Oldest Profession

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Just in time – not just a retail technique!
Here’s a fic for my day here at one of the longest-running and best Spuffy events going.

Title: Oldest Profession
Author/creator: gillo
Era/season/setting: Mid-Season 6
Rating: NC-17

The Slayer had her vamp radar, he knew, but she wasn’t the only one to be able to spot a special friend, shagging partner, nemesis, arch-enemy or whatever the hell she was currently at fifty paces on a wintry twilit evening. The twilight mattered, it went without saying, or he wouldn’t have been out and about himself, off on a toddle to score booze, fags and a pint of the good red stuff from his usual supplier. If he hadn’t been nearly out of said good stuff and sick to his pointy back teeth of pig there was no way he’d have been in that particular seedy part of town at that time either.

Not that Sunnydale really went in for seedy much. There were tracks, and they sort of had a wrong side and a right side, but not by a lot. The dodgier bars, where demons might hang out and the odd pick-up game of poker might be had, clustered together a little bit, but all around them were disgustingly healthy health-food stores, and the town’s major industry, chapels of rest and funeral homes, all tarted up with lawns and flowers, as if that made death OK. This town looked too bloody wholesome, if you asked him. Which, to be fair, nobody much did, ever.

Still, the pricklies on the back of his neck didn’t tell lies, so it was odds-on the Slayer was in the area. Probably scoping out the latest deliveries at the corpse-houses for telltale pairs of puncture marks in or around major arteries. Certainly not looking for him. Why would she do that when she knew very well where to find him if she needed a good seeing-to?

He relaxed against a rough brick wall, scabby bits of incompetent pointing digging into his shoulders as they took more of his weight. He became as still as only the undead could. She was very close now, he sensed, but neither approaching nor retreating. What in hell was the silly bint doing, then? Curiosity had always been his downfall. Well, OK, one of his downfalls, along with drink, sex, impetuosity and – this was not the buggering Spanish Inquisition. No need to list his failings right now, thank you very much.

He pushed away from the wall. Settling down to wait was the boring option. Boring was not his thing. So it was perfectly fine to go after his girl. What was the worst that could happen – a bruised nose? Not as if he wasn’t used to that. OK, a slight, very slight possibility of becoming a heap of dust, but she didn’t even threaten that so much these days. He touched the tip of his tongue to his bottom teeth, thinking of what she did to him instead.

He listened intently. She was pacing. That could be the only explanation of the sequence he was hearing: ten or so steps, a pause, ten or so steps again. Not coming nearer, not going away. So why in hell was the silly bint doing that? Nerves? This was The Slayer. Nerves were not her thing. Were they?

His mighty brain came to a decision. OK, not so mighty, but still functioning. It wasn’t at all that he worried about the girl or just wanted to see her. No, all about the question-answering, that was him. Before he could rethink the rashness of his choice he jumped forward, clear of the corner, in full view of the girl he wasn’t allowed to call his.

Full view perhaps, but she didn’t see him. Or at least notice him. Too busy pacing for that. Either side of a doorway set back into a wall where some deadbeat or other had left his card. Not literally, though the smell of piss told him what else he had left. Even for Sunnyhell this was gross. Why was she there? Hunting down a vamp nest? Hardly. He’d have heard if any rival bloodsuckers had moved in to settle in his town.

Ragged stickers covered the upper part of the door. Spike squinted a little in order to read them. Even super vamp-vision had its limits, and he wasn’t exactly in a position to stroll over to have a proper gander. Then, to his partial relief, she seemed to make up her mind, pushed open the door and went inside.

He scooted over quickly, looking for whichever sticker or notice must have attracted her attention – and made her so jittery. Half of them seemed to be whores, advertising their wares – just a number to call, nothing else. Buffy really didn’t seem to him to be quite in that market.

Then, halfway down, a different type of ad caught his eye. “Wanted: Telephone actresses. Good, flexible voice essential. Must be open minded. Enquire within.” Bloody hell. If that meant what he thought it meant. Did Buffy know what it meant? He knew the bint was hard-up. She’d turned down his offers of finance – some stupid moral qualm or some such. He had no patience with that sort of crap, but she’d been adamant. Stayed on in that sodding fast food job. She’d rejected the offer of cash, but not a crafty shag round the back by the bins.

His mind worked furiously. This was not something her little bunch of cartoon friends would approve of. Not that they ever offered to shell out the spondulicks as far as he could see, not even the pair of witches actually living in her house. Could this give him a little leverage?

He might not have a soul, but even he could see the pitfalls there. “Blackmail” was such a nasty word. The sort of word, what was more, that could lead to a staking rather than a shag. On the other hand, if she was planning to give telephonic relief, why should some bleeding wanker – literally – get all the joy of it? There had to be a way round.

