All About Spike

Now You See me, Now You Don’t
By Estepheia

PAIRING: S/B with some (virtual) Xander sprinkled on top.
RATING: NC-17
SPOILERS: Season 6 - set post-"Gone."
AN: Starts off light but turns angsty. Smut.
Written for green_luv and all the other threesome lovers. (Does it count as a threesome if one of the participants is imaginary?)



“Remember that time you were invisible, luv?” Spike trails a languid finger along the inside of her arm, causing her to shiver.

“What of it?” Buffy asks. Today there’s no rush. There’s time for an encore. Her shift is over and Dawn is over at Janice’s – once more preferring home-made Fajitas to the Doublemeat Medley. Buffy can’t blame her.

“Remember Harris, how he barged in on us? The look on his face when he caught me ‘exercising’?”

Buffy blushes at the memory. She’d recklessly nibbled on Spike’s earlobe, risking discovery. It had been a bit like being drunk, except without the repeated bleagh before and the obligatory headache after. Alcohol and Buffy – so not mixy.

“Nope. Don’t remember,” she shrugs, almost displacing the duster Spike has covered her with. They’re lying on the floor, six feet away from the bed. She moves her legs experimentally. Hey, they might even make it to the bed for the encore.

Spike’s hand is withdrawn only to reappear underneath the leather coat, stroking her knee.

“Do you know he got hard, seeing me humping thin air?”

“What? No!” Buffy sits up, appalled at the suggestion. The duster slides off, baring her from the waist upwards.

“Come on luv,” Spike murmurs, his voice sultry. “Don’t tell me you never noticed that droopy boy swings both ways. He may not know it, but he fancies my ass. Trust me, I’ve eaten enough pansies in my time to know the signs.”

“No!” Buffy insists emphatically. “You’re wrong. Xander is not gay. He dated Cordelia. And Faith. Sort of… and don’t you think Anya would have noticed?”

“How do you know Anya isn’t doing him with one of them strap-ons?” His hand slides between her thighs and slowly wanders upwards.

“Ewwww!”

Underneath his wayward fingers he can feel her pulse quickening. He inhales deeply, drinking in her sweet scent.

“’Ewww?’” Spike imitates, chuckling and arching his eyebrow. A fiendish grin lights up his face. “Tell me, luv, which is the ‘ewww’ part? Naked Harris? Cause when I picture him bent over the sofa and Anya pounding into him ‘eww’ isn’t quite what comes to my mind.”

“That’s cause you’re a pig, Spike.” Buffy tells him with a grimace, but she makes no move to leave. In fact, she sinks back and spreads her legs a little, because Spike’s fingers are doing wicked things to her inner thighs. Spike’s fingers, definitely not that very disturbing image he’s just painted. Nope.

“Come on, Buffy, where’s your sense of adventure?” He props up his head, lips less than an inch from her shoulder. When he speaks his lips brush her skin, making her shiver.

“Hey, I—I’m all adventure-y. But picturing Xander naked? So not going there.”

“He’s not bad looking, nice cock…”

“Spike!” Buffy has that stunned deer-in-headlights look. “How—No! I don’t wanna know how you know what you’re claiming you know.”

“It’s true—“

“I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you,” she chants with her hands over her ears.

He waits. Buffy tentatively removes her hands.

“Seen it,” Spike says quickly before she can cover her ears again.

Buffy drops her hands, giving him a disgusted glare. “I heard you. Damn!” She sighs. “Since you’re dying to tell me, go on.”

“Lived in the soddin’ basement of teenage doom for weeks, didn’t I? Got a good look at the goods when he thought I was sleeping.” Spike makes a wanking gesture, reveling in the scandalized expression on Buffy’s face. He loves making her blush.

Spike chuckles, climbs to his feet with the grace of a cat and lifts her up with a flourish. “Hey!” she exclaims. But before she can complain about the romantic gesture, he dumps her unceremoniously on the bed. “Hey?”

