how bloody perfect she was – he had lost consciousness for a moment, collapsing onto her stomach, and had stayed unconscious while Buffy tucked him back into the middle of the bed. When he came to, he was surly and pouty, grumbling about the unfairness of a world in which he couldn’t shag. But Buffy had been firm, back in Nurse Buffy Mode, insisting that he stay lying down for at least another day.

He had pointed out that he was just bursting with energy, and if Buffy wanted him to stay still, she would have the most success if she weighed him down with something. Like, for example, her own body.

She had rolled her eyes, but had crawled onto the bed with him, making a show of reluctance.

Then he had pointed out that it was traditional when huddling together for warmth for the huddling parties to be naked.

“We’re not huddling together for warmth,” Buffy had replied. “It’s spring.”

He had cast her a sinful glance through his eyelashes. “But I’m cold.”

“You’re room temperature,” Buffy had sniffed. “You don’t feel the cold.” But even as she spoke she stood up, popping the button on the jeans she had hastily yanked back up while getting Spike settled. They needed to be washed anyways, she had reasoned, trying not to feel… well, naked as she shimmied out of the jeans and her still-damp panties. She hadn’t been naked with a guy since… and that had been different, dim lighting and blankets and not a great deal of thought. This, stripping deliberately under Spike’s hot gaze in the slanting rays of morning sun, was terrifying and exhilarating and embarrassing all at once, but still felt somehow right.
Spike had simply watched her with lazy eyes as she pulled her shirt off over her head and settled back onto the mattress, his eyes nearly crossing as she crawled back over him.

“Better?” she had whispered with smug bravado.

“Much,” he replied, pulling her in for a kiss.

“You have to rest,” Buffy regretfully insisted a short while later, when his hands got a little extra handsy.

“I find this very restful,” he said, squeezing her bare breast.

“I’m serious. Lie still. I put a lot of work into making you well.” She thumped his shoulder warningly.

His eyes flared. “I’ll lie still,” he’d agreed.

“Good.”

Spike grinned wickedly. “Just means you’ll have to do all the moving, pet.”

Which was how she found herself, just a few minutes later, on her knees gripping the rustic wooden headboard, undulating over Spike’s face as he licked and sucked and nibbled and did god-knew-what-but-god-it-felt-good to her throbbing nether regions. True to his word, he was lying still; his head was flat on the pillow, and he was letting her control everything, his hands clutching her thighs for purchase, and while she had been kind of dubious at first, the first few strokes of his tongue had convinced her that this was a good idea, and a bit after that she revised upwards because this was the best idea, and now she was just lost in sensation, except for that niggling feeling that she really was a terrible person and she had to remember her duty.

Spike didn’t seem especially worried about his imminent dust-hood. “Yeah, baby,” he growled into her, sending vibrations along every one of her nerves. “Stake me hard.”

“I mean it!” Buffy insisted, tilting her hips to urge his tongue just there. “When we go home, I have to kill you.”

He gave her a good long lick, pushing her hips back just far enough that he could meet her eyes. “You have to try,” he said harshly. “I’m not going to go down without a fight.” The look in his eyes, bloodlust and wicked mirth and something else, something pure and soft and incomprehensible, sent a shiver right down into the pit of her stomach; Buffy groaned and pressed down desperately and he laughed and said, “You should’ve realized that by now,” and nipped her somewhere sensitive, light enough to feel oh so good but hard enough to emphasize the double entendre, before setting his lips to her, and another sharp orgasm took her by surprise. Spike laughed again and nipped at her inner thigh with his blunt teeth. “Like that thought, do you?” he purred, and she could feel her face turning red, which was silly, being embarrassed at this point, but wouldn’t most people think it was weird? Good girls didn’t get sent over the edge by the thought of violence.

Oh god, she wasn’t a good girl. She was a bad girl, a bad, bad girl who was letting a bad, bad vampire lick her in bad, bad places, and she didn’t even really feel all that bad about it.

It was a good thing she was already in a hell dimension. Saved the cost of a handbasket.

Spike looked up at her again, eyes unreadable, and he grinned against her. “Don’t want you to hold back,” he said conversationally. “When it comes time for killing, make it a good one.” He tilted his head up and pressed a single chaste kiss right at her center.

Buffy looked down at him, gulping. “I have to,” she repeated.

“Yeah, you do,” Spike agreed, shrugging, then dug his fingers into her flesh, regarding her exposed crotch with a heavy-lidded focus that made her shake. “But not right now. Right now…” He looked back up at her, eyes intense. “Don’t look away. I want to see your eyes when you come.”