When the door opened and she emerged he flattened himself into a nearby doorway, then followed her at a distance till it was clear she was on the way home. Puzzling his head a little, he worked out the best source of extra information and headed to the public library. It had the advantage of open access for his kind, a bunch of local directories and, though he’d been reluctant in the past to take advantage, a computer with internet connection.

In half an hour he had what he needed – a plan and all the facts and numbers he needed to carry it through. Next stop? A pair of freeloading witches of his acquaintance.


Once Willow and Tara understood what he was telling them, they did at least have the grace to look shamefaced. Tara tried to explain. “W–w–we never thought about it. We’ve always contributed to the food – we had to do all the marketing last summer. Then she was back, so we just kept on paying for our share of the food. Giles g-g-gve her some money too. We knew she took that job to pay her way, but we never thought she was desperate.”

Spike ground his teeth, just a little. “Well you can sodding well think it now. What, did you think some good fairy paid the property taxes and utilities?”

Neither young woman was able to look him in the face. Tara’s family had abandoned her, but her mother’s sister managed to send money quite regularly. The Rosenbergs, disappointed in a daughter who had chosen the local university over the sort of institution which would have given them bragging rights, topped up Willow’s bank account without her needing to ask. Or even talk to them or see them much.

“So, as I see it, this is how it’s going to go down,” said Spike, in a tone which made it clear he would brook no nonsense. He might be without a soul, but he saw quite clearly the implications if Buffy followed the course of action she was currently planning. “You girls set up a regular payment. You must have her bank details from when you were running this place for Dawn last summer, right?” They nodded. “Work out what you would have paid for a dorm room, and pay that. Each. You get the run of an entire house here. Then round it up to cover the other stuff.”

Tara wrote the details down in a notebook. She was the practical one with that sort of thing, however good a witch her partner was.

Spike stood up and stretched. “Not a word to her yet, mind. Get it all set up and running. I have a plan to distract her from that outfit while you’re doing it all.” He ignored their requests for details. There was a whole world of things he was not going to tell anybody if he valued his continued undusty existence. Buffy’s friends were considerably more “anybody” than anybody else in the world.


The next time Buffy slammed her way through his door, intent on working out her aggression on his cold body, he was ready. Instead of waiting for her to grab him and start tearing his clothes off, he dropped down through the hole to the lower crypt, and when she got there he was sprawled, nothing on above the waist, on the bed. They’d never achieved sex actually on the bed before; there had to be a first time for everything.

His legs, clad in tight, black jeans, were spread apart, invitingly. Across the action zone, though, lay a large, brashly-coloured pamphlet. Buffy recognised it, gulped and was not quite so intent on mauling her vampire lover as she had been. “Wh-what’s that?” she asked, knowing full well what the answer must be. How on earth had he discovered it?
“Just a bit of advertising material, Goldilocks. Thought you might be interested. Seeing as how you’re about to be involved and all.”

Oh god. He really did know. She gave him her best bewildered look, a delaying tactic. Her abdomen felt cold and heavy, and her stomach was doing acrobatics. “’Splainy?”

“Oh come on, love. The wide-eyed innocent look stopped working several exits ago. I saw you. In the street. Going in to that place. What in hell did you think you were doing?”

“Spike, you do not get to criticise me. Not now. Never. I need money, right? Dawn is growing like a beanstalk, and my cast-offs are no longer any use because she’s taller than me now. She needs a chance. A better chance than I can give her on a minimum wage job with casual acts of slayage. What would you suggest?”

“Told you before I can get money.” He held a hand up to stop her automatic protestation. “Honestly come-by at that. Don’t let your moral qualms tie your knickers in a twist. I’m good enough for a shag, but you won’t take my ill-gotten gains. I understand that. But I actually have sources. Worked a few shifts for Willy. Did a few deliveries, taking care of a bit of stuff for a mate. Here. Look.” He brandished a small but perfectly-formed wad of green paper.

“Spike, I can’t take your money.”

“Yes you can. And you’re going to. If you are prepared to do a special answering service for some jerkoff total stranger, you can do it for me. Now. I pay you, we cut out the middlemen. Anything else we do later, like the Blanket Hornpipe? Workplace bonus.”

Where did he get this language from? Buffy sighed. “I suppose you’ve trashed my chances of getting this job too, right?”

He smiled; the grin was entirely without humour. “Paid the slimy git a visit. Suggested he didn’t want to exploit young women any more. He felt a different city would best suit his ambitions. We parted amicably enough.”

So that was another option out of the window. His offer of cash looked tempting. “So. We do this. Once. You pay up, and we never, ever talk about it again. Is that the deal?”

“If that’s the way you want it, pet, ‘s fine by me.” He settled himself comfortably back on the pillows and unbuckled his belt. “Now, just you sit down on that chair. Back to me, that’s right. Just like you were on the phone.” He made a weird double trilling noise – was that supposed to be a telephone ring?