“Invisible Buffy, where are you?” he sing-songs and crawls on the bed, almost accidentally brushing against her hip. “Ah, there you are.”

Spike lowers his head to plant wet sloppy kisses on her flat hard stomach, laying a moist trail across her belly and upwards. Suddenly she grips his shoulders stopping his advance. “No.”

“No?” Spike asks, unfazed. He turns his head sideways and licks her wrist. It’s amazing how his deft tongue always succeeds in making her shiver.

“No. Wait.”

He sits back, eyebrows raised mockingly.

Buffy appraises him, the way he’s casually sitting on the bed: like a dog sitting on its haunches, one hand supporting his weight, the other resting on his thigh, less than an inch from his straining erection. His shoulders covered in red welts where her nails have scratched him in the heat of her their coupling. Spike is wearing her marks like a veteran wears his purple heart. He’s grinning his stupid patented Spike smile with that pesky tempting tongue of his, dancing behind gleaming teeth like delicious bait. That grin either calls for a punch on the nose or for some serious kissing. Maybe both.

She chews on her lower lip as if undecided, then scoots to the edge of the mattress. Lying on her belly while dangling headfirst over the edge she rummages around underneath the bed, treating Spike to a very nice view of her enticing backside before she remembers to grab a sheet and cover herself. After all the things they’ve done to each other she’s still uncomfortable being naked around him.

All kinds of things litter the floor, weapons, tattered magazines, bottles, empty glasses, even a few books, crumpled cigarette packs, candles, matches. There’s no doubt about it, Spike’s a slob. “Sheesh, Spike, what is all this junk?” she exclaims, knocking over an empty beer bottle that reeks of cigarette ash – Spike’s only ashtray. “Is that your idea of spring cleaning? Sweep everything under the bed?”

“Works, don’t it?” Spike mutters defensively. “Now, if I’d known you were going to look—”

“Found it,” she cuts him off and pushes herself upwards with a tiny little grunt. There’s a red scarf in her hand. “I knew it had to be here somewhere.”

Her hand darts forward to capture the thin silver chain he’s wearing round his neck. Hooking one beckoning finger into the chain she slowly pulls him closer. When he’s kneeling before her, she quickly blindfolds him. “See,” she says in that inimitable perky voice he loves so much. “Now I’m invisible.”

“So I see,” Spike mumbles.

The next thing he knows, her hands are on him, roughly brushing over his chest and nipples, eager and possessive - the way he likes her. He matches her desire, groping blindly - but aided by sound and scent – and quickly captures her in his arms. There is a bit of fake confusion with breathless laughter and fingers straying nicely in all the wrong places, but in the end he’s lying on top. His fingers are clasped around her deceptively slim wrists, pinning her down with the weight of his body and rubbing his hard-on against her thighs while teasing her naked breast with his lips, tongue and teeth. Buffy is squirming eagerly underneath him.

“Vixen,” Spike chuckles fondly. He aligns himself, but doesn’t push in yet, just teases her by rocking his hips lightly. “So, tell me, Miss Invisible,” he whispers in her ear. “If Harris happened to walk in, what d’you think would happen?”

“Spike, do we have to talk about Xander? Now? You wanna turn me off or something?” Her scent betrays her, though.

“Answer me, Buffy,” Spike rumbles.

“Oh, I don’t know, you say he likes you, Spike?” Buffy tries to tease, but in truth her whole being is currently focused on one thing, wanting to feel him push into her. She bucks, hoping to catch Spike by surprise, but he just snickers and pulls back enough to keep her wanting.

“Didn’t say ‘like’ – now, did I? He fancies me. Totally different vibe. Fancies you too, luv.”

“What?” It comes out slightly panicky. “Oh no, we’re so past that. Xander and I, we’re just friends. Good friends, but so without the groiny thoughts. You can be friends with someone and not--”

Spike pushes inside, as breathless and incredulous as ever, cutting her off in mid-denial. Her gasp is music to his ear.

“Uh-huh. And guys never lust for girls they’re friends with. Come on Buffy, you don’t really believe that, do you?”

