OK, I’m a teensy bit early, but it’s past midnight somewhere, right?
What A Drag It Is
By Barb C
Characters/Pairing: Buffy/Spike, Willow
Summary: Buffy decides to spice things up for Spike’s birthday. Things get a little spicier than she bargained for.
Notes: This story takes place in the same universe as “Raising In the Sun,” “Necessary Evils,” and “A Parliament of Monsters.” It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. Written for Seasonal Spuffy’s 2012 Fall Round. Many thanks to betas bruttimabuoni, slaymesoftly, typographer, and kehf, without whose invaluable help this story would be significantly less nifty. As an aside, it should be noted that The Vamp is a real thing, available at fine purveyors of erotic appliances everywhere.
OK, right from the outset, I want to make it clear that I was not to blame for any of it. Me? Bystander, Innocent, Caught Up By Forces Beyond Her Control. Got it? Good. Keep it in mind, there’ll be a test later.
The whole thing was Spike’s fault, really. He was the one with the birthday coming up. The birthday. The big five-O. Or the big one-seven-three, depending how you counted. Either way, big. I don’t want to make like Spike was freaking out about it. Spike got his all-flesh-is-grass-and-the-lawnmower’s-c
Like this morning. I was sitting at the dining room table going through old photos, trying to decide if I wanted to digitalize or dump them. Spike emerged from the basement fresh from his daily workout, all rumpled and sweaty and yum. “There you are,” I said. “I was beginning to think something had eaten you. We need to get going – I have to be at the rink in half an hour.”
“More like something I’d eaten. Wanted to get in a few extra crunches today.” He patted his stomach with a rueful chuckle. “These days it’s more and more work for less and less effect.”
“I’d feel sorrier for you if you hadn’t stolen the last piece of bacon at breakfast.” I held up a photo of the two of us with Dawn, apparently taken at some little local carnival. Apparently, because I couldn’t for the life of me remember us ever doing that, but hey. Living long enough to have senior moments is number one on my bucket list. “Keep or toss?
Spike ambled over to inspect the photo at arm’s length (convincing him that he’s sexy as hell in reading glasses is still a work in progress). “‘S got the Bit in that mid-oughts haircut she hated, yeah? Never toss potential blackmail material.” He flung his towel over one shoulder and bounced upstairs two steps at a time to change, but I noticed the way he’d looked at our tragically accessorized yet younger, svelter selves. There had been both rue and wist. Definite wist.
Don’t get me wrong, Spike is still a major hottie, just in a mature way. The grey’s invading those luscious curls, the laugh lines don’t disappear when he stops laughing, and that cute little hint of a tummy is more of a strongly worded suggestion. Anyone who thinks that middle-aged stockiness isn’t backed up by solid muscle finds out otherwise in a hurry, but when you were mistaken for twenty-something for a hundred and twenty-plus years, being mistaken for forty-something isn’t nearly as much fun. I’m not egotistical enough to believe Spike gave up quasi-eternal youth just for me, but honestly? I was high on the list. So I felt a certain obligation to reassure him that while I love him for his mind, his body was still pretty high on my list too.
So we bundled up Jess in her carrier, impressed on Connie that watching Alex and Vicki was a fantastic way to convince her parents that she was responsible enough to go slaying with us at some indefinite point in the future, and took off. Spike dropped me off at the skating rink and headed off to the crypt (now the main office, warehouse, and distribution center for Bloody Vengeance Inc, our demon-hunting biz) with our youngest darling demon-child in tow. The great thing about owning your own business is that you get to write your own childcare policy. I waved to the guy who drives the Zamboni, but I’d already rescheduled my classes for the day. I had top secret Plans.
Five minutes after Spike’s taillights disappeared, Willow cruised up in her necro-tempered Prius, swathed in the UV-resistant scarf and sunglasses every fashion-forward vampire is wearing these days. She rolled down the window a crack, and peered at me over the top of her shades. “The wind is in the buffalo.”
“And a cryptic rejoinder to you, too.” I hopped in, and we were off to Lancelot’s Castle to pick up a few necessities for Spike’s post-birthday party party.
“I got him a new journal, you know, for his writing,” Willow informed me, once we were safely ensconced in the dressing room. “A really nice one with a leather cover and acid-free paper, but then I thought, well, he gets all huffy and defensive about his poetry, so maybe I should look into something more manly, and besides, a journal, that’s kind of impersonal for your sire, isn’t it? I mean – “
“Willow,” I said severely, “you’re not giving in to stationery envy, are you?”
Willow did a guilt-flinch. “No! Or not much. I couldn’t keep it for myself anyway. I can’t handle the unruled paper. There have to be limits.”
