By Miss Murchison
Sequel to Present Tense
Rating: R, 'cause I haven't had the energy to make it NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
Notes: Sequel to A Glorious Morning Have I Seen and Present Tense. This may be continued if I have the time, but for now it's a standalone.
Spike laughed as she fell against him, his arm hard around her waist as he said, "Don't give up yet, pet. One more time."
"No," gasped Joyce. She laid her cheek against his chest, automatically listening for his non-existent heartbeat. "Too tired. And I'm almost as breathless as you."
"Come on, love," he insisted, rolling both of them over until she was flat on her back beneath him. "One more time, with me. You can do it." His palms on the mattress above her shoulders, he raised his torso up, thrusting rhythmically.
"Who said you could give me orders?" muttered Joyce, even as her body responded involuntarily as his cock pressed deeper into her with each stroke. Sometimes it seems like my life is full of things I have to do, ways I have to act. Make sure the tax forms are complete by the 15th. Don't invite any clueless friends over when Buffy is having Scooby meetings. Be polite to that annoying client at the gallery who has much more money than taste. Have another orgasm because the beautiful, horny vampire doesn't like to come unless you do too.
Well, she had to admit that some demands were more fun to comply with than others. Joyce moved with Spike's next thrusts, knees in the air, feet pressed firmly into the mattress as her hips rose to meet his. I'm so tired. And, yet, I'm so excited. How does he do this to me? Another corner of her mind answered incredulously, Do you care, as long as he keeps doing it?
Then all her remaining strength was focused in the center of her being, motivated by an erotic, near-psychotic adrenaline rush that left her no energy for rational thought. She felt her muscles clench around the hard length of his cock in automatic reaction to each thrust, partly out of a desire to bring him pleasure and partly because—
Because it just felt so damn good.
They lay there for several minutes—she panting for breath; he deathly still. Joyce stroked his shoulder gently until she stopped shivering and the blissful lassitude that followed lovemaking took over her body. She gave a deep sigh of contentment just as his head moved against her shoulder.
"Mmm, don't go," she whispered as he rolled away from her, the sensation of his body separating from hers almost painful.
He lay on the bed beside her and kissed her shoulder. "I won't go far, love. But you're cold."
She was, she realized. She was so chilled that his flesh seemed warmer than hers. He must have fed before coming over, stoking whatever mysterious furnace fueled his vampire body, whereas she—her stomach growled a reminder—she had not eaten since an abbreviated lunch some hours ago.
Spike felt around the floor and retrieved a blanket, which he tucked around her. "I'll get you something to eat. And bring the wine. You decide what you want to watch tonight."
He was out the bedroom door before she could shout her warning, "Be careful! The sun's still up!" She held her breath as she heard his cursing, followed by the clash of the blinds in the kitchen that she had forgotten to close earlier. She was about to jump up and make sure he was safe, but then she heard the sound of cupboard doors slamming and decided he couldn't have been hurt badly by whatever momentary exposure he had received to sunlight. Remembering that he was naked, she hoped that no particularly vulnerable bits of him had been singed.
Still wrapped in the blanket, she slipped to the floor by the foot of the bed and opened the bottom drawer to her dresser. She skimmed the titles of the DVDs stored there, and called downstairs, "Any preference for movies?"
Something that sounded a bit like "Hitchcock" drifted upwards, mingling with a crash and something that sounded like "Balls." Joyce started to pull out North by Northwest, remembered they had watched it the previous week, and found another disk.
When Spike reappeared a few minutes later, fortunately not looking the least bit sunburned, Joyce was curled up in the blanket on the bed, several pillows propped up behind her. The credits for Psycho were slashing across the screen. Spike glanced at the TV on the dresser, said, "Brilliant," to commend her choice, and flopped on the bed with a force that threatened to dislodge his grasp of his booty: a box of Krispy Kremes, a pack of Oreos, a bottle of wine with a screw top, and a jelly-jar glass. Joyce smiled radiantly, absurdly pleased to have him back safe from his perilous quest to ransack her kitchen cabinets.