She’s silent. Spike slowly begins to move, languid, deliberate thrusts that send waves of pleasure through her.

“If Harris were here right now…”

“He’s not.” Buffy snaps, in a tone that says ‘subject closed,’ but Spike is undeterred.

“He could be.” His lips brush her burning cheek.

Embarrassment, lust, and irritation wash over her in equal measure like a hot shower. This is so unfair, Spike shouldn’t be in control like this, after all he’s the one who’s blindfolded. “Then why can’t I see him?”

“Cause he’s invisible too,” Spike replies, struck by inspiration. “Got hit by the same spell you got hit by. An’ now he’s feelin’ all liberated.”

“And what is he doing here?” Buffy asks, feeling a sick fascination – like she’s slowing down to rubberneck at a pile of car wrecks.

“Right now? Standing there, rubbing his hard-on through those godawful pants, wondering if I’m shagging a succubus or incubus or something. Too much of a voyeur to let anyone know he’s here.”

“So, I’m an incu—something?”

“That’s what Harris thinks. And since he’s invisible, no one will ever know he’s here. Long as he keeps his stupid mouth shut, he could do whatever he wants. Got no proof it was him, do we? ‘Cept he don’t know I can smell him,” Spike finishes darkly.

When Spike talks like that, Buffy can see everything he describes. “What’s he doing now?” she asks, unable to stop herself from wanting to hear more.

Spike hides his smug grin in the nook of her shoulder. He can’t see her pupils dilate or her skin flush, but he can hear the rapid pulse of her heart, feel her breath flutter and smell her body heat. “Coming closer, to get a better look. He’s unzipping his pants and getting his cock out.”

“How-- how do you know?” Her voice is lowered conspiratorially,

“Vampire, luv,” Spike murmurs into her ear. “Can hear the zipper going down, inch by inch.” He pecks a trail of noisy little kisses along her neck, mimicking the sound of the imaginary zipper. Buffy holds her breath as if straining to hear the sounds he’s describing.

“He’s panting. His cock is rock-hard and the tip is already slick.”

“Yess,” Buffy hisses. There’s magic in Spike’s voice - and in his slow-moving cock. Damn him!

“Slowly jerking off—”

Suddenly impatient, Buffy grabs him and roughly flips them both over, almost causing them to tumble off the bed. She positions herself on top, turning the tables on him and keeping his wrists pinned above his head. Then she bends low and slips her tongue into his cool mouth, pressing him down onto the mattress, putting her whole weight into the kiss as if that enabled her to thrust deeper into his mouth and take him more thoroughly.

When she breaks the kiss they are both panting. She captures his swollen lower lip between her teeth, eliciting a loud – but insincere – ‘ouw’ and straightens up, forcing him to sit up with her. His face is contorted in a mixture of concentration, pain and pleasure, with the blindfold thankfully blocking out the irritating awe in his eyes. Sitting on his lap Buffy rides him hard, faster than Spike would let her if he were in charge, but not fast enough to bring them both off. “Go on,” she gasps, feeling herself break out in sweat. “Tell me what’s happening.”

Spike doesn’t have to see her frown to know it’s there. God, he loves it when she gets bossy. “’S not enough, just watching you with his hand on his cock. Xander wants more, now, wants to be part of it,” Spike whispers, fervently wishing for an extra pair of hands right now. “Wants to touch you, feel you.”

“Me?” Buffy asks.

“Huh?” Spike momentarily loses his thread.

“He doesn’t know it’s me,” she insists.

Bloody hell, who does she think he is, D.H. Lawrence? But he quickly improvises. “Right, the succubus, of course. He wants to touch the succubus. But succubi, they look and feel like whoever their lover desires most. So when Xander touches you here—” Spike’s left hand slowly slides between her legs, coating his fingertips with her juices. “—it’s Buffy he feels--” When his slick fingers reach her small opening, Buffy freezes for a heartbeat, but her scent and heartbeat say ‘more.’ “--and it’s Buffy’s ass he wants to push into….”