I frowned, twisting and turning in front of my solo reflection in the dressing room mirror. The skimpy red silk number I was trying out seemed a lot skimpier on me than it had on the rack. “It’s not too much, is it? Or too little? Or too much of me?” It’d been only four months since Jessica was born, and I was fitting into a size four, but just barely. Take a deep breath, and there’d be Buffy busting out all over. Not that Spike would object (there are advantages to shacking up with a guy whose erotic tastes were formed during the Victorian era), but baby weight aside, shopping with Willow always brings the self-conscious. I love it when she visits Sunnydale, I really do, but having a best friend who’s perpetually twenty-one when you’re, well, not, can get a little fraught. “The salesgirl probably thinks I’m your mother. Your freakish, exhibitionist mother.”
“Sugar mama.” For an undead creature of the night, Willow is way too cheerful. “I told her I had a thing for older women. Buff, don’t worry about it. You’re hot. Toasty, even. You have the lesbian vampire seal of approval. I would totally hit on you, if it wouldn’t be weird, which it would. Sadly. Spike will love it.”
“I hope so.” I looked at the tag and winced. “Ever notice how the price of lingerie is inversely proportional to the amount of fabric?”
“Worth every penny,” Willow assured me. “What else are you getting him?” She grinned, conspiratorial. “I mean, this isn’t exactly a prezzie he can unwrap at the party.”
I began undoing the laces. Spike likes laces. “Oh, I found an original copy of that Sex Pistols bootleg with the gross title on eBay. After last year I thought I should keep it simple.” Last year I tracked down a junked ’58 DeSoto Fireflyte, for parts to rehabilitate his non-junked-but-should-be ’59 DeSoto Fireflyte. Never again. If only because it was probably the last one in existence. “Also I don’t want to make a big deal of the whole turning fifty thing. Especially since he’s actually a hundred and seventy-three.”
Willow nodded sagely. “There’s potential to triple the mid-life crisis. Er, is he actually crisising?”
“Not unless mild regret for the long-term effects of chronic bacon theft counts as crisis-related,” I admitted as I peeled out of the red silk and wriggled back into my jeans. “This is more of a preemptive strike. It’s like… do you have any idea how long it’s been since we did anything spontaneous? Much less wild and crazy? I just want to do something to prove that there’s still a teeny weeny fragment of Buffy the rogue Slayer and her hot-ass demon lover inside Mr. and Mrs. PTA-and-Sunnydale-Small-Business-Associa
People have this idea that Spike and I are constantly making with the sex. Possibly the five kids have something to do with this impression, but? Completely inaccurate. The fact is, we don’t have nearly enough sex. Oh, sure, when we first got together, we went through that phase every couple goes through where we couldn’t keep our hands (or other parts) off each other. But these days? Please. Between the slaying and the kids and the day jobs (Ok, Spike’s is more of a late-afternoon-shading-into-evening job) we’re lucky to get five straight hours of sleep, much less five straight hours of anything else. In fact, there are some days when we don’t have any sex at all.
“So you’re meticulously planning a spontaneous seduction?” Willow looked dubious.
“If I didn’t, it would get interrupted by even more spontaneous soccer lessons and dentist’s appointments and zombie attacks.” A horrible thought occurred to me. “Wait. If he thinks I’m trying to convince him I think he’s still hot will he think I think he’s got reason to think I think he’s not still hot? Or, oh God, what if he thinks it’s about me thinking he thinks I’m not hot?”
“I think you’re over-thinking,” said Willow. “He’s a guy. Buffy in lingerie good. But hey,” she waved a hand with the expansiveness only possible to people shopping with someone else’s credit card, “there’s a lot of other stuff here if you think it will enhance the wild-n-crazy mood.”
“I always sucked at math,” I muttered, peering at the case of candy-colored dildos and assorted other mood enhancers. “Oooh, is that chocolate-flavored lube?”
Spike and I have never been big on the sex toys. We have the basics – whips, chains, candles – but we’ve always been more the improvisational types, you know? It’s safer. “No, really, Daddy likes it when I do that to him,” isn’t a conversation you want to be having with a six-year-old. But some of these looked like… fun. And as long as I was handing the cashier my retirement fund in exchange for two ounces of ruffles and spandex….
“That’s one of our most popular models,” said the clerk, extra-helpful. She had matte black hair, several acres of tattoos, a nose ring, and looked about twelve. “The Vamp. One hundred percent silicone, completely washable and hypoallergenic. You can refrigerate it for that authentic experience, and best of all, it sparkles in the – “
“Pass,” I broke in. “My husband’s not big on sparkling.” I pointed to an intriguing-looking dingus in the back of the case. “What’s that one?”