When the mattress settled down enough to stop making her sea-sick, Joyce evaluated his choices and picked out a donut, squashing a vague sense of guilt. You can't eat healthy all the time. And it's not as if Buffy's around to see you setting a bad example. She wondered if children ever realized how stressful it was for a parent, always having to be a role model. Besides, she suspected Buffy was no stranger to the glories of Krispy Kremes.
Spike unscrewed the bottle and splashed some of the dark red liquid into the jelly-jar before handing it to her. Joyce knew that she had terrible taste in wine. This cheap stuff was too sweet and too rough for any connoisseur, but she liked it anyway. Most people cringed but spoke politely when she offered it. Spike complained vociferously but drank bottles of it with every appearance of enjoyment.
"Where's your glass?" she asked after taking a sip.
"Only brought the one. Mind sharing, pet?"
For an answer, she handed him the glass back. He carefully turned it so that the same spot on the rim that she had drunk from touched his lips. His blue eyes fixed on hers, he drank deeply, and she shivered again. Trust him to find a romantic gesture in this homey setting.
Limbs intertwined, they settled down to watch Hitchcock's voyeuristic camera peek in on Janet Leigh as she argued with her lover over finances and their illicit relationship. Spike clearly was enjoying the view of Janet in her underthings, although he offered his opinion that the boyfriend was a mindless git. "Got a woman who's willing to live with him in a storeroom behind a hardware store, and he decides to settle for respectability and no shagging."
"She loves him because he's noble," suggested Joyce.
"Yeah, well, if he'd shagged her really nobly in that hotel room, she wouldn't be nattering on about respectability. And if she was all that keen on the notion, she wouldn't go off a few minutes later and nick all that cash."
Spike drank most of the bottle of wine, but Joyce began to feel pleasantly dizzy after just a few sips. Her day at the gallery had been long and frustrating, filled with dozens of petty annoyances and few accomplishments, and she had been tired and tense when she had finally staggered through her front door. Spike's unexpectedly early arrival had failed to cheer her for once, and she had nagged him for risking himself by rushing over during daylight hours with only a blanket as protection.
But he had teased her out of her evil mood and promised to render her even more tired but very, very relaxed. He had been as good as his word. She might be a bit sore in places, and so exhausted she could hardly think, but there was no tension left in any muscle in her body. As Janet Leigh returned to her dreary job, Joyce drifted off into a light slumber.
She stirred slightly sometime later. Her nose was being tickled by a mass of unruly blond curls, and she smiled dreamily as she buried her face in them. She and Spike had showered just before making love, and those incongruous platinum locks were free of hair gel for once. It occurred to her that she could probably do with another shower after the strenuous lovemaking they had enjoyed after they tumbled out of the bathroom and on to the bed. Joyce frowned. Why was she thinking about showers? Then she recognized the noise of splattering water coming from the TV and realized that Janet Leigh was about to be murdered. Only about a half-hour had gone by since she began to doze.
Joyce felt Spike's body shift against hers, and the heavy, comforting weight of his head moved from her shoulder, rousing her a bit closer to full waking. She heard the clink of glass as he picked the jelly-jar off her bedside table, and his weight shifted again on the mattress. She muttered in mild annoyance at his restlessness, which she was sure was caused by the sight of bits of naked Janet Leigh.
The sound of Janet showering continued as something wet splashed on Joyce's neck and shoulders. "Bugger," said Spike, as Joyce felt a sticky trickle move down her chest and between her breasts. "Spilled the last of that rotgut," he growled in unnecessary explanation.
Eyes still shut, Joyce could tell by the roughness of his voice that he had vamped out in annoyance at his own clumsiness. "Well, clean it up," she murmured sleepily, knowing that he was more upset about the loss of the wine than any mess he had made.
He growled again, and dragged his tongue along the valley between her breasts. In game face, his tongue was rougher than usual, like very fine sandpaper, but its course was lubricated somewhat by the trickle of wine he was lapping up from her flesh. She wriggled involuntarily; the pressure was a bit too harsh to constitute tickling, but still impossible to ignore.
