By Miss Murchison
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Only the lame plots and dialogue herein are mine.
How and why this thing happened: Devil Piglet remarked that Spike should have sex with someone who was always nice to him. The more I thought about this, and the more wine I drank, the more sense it made. I started to remember how one other character had never gotten the storylines or the fun I thought she deserved. So this fic began as a sweet tale intended to rectify a few wrongs. But a few glasses of wine later, I started musing on the fact that there are no unembarrassing sexual positions, and that the vast majority of them are utterly ridiculous. So this story degenerated into bedroom farce.
Setting: A mildly AU late Season 4 or early Season 5. Spike is not in love with Buffy, and Dawn doesn’t exist.
Thanks: To DorothyL for the beta, and to Kes for beta and suggesting the wonderful Shakespearian title. (I’m sorry I didn’t post in time for the Bard’s birthday. And it's my fault, not Kes', that I originally posted it as "A Glorious Morning I Have Seen.") And to Devil Piglet for the original idea.
She was in her own bed, which had been shorn of all covers except the bottom sheet and some pillows. The top sheet, blanket and duvet were huddled in a pile on the floor, with discarded clothing scattered over them.
Her companion of the previous night was lying on his side, and she was curled tightly against the elegant curve of his spine, her breasts rubbing against the alabaster skin of his back, her hips pressed against his firm, perfect ass. One of her arms was thrust up, following the line of his own arm and shoulder, with her hand resting lightly in his hair. The platinum locks were rebelling against the hair gel he used, and the unruly curls were trying to twist round her fingertips. Her other arm traced the curve of his ass and thigh, so that she could feel the hardness of bone and muscle, sheathed by that unmarked white skin.
She had no idea how long she lay there, unable to think past this moment, her mind too obsessed with the pleasurable memories of the previous evening to worry about what would happen next or even to wonder how she had let this happen.
But finally he roused from his extraordinarily still sleep. As he stretched his limbs, his flesh slipped against hers, stimulating her entire body.
Then he rolled over, dark blue eyes meeting hers mischievously, but with a note of serious inquiry.
“Good morning, Joyce,” said Spike. “Did you have a good time last night?”
The evening hadn’t started out to be much fun. She had been sitting home alone, feeling sorry for herself. She had just gone over the bank statements, and had figured out how to pay for Buffy’s tuition and how to meet the due date for the loan she had taken out to fix up the house after the last time it had been invaded by hostile demons. There would be no vacation for Joyce again this year, but she was used to that. It wasn’t as if she had a social life anyway.
She could go stay with her sister for a few days for free and at least pretend she was having a vacation. That, of course, would mean endless treks to outlet malls and listening to snide comments about how she didn’t have a man.
But Ted, her first effort at finding a replacement for Hank, had been a disaster. Joyce hadn’t much wanted any of the men who came around afterwards, even the ones she was able to verify were entirely human. They were all too Hank-like, and she had cut the relationships short before anything had come of them. One 18-year long mistake was enough for a lifetime.
The little interlude last year with Rupert Giles on top of that police car—well, two interludes—had aroused all the feelings she had been trying to repress, but nothing had come of that either. Giles was definitely not Hank-like. She had flirted with him a bit before the incident, and daydreamed a little about Buffy’s Watcher, but having sex in that way had destroyed any incipient relationship. They hadn’t been in control of themselves when it happened, and she suspected they both felt somewhat violated by having their hormones hijacked by enchanted band candy. Not to mention Buffy’s horror at the thought of her mother and Watcher having sex. Buffy came first with Joyce, and she was reluctant to enter into an affair that her daughter would disapprove. She suspected Giles felt the same way. Whatever the reason, the Watcher barely met Joyce’s eyes when they happened to meet.
Although Joyce sometimes wondered why she had put her life on hold to avoid upsetting a child who didn’t seem to need her for anything except making tuition payments. The house was empty and lonely these days.
“Another evening with just my shower massage for company,” she had thought, as a firm knock sounded on the back door.