The clerk frowned. “What? What’s that doing in there? It shouldn’t be on display.” She fished a small key from a ring attached to her belt and opened the case.
“It’s not for sale?”
“Well…” the clerk drew the word out as if her commission depended on it. “Technically, yeah. It’s just that we don’t usually put the more…. esoteric items out where anyone can see them.” She glanced around the shop to see if anyone else was listening, and dropped her voice to a confiding whisper. “This one has some unique properties, if you know what I mean. Most of our customers wouldn’t know what they were getting into.”
When you’ve been the Slayer as long as I have, the words ‘esoteric item’ give you the hives. And this was the classic spiel that hints at you being one of the rare few they’d trust with such incredible forbidden knowledge, and makes a customer desperate to demonstrate their mad forbidden-knowledge-handling skilz, and I’d heard Anya do it over at the Magic Box approximately a hundred and forty-seven times in the last month alone, but you know what? It’s surprisingly effective. “Oh, come on,” Willow coaxed. “Let us see. You can’t just yell ‘Magic dildo!’ in a crowded sex shop and leave us hanging.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe we should look at something el – oooooh.”
Scenting blood, the clerk had pulled the doojiggy out of the display case and laid it on the counter. Whatever it was, it wasn’t 100% silicone. About six inches long, carved from the tusk of some exotic animal, the graceful ivory phallus rested in an elaborately carved sandalwood box lined with crimson silk. The base was notched to fit into a harness, and a delicately incised tattoo of runes encircled the shaft. It begged to be touched. Not just touched, fondled. I ran a finger over the head – the texture was cool and smooth and inviting, and it warmed beneath my hand almost instantly. “What does it do?” I asked. “Besides the obvious?”
There was a little scrap of parchment wedged into the silk lining of the box, and Willow pried it free and squinted at the microscopic print. “It’s called the Wand of Tiresias. It says it ‘morphs to fit desire.'”
“Totally,” the clerk said. “It’s a legendary artifact created by a lovelorn sorceress in Morocco in the seventeenth century – “
“Tiresias is Greek,” Willow interrupted.
The clerk gave her a dirty look. “Sue me for trying to create an atmosphere. Anyway, when your favorite fuckpuppy’s out of town, you can imagine him, and the wand will take on the shape of his junk.”
The thing throbbed beneath my fingers, and I realized I was still stroking it. “Hey, it’s – whoa!” The wand was expanding, growing longer, thicker, and – erk – really familiar-looking.
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up. “Congratulations.”
Spike has a reputation for being, well, hung. Well-hung, even. Unlike some of the other things he has a reputation for, this one is totally deserved. On a scale of “Aww, cute” to “Aaaaaah! Run away!” he’s a solid “Come to mama, big boy!” and on a good day he can get well into “Wowza!” territory. Red-faced, I snapped the box closed and pointed to a harness, some lube and a random assortment of condoms. “I’ll take it. And those, and one of those, and…”
“”Credit or debit?” the clerk sang out as she bagged my loot . I tried to avert my eyes from the total. Ouch. Wild and crazy is more expensive than it used to be. “Thank-you-Mrs.-Summers-Pratt-all-sales-a
Okay, okay, I know. Magic has consequences, wackiness inevitably ensues, blah blah extra-special episode. But come on. Magical dildo! Also, having accidentally transformed the Whosit of Whatsit into an exact replica of my personal and private Vamp, I was not about to waltz off and leave it there for some random sparkle-hound to glom onto.
And besides, it had given me an idea.
Spike tore the wrapping from the last of his presents, sat back on the sofa, and held the six-pack up critically. “Beers of the World,” he drawled. “How cosmopolitan, provided your idea of the world’s limited to western Europe. Ta, Harris. Never would have guessed, if it hadn’t been your go-to for the last decade. I’ll treasure it for at least a week.”
“I can only hope you’ll be as considerate towards me when it’s your turn to reciprocate,” Xander deadpanned back.
I glanced at the clock. The living room was littered with shredded paper, empty glasses, and semi-comatose guests. Birthday extravaganza funtimes accomplished. I coaxed Jess from my nipple, buttoned up, and handed her cool squirming weight off to her oldest sister. “Okay, guys, I hate to be a party pooper, but it’s almost midnight, and Spike and I need to patrol.”
“Come on, honey, they’re breaking out the euphemisms,” Anya said, grabbing Xander’s hand and heading for the door. Bill gave me a quick peck on the cheek and mumbled something about bringing laundry home from the dorm over the weekend, while Spike collected Alex and Vicki and shooed them upstairs. Willow gave me a thumbs-up as she followed the rest of the guests out.