While one hand gently strokes her breasts, Spike presses his fingertips against the tight ring. It’s like pushing a button. As his fingers breach her, she begins to mewl and tremble - and then there’s no stopping her. Holding on to his shoulders for better purchase and marking his flesh with thin red crescents where her nails dig into it, Buffy slams down on his cock at break-neck speed, riding him faster and harder until her orgasm blasts through her with the force and heat of a firestorm. Momentarily weak, she slumps forward. He steadies her, still achingly hard inside her, feeling her twitch and convulse around him, shuddering from the aftershocks of her climax.

He listens to the rhythm of her breathing, the hum of her blood rushing through her flushed body. It’s at times like these that he feels like a stray comet that’s wandered into the pull of her gravity, frozen core melting in her merciless glare. What else can he do but love her with a passion that defies pride or self-preservation?

Spike raises his hands to take off the blindfold, but his wrists are caught in an iron grip and when he opens his mouth Buffy stifles all protest with a crushing kiss that leaves him panting for more. She rocks her hips in a grinding motion, as difficult to sate as a vampire.

And as wicked, because now she climbs off, leaving him hard. “Bloody Hell!”

“Shut up, Spike.” A finger touches his lips, gentler than the actual words, and he falls silent. She lets go of his wrists, then moves around. He can hear her rummage around under the bed then the mattress dips underneath her weight as she moves around. There’s a metallic sound, like a belt buckle coming undone. His curiosity is piqued by the noises, visions of restraints or whips in his mind, while his body thrums with need and anticipation.

When she finally talks, he can hear nervousness in her voice, but there’s also a strong undercurrent of naughtiness and just a hint of anger. Everything she does is tinged with anger these days.

“So, you think Xander has the hots for you?”

Spike swallows. “Yeah. That’s why he picks on me, cause I’ve got the nicest looking ass in all Sunnydale.” Beat. “Um—apart from yours, that is,” he quickly amends.

“And now he’s got you before him, all naked and hard,” she whispers, as if imparting a secret. “What do you think he’d like to do? How about this?” Her voice is deeper than normal, hoarse as if she’s got a cold.

A hot wet mouth closes around his cock and begins to suck him off. The images overlap: Buffy’s mouth, Xander’s. Xander tasting Buffy on his cock, dark eyes glazed with lust… shit! Spike bucks, suddenly entangled in his own fantasy.

The sucking continues. A hot hand forms an almost impossibly tight channel around the base of his cock, while its tip hits the roof of that warm, wet, and wanton mouth. “Oh god,” he moans, voice rasping. Trying to stay in the game he adds, “he can do that any time he likes.” And there’s an ounce of truth in it - he’s thought of Xander’s mouth on his cock before, just never with Buffy around. And he certainly wouldn’t have turned Harris down if the boy had offered when Spike was living in his basement…

The fact that Buffy wants him to think of Harris deep-throating him, that there’s a place in her naughty little mind where her best friend sucks him off, leaves him breathless and less than coherent. It doesn’t take much to imagine Harris moaning around him and jerking himself off in the same rhythm…

Spike can feel himself rushing towards his climax when suddenly the warmth is gone. Strung like a wire, he arches off the bed, blindly seeking that tiny bit of heat and friction that will push him over the edge, but Buffy knows his body almost as well as he knows hers. Power. She has it – no doubt ‘bout that. Spike groans in frustration.

“Or maybe Xander wants to do this?”

There’s a tongue licking his balls, travelling downwards, tickling the sensitive skin between his legs. He spreads his thighs, eager for more. When the rimming starts it’s more than he’s ever hoped could happen. Buffy never ceases to amaze or surprise him. Christ, he’s no longer sure if he pushes her buttons or if she’s pushing his.

“And you say I’m evil,” he chokes out, when he’s got a lungful of breath to spare.

“Evil? Duh! Succubus.” She tells him in a ‘don’t be daft’ tone and continues to torture him - nicely.

“Right,” Spike swallows, counting himself the luckiest bloke on earth.