Frowning, she had gone to check it out. Now that Buffy lived in the college dorm, no one ever came to the kitchen door in the evenings except Spike, and he and Joyce had had their usual weekday TV night yesterday, when they had shared pizza and gossip over a rerun of “Dawson’s Creek.” He wouldn’t be back for a few more days, when they had made plans to watch “Casablanca,” which was playing on some cable station he couldn’t get in his crypt.
But she recognized his silhouette when she peeked outside, and hastened to unlock the door. He was standing there calmly, his hands thrust in the pockets of his old leather duster, the sly smile that reached his eyes assuring her that he hadn’t come to report that some disaster had befallen Buffy or one of her friends. Joyce was convinced that although Spike might not be completely reformed, he would never enjoy imparting information that hurt her.
She held the door open in invitation and tried not too feel too overjoyed that he was here. After all, the simplest explanation was—
“Did you forget something yesterday?” she asked.
“No, pet, I remembered something tonight.” He reached into his coat pocket. “You said you hadn’t seen ‘Hobson’s Choice’ in twenty years, so I nick—uh, found you a copy.”
He had done that for her? She was gratified, but was also assailed by sudden fear. “It is the one with John Mills and Charles Laughton, isn’t it?” she asked in trepidation.
“Is it bloody likely I’d get you the remake with John Boy Walton?” he scoffed, holding up the box.
She grinned at that, and said, “I could kiss you!” In fact, she did lean forward to kiss him on the cheek. But as her lips brushed his face, he turned and opened his mouth against hers.
Instead of shocked resistance, she reacted with astonished pleasure, pulling him close to her and returning his kiss for a breathless moment. She stopped only because she had to gasp for breath; she was shaking, every nerve alert and aroused by the unexpectedly erotic encounter with a male body after her long stretch of celibacy.
Then she pulled away, gasping, “I’m sorry!” She turned around and began fumbling in a cabinet for snacks and a bottle of the beer she kept around especially for him.
She thought that she heard him say, “I’m not,” behind her, but her panicked mind chose to ignore that. She was suddenly conscious that she was wearing only a long, much-washed shirt and a pair of sweatpants that she had pulled on in lieu of pajamas. She glanced down and saw that her erect nipples were outlined against the thin, faded fabric of the shirt.
“We’re out of Doritos!” she said brightly, trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice. “Do you mind some nips—Cheese Nips, I mean.”
“That will be fine, Joyce,” he had responded in a tone that indicated he was trying hard not to laugh. However, it also seemed to indicate he wasn’t planning on grabbing her from behind, tossing her on the kitchen counter, and ravishing her.
Damn, she thought.
Now, Joyce snatched at the sheet that was lying crumpled at the bottom of the bed, trying to pull it over her body. But Spike reached out and took her hand gently, holding it up and away from her so that she remained exposed to his gaze.
“Don’t hide from me,” he said. His eyebrow twitched, and mischief sparked in his eyes. “Unless it’s a game of hide and seek you have in mind.”
She dropped the sheet, and he dropped his hand to stroke her side. Her body began to tremble as it had when he first kissed her last night, this time with the memory of past pleasure and the anticipation of more.
“So beautiful,” he murmured, as he explored the curve of her hip and thigh.
She searched his face for any trace of irony and found none. She relaxed, her shame at the imperfections she perceived in her forty-something body fading away as she saw herself mirrored in his gaze. He looked like a man aroused by an attractive woman, and she began once again to believe herself as desirable as he had made her feel the night before.
She wondered if because he was immortal, Spike felt no need to seek youth in his companions, as Hank had begun to do before the divorce. Hank had gone in search of younger women to forget his own aging, and that betrayal had marred Joyce’s self-image for years. Now she gazed into Spike’ admiring eyes in awe and gratitude, remembering how he had been at pains to remind her of his true age the night before.