“Can I come, Mom?” Connie stifled a yawn and looked hopeful. “I’ve been working really hard on that underhanded staking technique, and I swear, I am so ready – “
Spike was just about to open his mouth and say Sure, Poodle, come along. I jabbed an elbow into his ribs and gave him the If she comes, you’re not going to glare. I love our kids, but I now understand why Mom locked herself in the bathroom so often, and she only had me and Dawn to deal with. “Tomorrow night, sweetie, I promise. We’ll – ” Quick, Buffy, come up with something good. “We’ll take you to scope out that vamp nest down by the docks, how about that? Put the baby down for me, won’t you?” And with that I snatched up the gym bag I’d hidden behind the couch in anticipation of our escape, and hustled Spike out the door ahead of me.
It’s not that I have a graveyard fetish. Okay, fine, possibly I have a graveyard fetish. Just a little one. But with five kids, patrol is just about the only alone time Spike and I ever get. Restfield Cemetery is way too public for, um, patrolling these days – and with Spike running the family business from his old crypt, the local vamps give it a wide berth unless they’re his employees. I steered us towards Shady Acres instead – overgrown, picturesque, and since the Guardian left for foggier pastures, pretty much abandoned.
“Ever done it on a pyramid, love?” Spike whispered in my ear.
“Sounds kinky. Maybe we should work our way up.” I dragged him in the direction of the crypt I’d picked out on my previous scouting missions: large, attractively draped in weeping willow, and reasonably spider-free. And currently harboring a pair of scrawny teenage vamps macking on the sarcophagus.
I cleared my throat, loudly. Damon and Elena were too busy swallowing each other’s tongues to notice. Spike sucked his cheeks in. “You want to do the honors, or shall I?”
I made an after-you gesture. “It’s your birthday.”
The birthday boy strode over to the sarcophagus, grabbed the shoulder of the male half of the pair, and gave him a shake. “Gerroff, mate. This table’s reserved.”
With a snarl, Damon half-turned. “Beat it, Pops.”
Spike snarled right back and vamped out – his demon half is getting older right along with his human half, so he gets horns and scales to go with the fangs and ridges these days. Once you get used to it, it’s kinda sexy. I mean, uh, scary. Damon tumbled off the sarcophagus and scrambled for the door, babbling something along the lines of “Yes, Master Spike, sorry, Master Spike, leaving now, Master Spike!” Elena looked as if she were about to argue the point, but slunk after him when she saw the freshly sharpened ditto on my stake.
“Master Spike, huh?” I closed the door behind them, plunked the gym bag down on the sarcophagus, and began pulling out supplies: lube, candles, two bottles of wine, handcuffs, leftover birthday cake, goblets, condoms, sanitary wipes, blanket, roll of memory foam – it was a large gym bag and I have super-strength, okay? Give me a break, I’m forty-something and I prefer my spontaneous seductions to be as comfortable as possible. “And here I thought you were less about ritual, more about fun.”
“What, you don’t call that fun?” Spike was doing distracting things to the back of my neck as I set up, and when his questing fingers discovered what I was wearing underneath my blouse he gave a little growl of aroused interest and began undoing the buttons. I ground my ass into his crotch. Mmmmmm. It was a very good day. Willow was so right about that red silk – worth every penny. “How about you demonstrate your understanding of the concept, then?”
The last buttons pinged on the stone as I dropped the gym bag, spun around, planted a hand on his chest, and slammed him into the nearest wall. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Reader, we Did It.
We did it against the wall and on top of the sarcophagus and across the nearest tombstone. We did it face to face, front to back, side by side and like they do it on the Discovery Channel. We did it slightly tipsy on Cabernet Sauvignon. (Well, me. It takes a whole bottle of Scotch to make Spike slightly tipsy.) We left bruises and bites and scratches, and we kissed each other all better. It wasn’t five hours later that I lay snuggled up next to Spike, but at our age, you’re smart enough to know that quality beats quantity. “You are a marvel, love,” he said, in that deep dark rumbly purr that can soak panties at fifty paces.
“Yup,” I agreed complacently. “And the best is yet to come. I have a little birthday surprise for you.”
Spike cocked an eyebrow and sat up with a sinewy ripple – tummy or not, the abs underneath are still pretty damn steely. “Best give me a minute or ten, pet.” He gestured towards Little Spike, thoroughly limp and satisfied in his nest of curls. (I admit it, I’m spoiled rotten. Even middle-aged vampire refractory periods rule.)
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I assured him. I scrambled to my knees and began rooting around in the gym bag. He grinned, tongue skimming his teeth as he realized what I was pulling out. “All you need to do,” I fastened the harness around my hips, matching him purr for purr, “is lie back and think of England.”