She didn’t look away, kept her eyes locked on his over her heaving breasts as his tongue played over her knowingly, and god she was almost there already, just watching his face, and when it hit her, she cried out, low and guttural, and his face was full of wonder and awe, and she reached down to brush his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

“I’m going to kill you,” she said softly.

“Not if I kill you first,” Spike replied, eyes wide and naked.

She smiled down tenderly. “Okay then.”

They looked at each other for a long time along the length of her quivering body, then Spike’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head to the side, sweetly kissing the inside of her thigh. “I could kill you right now,” he growled, gently setting his blunt teeth to her femoral artery.

“You could,” Buffy agreed breathlessly, closing her eyes and arching back, quivering with anticipation.

“Bloody hell, woman,” he swore under his breath and then his mouth and tongue were on her again and she bore down against him, demanding more more more, and he gave her more, gave her just what she needed, hard and tender and rough and sweet, and she came against his wicked lips with a scream and then she was sliding down his body, his hands urging her down until they were face to face, belly to belly, his cock hard against her and she still wanted more.

For a moment she was terrified, remembering, girlish hopes and misty fantasies and one rainy night, betrayal and grief and rejection – but Spike was real and there, trembling beneath her, his eyes seeing only her, and she was aching and vibrating with want, and god, his eyes, and she didn’t think, just reached between them and fumbled and shifted, awkward, and then his hand was there to help, and then oh then oh god he felt good, his rough voice in her ears and his hands on her hips, and she sat back to take him in all the way, opening to him, splaying her fingers out on his bandaged chest, closing her eyes to feel him, deeper and deeper, and it wasn’t what she remembered at all, clandestine and shy and submissive – no, she was incandescent and open, carnal and carnivorous, and Spike was right there with her, his face raw with desire, his hips starting to thrust up into her, little jolts of pleasure, but he was supposed to be resting, she thought suddenly, and she took his hands in hers, entangling his fingers and pressing them back into the mattress beside his head.

“Lie still,” she said in a voice like steel.

Spike glared up at her, lips sulky. “Make me.”

Buffy gave her hips a little swirl and smiled. “Lie still,” she said again, velvet and cream. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers twitched against hers. “You’re a cruel woman, Slayer.” He was grinning again, sharp and bright.

“Am I?” Buffy sat up again, pulsing against him. “And here I thought I was the best nurse ever.” She gave her hips another swirl, harder this time; Spike inhaled sharply, eyes closing, head sinking back into the pillow. “Say it,” she murmured silkily.

“Bloody hell. You’re the best bloody nurse ever. I’ll lie still. Please.” His hands twisted into the sheets, the muscles of his arms taut.
Buffy didn’t answer, just started to move.

Spike didn’t technically lie still, she supposed; it didn’t take long before his hands were on her hips, helping her find just the right angle, because she was a little awkward at first, and once she got her rhythm going he was matching it thrust for thrust, and then once she really got her rhythm going he turned his attention to her breasts, rubbing and caressing, and she let all of that slide, but she absolutely drew the line at letting him sit up to suck on her nipples.

“Tomorrow,” she said sweetly when he growled at being pushed back down, and when he looked like he wanted to protest, she curled down and sucked on one of his nipples, which made him swear and tangle his hands in her hair.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice somewhere between blissed-out and pissed-off. “Bloody tomorrow.”

When Buffy sat up, he glared at her with furious eyes, slid his thumbs right to where their bodies were joined, and pressed down just as he thrust up into her, which sent her right over the edge again, except now, with him filling her, it was shattering, the orgasm ripping through her like she was tissue paper, and she fell forward for a moment, dizzy.

When she could see again, Spike was smirking vengefully. “Had enough, Slayer?”

“Like hell,” Buffy bit out, clenching around him as she reared back up, but she was laughing and so was he, as she rose and fell and he urged her on, and when he convulsed with a muttered curse and came, she rocked against him, watching his face as he peaked and came down, and then crawled up the bed to kiss him, forehead and cheek and wicked lips. He tasted like sin, and laughter, and sex, and her.

He nuzzled into her forehead, curling an arm up to stroke her hair, soothing. “Thought you weren’t going to kill me until we got home,” he said, laughing faintly.

Buffy shrugged nonchalantly, snuggling closer. “Plans change.” She traced the edges of his bandage. “Now rest.”

He did.

Go on to Chapter 9!

 

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/561485.html