They were sitting on the couch, watching the movie. He had flung himself into a corner of the sofa, lounging at his ease and making no effort to touch her. She sat by his side, slumped back in the cushions, trying to not to look at him. It did no good. The scent of him, clean masculinity overlaid with cigarette smoke, was permeating her senses, and she was cursing herself for a horny old woman desiring a man much too young for her.
She forced her mind back to the film. “It’s as good as I remembered,” she heard herself say. “Better. I was afraid I’d made too much of it in my mind and I’d be disappointed when I saw it again.”
“Know what you mean,” Spike replied. “It was forty years between the first time I saw it—well, first day I spent watching it over and over, trapped all day in a movie theater when it was in its first release. Not that I complained. Lots of popcorn and, er, other snacks, and the film was brilliant. Still is.” His glance held meaning. “Didn’t see it again for decades.”
Joyce kept her eyes on the screen, watching Brenda de Banzie inform a horrified John Mills that they were going to be married, and that he had little choice in the matter.
“I love the way she pulls him out of that cellar, takes charge of his life, and makes him a real man,” commented Spike.
Joyce tried to figure out what that could mean, and decided it had no reference points outside the discussion of the movie. “And Laughton plays a good drunk,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Spike, but went back to his previous topic. “Serves the other characters right, the way they write that girl off just because they think she’s an old maid. Not old at all, if you ask me. Besides, I like a woman who knows what she wants.”
She turned to look at him then. He was still lounging back on the couch, but she could tell from his eyes that Spike knew exactly what Joyce wanted. Of course he did; those vampire senses aside, he was always very perceptive about others, although she suspected he was less insightful about himself. What surprised her now was not the knowing look in his eyes, but the pleading that was behind it. He was waiting for her to make a move, out of respect perhaps, but also out of some fear of rejection. She realized how lonely he must be, accepted by neither the human nor the demon world.
“Poor boy,” she thought, and leaned forward instinctively to comfort him.
He was doing the comforting now, his lips feathery soft and teasing along lips, cheek, throat and breasts, as his hands explored lower on her body, gently opening her thighs and massaging her clit until she moaned and writhed her hands in his hair. His tongue flicked across one nipple as he thrust a finger inside her. She was already moist and ready, and she spread her legs wide in invitation, but she felt him shake his head. “Not just yet, love.”
“Now!” she demanded.
He laughed, and his lips moved to her other breast. “Not yet. It’s not the moment yet.”
Before she could protest, there was a knock at the door.
He looked up at her. Blue eyes that had been filled with passion a moment before flashed with annoyance. “Bloody hell,” he muttered. “Should have sensed her—but you filled my senses.”
“Mom?” said Buffy’s voice from the other side of the door.
“Fuck!” said Joyce, for perhaps the fifth time in her life. (Several of the previous utterances had occurred only the night before.)
She jumped off the bed and snatched up her sweatpants, pulling them on with shaking hands. She looked around for her shirt. No shirt.
There was another knock on the door.
“You can borrow mine,” said Spike, stretching out on the bed and watching with amusement.
Instead, she kicked his very recognizable red shirt under the bed along with the rest of his clothes, and tossed sheet, blanket and duvet on top of him, covering him completely.
“Be quiet,” she hissed, yanking a t-shirt out of a drawer and pulling it over her head before she reached for the doorknob.
Buffy stood in the doorway with the shirt Joyce had worn the night before clasped in her hands. She looked vaguely uneasy. “Is everything okay, mom? You’re usually up and getting ready for work by now.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” said Joyce quickly. “Why do you think anything’s wrong?”
“Well, the not being up on time, which has happened before, like, never.” Buffy held up the shirt. “And this was lying on the floor in the living room, so either you were really absent-minded last night or you’re trying to take over my role as the family slob. What on earth got into you?”
“Into me?” Joyce’s voice choked on the memory of what, precisely, had gotten into her. “Nothing. That shirt—I just forgot it. I left it down there because—”
Spike’s hands undid the buttons. Slowly at first, as he gently but insistently explored with hands and lips the flesh uncovered each time the shirt gaped open a bit wider. But eventually he became impatient, his hands slipping between the folds of fabric and inside the waistband of her sweatpants. Joyce became impatient too, and the last fasteners were not treated with the same courtesy as the first.