His grin widened, and he leaned back on his elbows, knees splayed wide. “That’s an impressive piece of equipment you’ve got there, Slayer.”
I smiled demurely, fixing the Wand of Tiresias in its socket. “Mmmhmmm. I’ve always thought so.” I made lavish use of the lube. This was hardly the first time we’d done this, but it’s not part of our standard repertoire – Spike loves it, but me, kind of eh. When there are so many other things that both of us are equally into, it tends to fall by the wayside. But this was his birthday, after all. “And since I’ve enjoyed it so much over the years, I couldn’t think of a better present than letting you know what it feels like to be fucked by you.”
“Oh, Slayer,” he growled as I knelt between his spread thighs, the rampant Wand bobbing. “You do know how to romance a chap.”
It was a little awkward getting started – one of the reasons I’m eh about this is that I can’t feel what I’m doing nearly as well. But I took it slow, and Spike is never shy about telling you what works and what doesn’t, and pretty soon I had a good rhythm going. Spike was writhing and bucking beneath me in that utter abandonment to the moment that makes lovemaking with him so exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. His eyes were wide and exalted, dark with lust, and he kept up a hoarse chant of, “Oh, fuck, yeah, there, more, harder, Buffy, do me, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy…” as I pounded into his depths.
And it was almost like the Wand was part of me, transmitting every clench and quiver of his flesh to mine. Like I could actually feel that cool tight passage gripping me, squeezing me, stroking me. Feel the tension gathering, the pressure building, till the only thing in the universe that mattered was the next thrust, the one that would –
“What the fuck?“
My eyes flew open, and I pulled back, dizzy and gasping for breath. I’ve had a lot of orgasms in my life, and none of them was ever like that. Below me Spike was staring up into my face, brows knit in wonder or consternation. It was definitely Spike. Same piercing blue eyes and dark lashes, same unruly tumble of sweat-soaked corkscrew curls, same spectacular cheekbones, but somehow… different. Mouth a little fuller. Jaw a little more finely drawn.
I looked down. Down at my own flat, well-defined chest and nicely muscled arms and –
“Spike,” I said faintly. “I have a penis.”
Spike laughed, cupping his breasts in delight. “So you do. And I’ve a better place it could be fucking me than up the arse. Feeling adventurous, Slayer?”
Well. When Spike puts things like that, panic seems counterproductive.
As a middle-aged human guy, I needed a somewhat longer post-coital breather than a middle-aged vampire. But we came up with other ways to pass the time.
“Right then!” Spike gripped my hand as we faced off across the sarcophagus. “This is it, Slayer. The decisive battle. Three out of five, winner takes – “
“Go!” I yelled, and threw all my new weight into it. Spike yipped and almost went down, but he grit his teeth, recovered, and began making up for lost ground.
A vamp who trains and works out the way Spike does is gonna fight better and look buffer, but the super-strength comes from the demon, which is pretty unisex. Humans, on the other hand – shoot a little demon essence into a living human woman, and you get a Slayer. Shoot it into a guy, and you get our son Alex, or Angel’s son Connor. Who are faster and stronger and heal better than your average bear, and have nifty vamp-style senses to boot, but they’re not Slayer-strong. And at the moment, neither was I. Spike was bringing his arm up inch by hard-fought inch.
But no matter what my body looked like right now, I was a Slayer. The Slayer. I was psyched. And I was going to kick Spike’s spankable ass. Across the expanse of polished marble he grinned at me, lips curled back over sharp white teeth, unfairly bosomy bosom heaving. My heart was pounding, my muscles straining. I am Buffy, hear me roar. Ignore the tremor in your arm, concentrate on his. Deep even breaths, deep even breaths, oh God, he smells good…
The back of my hand smacked marble. “And chalk up another victory for Team Spike!” my sore winner husband crowed.
I sat back with a pout, massaging my bruised knuckles. “OK, this sucks! I’m supposed to be stronger than you! It’s the natural order of things! And stop smelling all… available! It’s cheating!”
“Oi, what d’you think you smell like all the time to me? I deal with it.” Spike leaned over the sarcophagus and waggled his eyebrows. “Looks like someone’s almost ready for another sort of wrestling.”
I scowled down at my unasked-for new appendage, which was definitely perking up again after its earlier adventures. Traitor. “Just because – wait. What’s that?”
Among all the new smells crowding my nose, one was getting stronger – one that smelled somewhat Spike-like, but not nearly as yummalicious. Like a cheap knockoff of an expensive, subtle cologne. And among all the new sounds, there were…. footsteps? Spike, far more used to using his nose, cocked his head. “It’s those gits we rousted earlier,” he growled, “and they’ve brought friends.”