“Come on, now, pet. Pick up the telephone. This is your job now, right?”

“H-hello?” Buffy found it hard to believe she was actually prepared to do this. In the depths of a crypt, though, with her unliving sex-toy, a creature who knew exactly what would happen if he told anyone – that was about as safe as she was ever likely to be. Part of her felt relieved that the special phone service option was off the menu now. Far too much risk of discovery in a tiny town like Sunnydale.

“Hello. What’s your name little girl?”

“Spike, you know what my name is!”

“Now, now. That’s not playing the game right, now, is it, love? You wanted to do this job, so do it. Properly.”

A bigger sigh. Perhaps she couldn’t have done this for real after all. “My name is Buffy. What should I call you, sir?” A ridiculous, childlike voice came unbidden.

“Oh, Sir will do nicely. Or William, if you like.”

“What would you like to talk about, Mr William?”

“Well, now, Buffy. Tell me, what colour is your underwear today?”

A moment of panic. Spanx were entirely practical, but for sex-chat? No way. “Um, I think I’ve forgotten.”

Spike’s tongue caressed his teeth. This might be more fun than he’d expected. Undoing the fastenings, he settled his jeans waistband low on his hips and slid his left hand inside. Yes, he had a firm idea he was going to enjoy himself. Not the only firm thing either. “Well, isn’t that silly of you? Why not take them off to check?” He watched her with interest. Would she do it or simply pretend?

Buffy’s tension was growing. “Oh, I’ve just remembered. Pale pink.”

“Really, now, is that so? Why don’t you slip your fingers inside that scrap of pink, then, give yourself a fine old stroking?”

She couldn’t do this. Really, really not. But she did. “Ooh, I feel damp down there. Why would that be, Mr William?”

“Perhaps you’re thinking of what I might want to do with you? Shall I tell you what I’m doing with my firm, hard, long prong?”

She nearly giggled. Prong. Really? “Please, sir. I’d like you to tell me.”

“What will you do if I do?”

“I could slide my fingers into my panties, see if I can work out why they are feeling wet. Would you like me to do that, sir?”

He swallowed. How long could he actually keep this up? “Yes.” Husky. “I’d like that quite a lot. Now you just stroke yourself gently downstairs. I’m using both my hands now.” And he was. What sort of prat was he anyway, being turned on by fake phone sex? “I’m stroking my balls with one hand. They’ve gone soft and full, as if they are straining against something. But the other hand? Oh you can’t imagine what I have in that.”

“I think I can, sir. Is it long and hard and pink at the tip, wanting something to soothe and moisten it? I think I know what could help with that.”

He whimpered. This really was not fair. He grasped himself firmly and pulled up, pushed down.

“I have a very moist area inside my panties now. Do you know what I’d like you to do with it?” She grunted, quiet and low as she finished speaking, but he could still hear it. So, this was turning his Slayer on too, was it?

“I think you might like to stop playing daft games, pet. I think you might like to shuck off those panties and come over here. I think you might like to share this bed with yours truly. What do you think?”

“God, I thought you’d never ask” she gasped. She slid skirt and underwear together over her hips and dropped them to the floor. If he wanted to fantasise about scraps of pink silk rather than sensible, white, comfortable, unsexy stretch cotton, who was she to spoil it for him? She turned to face him.

He thought he’d been hard before. The sight of the girl of all his dreams like that, though, coming towards him, ready to take him inside her. That made one hell of a difference. Before his arousal became too big an … impediment, he removed his own last layer of clothing. Panther-like he crawled across the bed to where she was standing.
“Girl, you talk the talk. But how about walking the walk now?”

And she was on him, slamming his head back on the mattress, pulling at his legs to make him lie flat. Her mouth – Oh God, so hot was on him and around him and he felt like he might explode as she licked her way up his shaft, twirled her tongue around the tip, then moved on, nibbling and pulling at the skin of his belly, sucking and biting as she want. The bites were hard, bruising. The girl was making it clear playtime was over. He knew who was in charge.
She bit and scarred her way to his mouth, which she fixed on as if starved and desiccated, sucking and pulling on his lips and tongue. His hands were everywhere now, caressing and tearing in equal measure. When she got serious, gentleness was the last thing she wanted.

He fought back, pulling her legs down, struggling from underneath her, grasping her ankles and pulling them wide apart.
What he saw entranced him, as always. She wasn’t just ready for him, she was glistening. Reverently, he lowered his face and licked her in return, tasting her juices as if they were the best champagne, which, to him, they were.

And then he was in her and beyond thought. And she felt full, complete. For just a few moments she was where she knew she had to be. Nothing else was in her thoughts but the physical body she surrounded and the physical body she inhabited.

Money? That could wait.

Originally posted at: https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/727504.html