Buffy stopped Joyce’s hysterical babbling with a laugh. “It’s okay, mom, I was only teasing. Besides, I figured it out. You were going to sew a new button on, right? There’s one missing, down by the tail. I saw the button on the floor by the couch, and figured you dropped it last night and couldn’t find it. I stuck it in the pocket.”
“Thanks,” said Joyce, snatching the shirt from Buffy and clutching it to her chest. “That’s what happened of course. Sp—I was looking for the button.”
“So I was right!” Buffy smirked. “I guess I’m just having a really perceptive day.”
No sound emerged from Joyce’s lips, but a low, masculine rumble emanated from behind her.
“What’s that?” asked Buffy, trying to peek over Joyce’s shoulder.
Joyce shifted position slightly to stand in her daughter’s way. “Clock radio,” she said. “I keep hitting the snooze button.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, mom?” Buffy raised a hand to Joyce’s forehead. “You’re all flushed, and you’re trembling.”
“I suppose I really don’t feel that well,” said Joyce desperately. “It’s the flu, some kind of bug. That’s why I overslept.”
“Well, you shouldn’t go to work. Do you want me to take you to the doctor?”
“No, no. But it would be great if you’d call the gallery and let them know I won’t be in today. Could you do that for me right away? Because I don’t feel up to it, and it’s getting late.” Joyce started to close the door.
But Buffy stepped closer, looking concerned. “I’ll do that, sure, but shouldn’t I get you something? Breakfast? Maybe you should take something? I could see if there’s anything in your medicine chest.” She started to push past her mother to check the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom.
“No!” Joyce almost shouted. She got a grip on herself and added more calmly, “The best thing to do when you feel like this is to just get back in bed and crawl under the covers.”
“I guess so,” said Buffy doubtfully, staying where she was, but obviously feeling it was her filial duty to do something for her mother. “Are you sure you don’t want me to make you breakfast?”
“No thanks honey, I don’t feel like eating just now.” Joyce gripped the door with whitened fingertips and tried to slowly inch it shut. She kept her voice level with an effort. “I’m just going to do that going-back-to-bed thing now, and I’ll make myself something later. So you can go back to college.”
Buffy was still hesitating, and a note of guilt entered her voice. “I don’t actually have classes this morning. But—it’s not that I don’t want to stay and take care of you, Mom, but I was going to go by one of the graveyards. I want to check on that idiot Spike’s crypt. I haven’t seen him the last two nights I’ve patrolled, and I’m not sure what he’s up to.”
Joyce’s trembling increased. “I’m sure he’s not up—that is, I’m sure he’s not up to anything evil.”
There was another rumbling sound.
Buffy glanced idly over her mother’s shoulder again. “Your radio doesn’t seem to be picking up that station really well. It keeps cutting in and out.”
“Yes, yes, it’s been in and out a lot—” Joyce stopped again, paralyzed by her own words.
Buffy noticed nothing. “I’ll call the gallery right away,” she said. “And then I’m going to grab some breakfast and some weapons and go. I broke my favorite axe when I missed a vamp and hit a tombstone with it last night.” She had turned away, obviously more than a little relieved not to have to spend the day nursing her sick mother. “I’ll call later, okay?” She was already halfway down the stairs.
“Fine,” said Joyce, and added reflexively, “Be careful.”
She locked the bedroom door and sunk down on the edge of the bed, overwhelmed with relief and remembered panic. She squealed involuntarily as a strong arm snaked out from under the covers, grasped her by the waist, and pulled her down into their soft and inviting depths.
She was pressed up against him, unable to see him, but feeling his naked flesh pressed against her through the thin fabric of her clothes.
“You laughed,” she said, trying to sound stern, even as her mind catalogued the lean muscles that were holding her with such casual strength.