He rolled to his feet, not quite as gracefully as usual – on a feminine scale, Spike was still compact and well-muscled, but his center of gravity had shifted. I knew exactly how he felt. My muscle memory didn’t match my muscles either. Still, we’d been doing this for a long, long time. How hard could fighting multiple opponents in a totally unfamiliar body be? I grabbed Mr. Pointy and threw Spike a look. He nodded and flashed out the door with blink-and-you’ll-miss-it vamp speed, and leaped for the mausoleum roof… and being six inches shorter than usual, missed it and fell right on his aforementioned spankable ass.
“Bugger!” he snarled, and leaped again. I heard a near-silent thump on the tiles overhead and ducked behind the mausoleum door, flattening myself against the splintery wood.
“Oh, Master Spike!” I moaned, loudly enough to cover any additional thumpage. “What great big teeth you have! The better to ravish my poor tender exposed vulnerable throat and leave me far too weak to do aaaaanything to stop your libidinous intentions upon my virtue!”
Somehow that speech has a whole different vibe in baritone than it does in soprano.
A second later I heard the rustle-rustle-rustle of Damon and Elena tiptoeing around the nearby oleander hedge, with another pair of vampires behind them. Vampires, it turns out, do not hop out of the grave knowing the ultra-silent stalky thing. I peeked through the crack of the door: Middle of the night, no moon, and I could see perfectly. Vampire senses? Seriously cool. “Are you sure – ” one of the newcomers started, and Elena made furious shushing noises. Spike was holding his breath (he can do that for a long, loooong time) and his heartbeat was slow enough that they probably couldn’t tell for sure he’d left the building, especially with my noisy human metabolism still whooping it up inside. I let loose a moan indicating neck-ravishment was in progress.
Elena pantomimed for the new guys to cover the mausoleum windows, while she and Damon made with the lurky-sneaky towards the door. The minute Damon took a cautious step inside, I slammed the door into his face, knocking him back into Elena, whose yell was cut off when Spike dropped off the roof behind her and snapped her neck in one swift, brutal twist. I yanked the door open again and rammed Mr. Pointy into Damon’s heart. So far, so easy-peasy.
Except… Damon didn’t dust. I’d misjudged my not-quite-as-super strength, and the stake-point had only gone in far enough to graze his heart. By then the element of surprise was rapidly disappearing over the horizon. Damon lunged for me, Spike lunged for Damon, and the new kids on the block lunged for Spike. I overbalanced and fell backwards with Damon on top of me – until I managed to grab the butt-end of Mr. Pointy and drive it home, and Damon went poof. Which meant Spike wasn’t holding on to anything any longer, and he overbalanced and fell flat on his face on top of me, with the New Kids on top of him. With my once again sproingy – what should I call it, anyway? Cock, penis, dick, one-eyed wonder weasel? – trapped between us. The hungry and horny part seems to be pretty unisex, too.
I squeaked. OK, that was it – these guys were going down. No vampire hears the Slayer squeak and unlives to tell the tale. Spike vamped out and flung his head up and back, butting Kid One right in the nose with the row of stubby horns sprouting along his brow ridges. Kid One reared back with a howl and clapped both hands over his face, jabbing Kid Two in the eye with his elbow and taking enough weight off for me to roll out from under Spike and take advantage of my longer reach. This time I put everything I had into it. Spike and I were left lying in each other’s arms, gasping as the dust settled around us. “Whoof. That was…”
“It was bloody pathetic.” Spike shifted against me, plushy curves over hard muscle. Which made me significantly more uncomfortable, in a good way. “We fought like the love child of Bruce Lee and Buster Keaton.”
“I guess we need to call Willow.” Not that I was looking forward to it, exactly. I could sense the lecture looming.
“”Course we do.” Spike’s expression went sly. “Pity, though.” His hand found its way south to where Wally the Wonder Weasel was poking ever harder against his belly, and my breath hitched. “Always been a bit curious about this multiple orgasm business. What’s your record again?”
My eyes narrowed. “What, you think you can beat it?”
Picture of innocence. “Nah. I mean, I’ve had a hundred years’ experience on the giving end, and you’ve only been a chap for a few hours – wouldn’t be a fair contest, would it?”
I grabbed his shoulders and rolled him over, grinning. Wally was so up for this. “Oh yeah? Bring it on, Missy.”
“No, we didn’t switch bodies!” Phone hitched between shoulder and ear,, I studied my new reflection in my compact mirror. Did they make concealer for five o’clock shadow? And what was with my nose? I looked like Owen Wilson. “I’m still me, Spike’s still Spike, we just have the wrong plumbing – Spike, stop playing with your tits!”