Then the hot tongue leaves and the mattress dips as she kneels between his spread thighs.

“But you know what I think?” Buffy chirps, and there’s a wicked edge to her voice. “I think what Xander really wants to do… is this.”

Oh God! His breath hitches as something slick and blunt presses against his opening. She’d thrown the strap-on in his face when he’d bought it a couple of weeks ago, swearing she’d never wear such a disgusting thing, but now… A surge of pure undiluted lust makes him whimper.

It has to be an amazing sight, but he knows better than to try and take the blindfold off.

“You want that? Do you, Spike?”

“God yes… you know I do.”

She pushes forward but the angle isn’t right. Not like she’s ever done this before. He can hear Buffy’s breath, loud and fast, echoing in the crypt, testimony to her excitement and frustration. But Buffy wouldn’t be Buffy - the most insufferable, stubborn and amazing girl in the whole world - if she’d be easily discouraged. Sitting on her heels, she grabs his hips and lifts his ass, then pulls it towards her lap, strong enough to guide him down onto the fake cock she’s wearing. He sinks down on it with a sigh. When she pauses, Spike hooks his legs around her waist and digs his heels into her back for leverage, then drags himself closer, impaling himself inch by inch, until it’s all the way inside.

“Fuck me,” he gasps.

So she does, starting with slow rocking movements, but as Spike’s urgency grows so does Buffy’s impatience. She grabs his ankles and lifts his legs over her shoulders, then lets herself fall forward and starts to fuck him in earnest, in a strange but intoxicating reversal of roles. Every thrust also pushes a small knob between her legs, sending sparks of pleasure through her.

“God, Buffy…”

That stops her. “Who am I?”

“A succubus?” Spike asks, trying to gather his wits.

“Try again.”

God, she’s wicked! “Xander?”

She slams into him, with an urgency that belies her little power games. It’s all the answer he gets – or needs.

And since it’s sometimes fun to be obedient, he does indeed push the image of Buffy into the back of his mind, to summon and savor again and again, and pictures Xander instead, hot, live cock pounding into him, making him see stars, male sweat beading down on his chest, and Xander’s voice grunting profanities and his name.

But the hand that closes around his cock and starts to jerk him off, that’s undoubtedly Buffy’s. “Yes, oh… that’s it.” Buffy and Xander… Spike shudders violently, moaning and thrashing, arches off the bed and comes all over her small fist.

A dozen or so thrusts later, Buffy’s orgasm catches up with her. Shouting his name, she collapses on top of her dead lover, the toy still lodged inside him. Joined like that, every tremble of her heated, sweat-coated body causes him to shudder too. They stay like that for several minutes, their strength sapped by the intensity of the experience.

Sometimes, when he’s with her, there’s a strange tightness in his chest, a sharp fluttering stab as if his heart is about to beat, half ache, half awe. It’s how he’s feeling now, and today it’s too strong to be contained, even though he’ll regret saying it: “You’re amazing, luv. You know that, don’t you?”

She draws back at that, pulling out none too gently, and he can hear her take off the harness and toss the strap-on away.

“I gotta go,” she mumbles and scrambles off the bed, as the inevitable embarrassment kicks in.

He pushes off the blindfold and props himself up on his elbows, watching her hunt for her panties and bra. He knows better than to ask her to stay. He swallows, trying to get rid of the lump in his throat, telling himself she’ll be back. Buffy always comes back for more.

She puts on her clothes, and with them the unmistakable Doublemeat Palace aroma. But even smelling of burnt hamburger meat, boiling vegetable oil and pickled cucumbers, she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever known. Why isn’t he allowed to say it?

Moments later she’s fully dressed and heading up the ladder.

“Buffy?”

She pauses.

He casts about for the right words to say, that thoughts are free, and not to worry, that he’d bet his right testicle that she’s featured in Harris’s fantasies more than once, but then he shakes his head. “Nothing. Night, Buffy.”

“Night, Spike.”

And then she’s gone.

THE END

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