“Sorry,” he said unrepentantly, kissing her so thoroughly her brain stopped working momentarily.
“You behaved very badly,” she said weakly, at last.
“Is this how you’re punishing me, then?” he asked.
She realized that her hand had crept down, apparently on its own whim, and was busily stroking the length of his cock.
He pulled her closer. “Harder,” he muttered into her ear.
She assumed he meant he wanted her to be rougher, because it would have been impossible for his erection to be longer or harder than it was already.
She remembered how fascinated she had been the night before, when she pulled his jeans down over his hips as he lay sprawled across her bed. Every reassurance she had ever heard—or repeated to Hank—about size not mattering had fled her mind and been replaced with awed admiration. She had crawled back on the bed beside him, her hand sliding along his inner thigh before reaching to caress the incredibly long, hard shaft of his cock.
“Go on,” he had said hoarsely. “You know you want to.”
She had grinned wildly before taking him in her mouth. Yes, she had wanted to, and, for the first time, she enjoyed it to the fullest. That was something Hank had never understood; she actually liked doing this. Hank had assumed she was demeaning herself out of love or the desire to keep him, and his smug satisfaction with her “sacrifice” had ruined her enjoyment of it.
Spike had purred instructions and roared approval of her efforts, his hand cruising her body as she crouched beside him, his fingers playing with her soft, full breasts and teasing the curve of her ass. But it hadn’t been his ministrations to her that made her come; it was the feel of him in her mouth, the hard globe of his ass squeezed in the hand that she had slipped beneath him, and the cries of pleasure her efforts had forced from between his lips.
Spike had understood and approved her feelings perfectly, just as he later crowed encouragement when she climbed on top of him, riding him, feeling that magnificent cock slide inside her as her muscles clenched around him. Hank had hated the loss of control he felt on the rare occasions he allowed her to be on top. Spike, sensing that she was glorying in the freedom of movement, had made no effort to thrust, letting her set the pace of their lovemaking. He had moaned his approval when she dipped forward suddenly, clenching her thighs and rubbing her breasts against his chest. “Surprise me, love,” he had said. “Keep surprising me.”
Joyce gave a gasp of surprise as she realized Spike had no intention of waiting until the house was empty again to resume their lovemaking.
“We shouldn’t,” she said weakly, thinking of Buffy moving around in the kitchen downstairs. But she made no attempt to stop him as he pulled off her pants and t-shirt.
His mind was obviously not on Buffy. “Why not? After all, I can’t go anywhere in the daylight, and it appears you now have the day off.” His lips were against her ear, and the soft exhalation of his breath as he spoke was sending almost as many shivers down her spine as the gentle pressure of his fingers stroking the underside of her breast.
His lips moved from her ear to her mouth, effectively cutting off any further remonstrance. She opened her mouth to his, reminded again of that first, thrilling kiss in the kitchen the night before. Her fears and embarrassment then seemed silly and pointless now; she was grateful that she hadn’t let herself be overwhelmed by them.
His hand was between her legs, stimulating her to even greater arousal. Buffy’s presence was almost forgotten as she reached down to stroke him with one hand, the other still clasping him behind the neck, as if to prevent his mouth from escaping from her questing tongue and lips.
But Spike pulled away from her hand and used his own to open her thighs wider. She thought that he would bury his cock inside her, and she was too aroused to protest, thinking that she could muffle her cries against his lips when he made her come. Buffy wouldn’t hear. It would be all right. There was no reason to wait until her daughter left the house, and that throbbing, insistent sensation between her legs was reason enough to do this right now.
Instead, he slid down her body and buried his face between her thighs.
She was about to scream. She had discovered last night that she was a screamer after all. She had never known that about herself, but Hank had apparently not been skillful or persistent enough to find her scream threshold. Spike had located it with great dispatch the evening before.
Joyce clamped her hands over her mouth.