“It’s just the novelty, love. I’ll always come home to yours.” He was sprawled on the mattress, still blissed-out and glassy-eyed. I have no idea if he beat my record, because we’d both lost count, but since I’d rendered him incapable of major motor function for a good half-hour I counted it as a win.
Willow, on the other hand, sounded grumpy and tired – five in the morning isn’t the best time to roust a vampire out of bed to do mystical research when they’ve been up all the previous day. “Okay, okay, just a minute… I’m sure I have an app for this… ahah. I knew that name was familiar. Tiresias was an ancient Greek seer, famous for his prophetic abilities and, um, having spent seven years as a woman. The Wand must have more powerful abilities than just transforming itself.”
“Obviously!” I got up and began pacing around the sarcophagus, parts of me flopping in a distracting manner. It was a good thing Spike had dismantled the red silk number early on, or I’d look like a refugee from the Rocky Horror floor show on top of it all. “And we’d better figure out how to use them fast, because Jess is going to wake up and want her morning feeding soon, and I don’t have any milk expressed in the fridge!” One of the downsides of vampire offspring is that they just don’t make formula fortified with O-negative.
“Erm.” I could hear a tapping noise from Willow’s end of the line. “I don’t suppose Spike…”
“Not bloody likely!” Spike gave himself a lewd jiggle. “These things are brilliant for recreational use, but I draw the sodding line at lactating.”
“Hmm.” Protracted sounds of Willow-pondering. “Shady Acres, right? That’s about two miles from my hotel. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
“Don’t rush on our account.” Spike smirked at me as I hung up. “Half an hour. My, my, however can we possibly pass the time?”
That thing he does with his tongue is just as distracting no matter what he’s got between his legs. I sighed. I’d managed a couple of pretty incredible orgasms while giving Spike his many, but… “Spike, I’m still human. Mine doesn’t make like the Energizer Bunny.”
He chuckled, and panther-crawled across the mattress towards me. “Oh, don’t underestimate yourself, pet. I’ll wager that Slayer stamina’s still good for something.” He settled on his knees in front of me and gave Wally the OEWW a lascivious once-over. “Been awhile since I’ve done this, but they say it’s like riding a bicycle…”
His tongue flicked out. I already knew what that tongue could do to my girl-parts, and just the memory was making the boy-parts happy. Spike’s mouth warmed to my warmth just as quickly as his cock did, when he had a cock. Oh. Oh wow. Wet-soft-just-the-right-amount-of-nippy WOW. Everything was so concentrated, right… there, like a – a – OH WOW! I buried my fingers deep in Spike’s curls and thrust blindly into his hungry mouth, finally understanding why he’s reduced to incoherent babbling when I do this to him. I couldn’t even manage the babble, just a sort of desperate whimpery “Ah ah ah ah AAAAHHHHHH!!!” as he drew me towards an explosion I’d have sworn I wasn’t capable of ten minutes earlier.
Eventually, Spike licked his lips like a cream-fed cat and cast about for his cigarettes. I slumped against the sarcophagus. There might have been stars, or chirping birds. Or chirping stars. “Wow.” Eloquence, thy name is Buffy.
Spike kicked back, lit up and took a deep self-satisfied drag. “Mutual. Good to know I haven’t lost my touch.” His head tilted to one side. “Think we’ve got visitors.”
By the time Willow knocked on the iron-bound door, I’d scrambled into Spike’s jeans and t-shirt (Spike is nuts. Who goes commando in zippered jeans?) and Spike was lounging against a pillar in my jeans and his own leather jacket. She marched into the mausoleum like the digital cavalry, bearing the modern-day equivalent of a mystical reference library – i.e. her iPhone. Since becoming a vampire, she doesn’t have the connection to the living earth any longer that made her such a phenomenally powerful witch, but so far as techno-thaumaturgy goes, she’s still one of the best.
Willow looked us both up and down and turned to me indignantly. “If you’d told me Spike had gone butch on us, I’d have been here earlier.”
“I know! I would have totally figured him as a lipstick girlpire, but I think he’d rock a Marlene Dietrich tux.”
Spike blew an irritated smoke ring. “You lot do realize I’m standing right here? It’s my pecker gone missing, not my hearing.”
“You’re no fun,” Willow said. “Well, first things first. In a pinch we can try pouring hot water on you, but it’s not industry standard. A lot of these transformation spells are reciprocal – have you tried, um, having sex again to see if you switch back?”
I examined my nails. The polish had cracked when they expanded into man-hands. Woe. “There might have been some minor experimentation. No dice, though.”
“OK, that was only Plan A. Do you still have the instructions that came with the Wand?”