He rose on all fours now, leaning over her as his tongue marked a path across one nipple, coaxing it fully erect. She muttered as she realized there was no way she would be able to slumber through Spike's version of mopping up a spill. His tongue lashed her nipple again, and she reacted with half-resentful arousal, her back arching as her body moved to meet his touch. "Urgh," she said. "Too tired."
"You told me to clean up," he purred, his tongue hot against her neck now. She could feel the pinpricks of his fangs against her throat, his open mouth pressed against her pounding pulse. Violins screeched over the TV speakers. Her eyes fluttered open reluctantly.
Joyce reached out with every iota of strength she could summon and shoved Spike away from her and off to the side. Taken completely unawares, he slid off the bed and onto the floor, knocking the bedside table over as he fell. "Bloody hell, woman!" he snarled, shaking from vampire face back to human. "All you had to do was say you wanted to keep napping."
He was obviously ready to say more, but he stopped, staring up at Buffy, who stood over the bed, stake raised. Joyce opened her mouth as Janet Leigh screamed (click here for sound effects) and tried to dodge fatal knife-blows on the TV screen behind her. (Click here for more sound effects.)
Joyce fell forward across the bed, hand out to stop the fateful plunge of Buffy's hand.
"Mom, are you okay?" Buffy was still standing over Spike, ready to strike, but her attention was focused now on her mother. "You're bleeding!"
Joyce looked down at her chest. "No, I'm not, dear. That's wine. Please don't be so upset."
"Don't be--" Much to his dismay, Buffy turned her attention back to Spike. "What did you do to my mother? Tell me before I kill you!"
"Uh--" Spike tried to scuttle backwards, further away from the upraised stake, as he threw a pleading glance in Joyce's direction.
"Really, Buffy, I don't think you should ask for details," said Joyce, sitting up and pulling her blanket around her.
"Yes, dear, some things should be kept private."
Buffy's bewilderment increased. "Mom, try to understand. You're acting kind of--weird. I need to know if he put you under a spell or made you drink from him, or--"
Joyce gave an involuntary laugh. "Oh, honey, no! What made you think of such a thing? Please put the stake away, dear, and sit down. Nothing's wrong except that you're making Spike nervous."
"I'm--I'm--" Buffy's voice trailed off. At last, she looked around the room, and her reluctant mind took in details like the scattered clothing, the wine bottle, the tumbled sheets, and the Oreo crumbs in the bed--not to mention the extreme nudity of both of its recent occupants. She shuddered with horrified realization. "Mom, please don't tell me you got drunk and had sex with Spike!"
"No!" Joyce was appalled by this misconception.
"No?" Buffy looked momentarily hopeful.
"No!" It was vitally important to Joyce that Buffy not believe her mother had acted so irresponsibly. "First I had sex with Spike, then we got drunk."
Buffy clamped a hand over her mouth, her look of horror echoed in the face of Anthony Perkins, as he beheld his "mother's" handiwork on the TV screen behind the Slayer. Her eyes darted back and forth between her mother and the vampire, and she dropped the stake at last, sitting down on the side of the bed.
Joyce put her arm around her daughter's shaking shoulders. "I know this is a bit of a shock, honey, but I did try to tell you."
"You tried--? You mean, this isn't the first time?"
Joyce shook her head. "No, we've been, um, spending a lot of time together."
Buffy's green eyes were wide with dismay. "Mom, how could you! I mean, look at him--" She turned to Spike and stared for a long moment. "Okay, maybe focusing on the visuals isn't the best way to make my point. But, mom, he is a soulless monster, even if there are certain--attractions there." She stared harder. "Except, what's with the hair?"
"Oh, that's what it's like without the gel," said Joyce.
"You're kidding," said Buffy, gaping at the wild platinum curls.
"Yep," said her mother. She tilted her head to one side, considering the matter. "Don't you think it's kind of cute?"
Buffy frowned critically, tilting her head to the exact same angle as Joyce's. "I don't know--"
Spike decided it was safe to get back into the conversation. "May I interrupt you ladies with a request?" he asked plaintively.
Buffy scowled at him. "What do you want?"
"I want my pants."