“No screaming,” she muttered into her palm. “There’s a Slayer in the house, and I’m being eaten by a vampire. This is a scenario in which screaming could lead to fatal misunderstandings, not to mention extreme embarrassment.”
Spike’s tongue flicked against her clit again, and his fingers probed her mercilessly. Joyce heard Buffy tread up the stairs and throw open the door to one of the other bedrooms. Only a few panels of drywall separated her daughter from any sounds that emanated from Joyce’s throat.
Joyce gave a mew of frustration and horror and pulled away from him, flinging herself onto her stomach and burying her face in a pillow as she whimpered the sensations she could not shout out to the world.
Almost immediately, however, she realized that her change of position had not rescued her from Spike’s erotic attentions. She felt his hand slide over her back and down to her ass, slipping in between her thighs as he murmured, “Relax, love, your little daughter’s so dense that if you screamed out you were coming, she’d ask where.”
He had no need to ask where, and she bucked involuntarily against his hand, coming up onto hands and knees. She felt him move between her legs, and she needed no further encouragement to spread her knees wider apart. His hips ground against hers as his cock replaced his hand, slipping inside her moist, warm center. One of his hands grasped her shoulder, and she braced herself to take his weight. His other hand reached around her ribs to caress her breasts. As his fingers massaged her nipple and he began to thrust, there was another knock on the door.
“Mom?” said Buffy. “I’m going, but I wanted to make sure you didn’t need anything first.”
“Oh, no,” moaned Joyce. “Stop,” she added to Spike.
He growled in frustration but obediently began to withdraw.
“No!” She was too aroused. The sensation of him pulling away from her was too much to bear. She reached behind with one hand and grabbed him by the ass. “I just said ‘stop,’” she whispered. “Don’t go anywhere. Just—don’t do anything at all right now. Don’t move.”
“Mom?” Buffy’s voice sounded worried. “Are you okay in there?” The doorknob rattled.
“Please,” Joyce thought desperately, “please, don’t let my only child break down my bedroom door and find me doing it doggie style with a vampire.”
“I’m fine!” she called frantically. “I told you—I went back to bed. But I think I’m going to be feeling much better very, very soon.”
Spike’s laugh purred in her ear, and his cock thrust deeper inside her once as if to punctuate her statement.
Joyce emitted a squeak that she hoped did not penetrate the door and gave him a warning pinch on the butt.
“Well, okay, if you’re sure you just want to rest.” Buffy stomped down the stairs with emphatic thuds that should have been impossible for a girl her size. She was going fairly slowly, apparently loaded down with armaments.
As each step reverberated on a riser, Spike thrust into Joyce, and she felt everything spiraling out of control again. It was a sensation she had become very familiar with the night before. “Congratulations, Joyce,” she thought. “You are finally, officially, multi-orgasmic. Multi-multi-orgasmic, in fact.”
Buffy shut the front door so violently it set up a vibration throughout the house that seemed to shoot directly into Joyce’s nervous system. Overwhelmed with relief and passion, she screamed out her climax, her howl of ecstasy merging with the last reverberations from the slamming door. Panting, she could no longer support herself on hands and knees, and would have fallen onto the pillows if Spike had not wrapped one arm around her waist, his other hand still clutching her shoulder. He pulled her back against him, his cock still moving inside her, thrusting more shallowly and rhythmically.
“Tired?” he murmured into her ear. “Not too tired, I hope.” They were both on their knees and upright from the waist up. She was able to loll her head back against his shoulder. The hand that had been gripping her shoulder slid down to gently massage her clit. His other arm was still comforting and strong around her waist.
A moment before, she had been completely spent, but, amazingly, this shift in position seemed to have revealed new erogenous zones in an area she had thought already completely mapped. “No,” she gasped. “Not too tired.”
“Good,” he murmured, punctuating each phrase he uttered with a thrust. “After all, the day has barely started.”
All day, she thought. All day to do this, rest, and then do it again. She smiled as her body mounted towards orgasm again, more slowly and luxuriously this time. Joyce was getting a lovely little vacation after all.