The gym bag had gotten kicked into a corner of the mausoleum during the festivities, but the sandalwood box was still inside, and inside that was the little square of parchment. Willow prized it free and applied a magnifying cantrip to the teeny print. “I thought so. What was the last thing the clerk told us?”
“So long and thanks for emptying your bank account?”
“No – it was ‘always use a safeword!’ And it says right here in the instructions, you prime the Wand for greater transformations with a safeword. Saying the safeword again ends the spell.” She looked from me to Spike expectantly. “So what safeword did you use?”
Spike and I exchanged looks. My safeword has always been a good right hook. At our expressions, Willow heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Did you even read the instructions?”
“Who reads the instructions for a bloody strap-on beyond ‘This end up?'” groused Spike.
“One of you must have said something, or… this… wouldn’t have happened,” Willow said firmly.
I frowned and shook my head. “I can’t remember saying anything special.”
Willow folded her arms, grim. “Well, you’d better, or you’re stuck like this indefinitely. ” A look of fascinated horror overtook her. “Please tell me you started using a condom when things got real.”
“Of course we used a condom once my thing got real and… put inside his… other real thing! And anyway Spike never drank from me, so if the whole vampire fertility thing works the same way when he’s a she, we should be safe.” I’m not that wild and crazy. The last thing we needed was for me to knock Spike up. Though at his age he might already be menopausal. Would a live girlpire go through menopause? Would a live girlpire even have periods? I guess we’d find out when Vicki hit her teens. Focus, Buffy. Being able to write my name in the snow was diverting and all, and I could probably learn to deal with the strength differential, but going through life with everything hanging out there all flappy and wobbly and exposed? Ew. Plus never holding Jess to my breast again? Nuh and also uh. I enjoy being a girl.
Spike didn’t look any happier at the prospect of permanently losing the ability to scratch inappropriately. Still, you try thinking back after mumblty hours of mind-blowing sex. I dare you. Spike and I stared at our toes, and at Willow, and at the ceiling of the mausoleum, none of which had the answer conveniently inscribed on them. Think, think, think, think… “Spike said he needed a rest!”
“A short rest,” Spike clarified.
“And then I said he didn’t need to worry about that, and got out the Wand. And then as I put it on, I said all he needed to do was – “
“Lie back and think of England!” we chorused in unison.
The Wand and its harness reappeared around my hips, and in an instant my center of gravity shifted and my line of sight dropped six inches. I lost my balance and grabbed Spike’s jeans before they fell off my hips entirely. At the same time Spike’s shoulders broadened, his breasts receded, and he shot up the six inches I’d lost. “Yes! Welcome home, Little Willie!” he shouted, pumping his fist in the air, and then doubled over with a pained yelp as my several-sizes-too-small Gloria Vanderbilts shredded under the strain. I unfastened the harness in record time as Spike caught me in his arms and buried his face in my suddenly-aching breasts. “Rrrawr! And here’s the girls, still top of the line!”
“Yeah, well, right now Jess has dibs,” I said. “I’m leaking. We’d better get home as of yesterday.”
And just like that, we were in work-kids-slay mode again. I pulled a pair of sweat pants from the gym bag (told you, I came prepared for all eventualities). Spike retrieved his Levis with a nod towards the rising sun. “You bring your vampmobile, Red? Can’t say I fancy a trek back through the sewers.”
On the way home, we were treated to the Lecture On Magical Consequences And Always Reading the Fine Print. Which we dutifully nodded and uh-huhed through; it’s not often Willow gets to give rather than receive. “So have we learned anything from this little experience?” she finished sternly.
I thought about it. There’s no place like home? Always read the directions? Never pay more than a dollar per square inch for lingerie that will be shredded by a horny vampire within twenty-four hours? The Wheel of Morality was coming up on Bankrupt. “Sex good, Spike pretty?”
“I’ll go with that,” Spike agreed, closing his eyes.
“Oh, come on!” If I’d been able to see Willow-face in the rear view mirror, it would have been her Massively Disappointed one. “What about the futility of trying to recapture lost youth, or the fluidity of socially imposed gender roles, or – ” She paused, thoughtful. “There’s not really a coherent theme here, is there? I guess for maximum moral impact, the wand ought to have turned you and Spike into six-year-olds or something…”
I yawned and scrunched a little closer to my demon lover in the back seat, enjoying the muscled weight of his arm around my shoulders. Spike’s a hottie any way you slice it, but I definitely prefer it when he’s a Y to my X. “You know what?” I murmured, as Willow went on, “for my fiftieth birthday, let’s do it on a pyramid.”
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.dreamwidth.org/818423.html