Vignette, NC-17. Buffy/Spike, Season Six. One of those moments we never saw, not that I'm bitter.
Based on Annie's idea, though I'm sure the idea of 'Spike and Buffy doing a lot of kissing in bed' has never occurred to anyone.
“You should take your shoes off,” she whispered.
“Wh---Oh.” Spike certainly had a habit of opening his mouth without a thought in his head, but he wasn’t necessarily stupid. He tossed the cigarette out the window, and then shucked his coat off onto the floor. She swallowed again as he bent over and ripped his boots off. Muscles twitched in his arms, and she wondered how long she should cling to her pretenses, when she knew the only thing that would relax her was him.
Barefoot, he padded to the bed, and sat down next to her at her hip. He eyed her bare shoulders skeptically, then hooked a finger over the edge of the covers and slyly pulled it toward him. One small rosy-tipped breast appeared, and they both held their breaths. Spike shook his head slightly, then traced her curve with one unsteady finger. The nipple was already hard, but his finger sent a bolt slashing through her body. Pretense, she thought. Pretend it doesn’t make your pulse beat hard, so that you can feel it right between the legs. She was so wet for him already that he’d be smug when he found out. Thrust, parry, dodge. Duck and feint. Have to stay in control, keep him off balance, keep him from seeing how her legs trembled till he was between them, how all those stupid romance novel cliches came true around him. Because if he found out…
What would he do? Insist on staying in her bed, wrapped around her in a coil of soft skin and sleek muscles, instead of leaving? Would he insist that he could look at her all the time the way he did when they were in bed----part adoration, part trepidation, and part bewilderment? She really couldn’t speculate, because all her experiences with boys had demonstrated that pretense with boys--with guys--wasn’t so much deceptive as it was protective. They pretended they didn’t like you when they did, so much so, that when guys actually didn’t like you, it was hard to tell the difference between real and fake. In return, you had to pretend that you didn’t like them---at least at first. Or----She frowned at him, and Spike, who was leaning against her now, stiffened. Or like Parker, they pretended to like you when in fact…She frowned again, and Spike sat up. “What?” What did you do when you met a guy who didn’t pretend?
No pretense there. His hand rested just beneath her naked breast and she pulled her other arm from beneath the cover to take his hand and fit it to her skin. He leaned forward, eyes intent on her mouth, shifting to her side. Beside her, he relaxed, but she tensed as he pulled the covers down a little more, baring her other breast and making the nipple pucker in the air. He lowered his head to take it in his mouth, his hand slipping beneath the covers, sliding down her body, rounding over her belly, then pausing at her pubic hair. The hesitation, paradoxically enough, was even more arousing. She grabbed his wrist, flushing, but then relaxed at his hurt look. Somehow, she hadn’t expected that. Nor did she expect the way he looked startled rather than smug as his hand slowly slid lower, gliding gently toward his goal. Further, his fingers separating and making her ache even more, his mouth lifting from her breast to her mouth, while she pulled him closer to her, tried to push the covers away. He pulled back just a fraction, his hand slipping, wet and slick, from between her legs. “Thinking of me?”
Pretense, she thought. Time for a joke, time for some distance, because she was too close to something here, something more naked than her body. But his body was comfortable—so comforting----against hers, and his expression was utterly guileless. Not here, she thought. Not now. Not this little place, this little island around them. “Yes,” she whispered. “Were you?”
He kissed her till she gasped then, his tongue parrying hers, while her hands tried to pull him closer still. Somehow, he grabbed her hand, and pressed it to his crotch. He was as hard as iron under her hand, and he flinched and hissed as she stroked his length over again, then fumbled with his belt and buttons. “You too?”
“Me, too,” he agreed, and stopped helping her shove his jeans away to kiss her again. His hands paused at his buttons, then floated instead to her face, her hair, as if they'd never touched her before. She was shivering, but her skin was hot against his fingers, his mouth, as he traced the lines of her neck with his mouth. He wasn’t licking, she thought; he was really kissing every inch of her he could reach, tasting and savoring, making her shiver even more. Only when she got his pants shoved down and touched his erection did he freeze, going rigid above her, his whole body vibrating. It couldn’t be that they’d done this before, because it all seemed impossibly new and vivid to her, the way he arched back as she cupped the head of his penis in her palm, the head already wet, her excitement increasing to almost painful levels because of his. It couldn’t be that she’d seen him before, and gotten accustomed to the way he twisted over her as she cupped his balls in her hand, drew harsh gasps from him as she traced lines of his cock, the bulging veins that matched the ones in his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, and his lips parted, Adam’s apple bobbing in a display that seemed so primitively masculine that she pulled him down for a kiss, mouth open and greedy. God, it was a good thing that orgasm made her weak because otherwise she would not be able to stop kissing him, his mouth being so perfect a revelation of his personality. He was soft and eager, hungry, almost frightening in his urgency, his hands clutching her hair, the pillow, the blanket, as his cock slipped and bobbed against her stomach. He pulled back to pull his clothes off, but she stopped him, wriggling and shifting, till the head of his cock was pressing against her pussy, and it was impossible to resist. One twitch of his hips, and he was pushing slowly inside her as she stiffened and went rigid.
He was almost completely clothed, his jeans open and shoved down slightly, but she was completely naked, and the contrast was shocking to her. He could be a burglar, she thought, and that disturbed her. He could be anyone. He braced himself and shoved hard, and she arched off the bed, all thought erased as her muscles convulsed around him in shock. He pulled all the way out, and it felt as if he taking away some part of her. His head dropped, gasping for air, then pulled his shirt off as if he'd read her mind. The disturbing mental image vanished. She pulled herself up to him, kissing her way up his body to his mouth, hands skimming through his hair and touching his face. It was impossible to remember his pants under those circumstances, and he forgot them in favor of her body and her mouth. She was making little noises as they kissed, tiny sighs and gasps, trying to find sounds to express herself, and finding only inarticulate syllables. They sagged back down onto the covers, and she pulled him closer to her, but turned her face to look into his eyes. This was not a good thing and he frowned at her. “What?”
She shook her head. It was impossible to capture the thoughts flashing through her head, but naked and defenseless in her bed, they seemed to have reduced themselves to some common element. All her worries had disappeared in a pile somewhere, and here and now she felt oddly innocent, stripped of her insecurities before his desire for her. She stroked one finger down his face. “I can’t say stuff like you, you know that.”
“Oh…well….what did you want to…say?”
“Can I show you?”
Like I’d refuse, he thought, but he nodded instead. She wiggled beneath him, settling him on top of her till he was nestled between her legs, her hands touching and caressing all of his skin that she could. She pulled him down for a kiss, soft and slow, gradual and gentle, fingertips on his face. He shifted, and she helped him, guiding his cock inside her, her eyes widening as he thrust all the way home. They rocked together, forehead to forehead, belly to belly. He went deeper rather than faster, twisting his hips every time, making her gasp and stiffen with every stroke. She had to close her eyes every time he did that because it was too much, seeing him arch his back with every thrust, feeling the muscles in his arms flex beneath her fingers, feeling his cock hit places she’d never been aware of. Every movement had a cumulative effect that didn’t give her a chance to recover, but built up and up. She had to close her eyes to block out the sight of his face, because he was transformed by her in a way that she was afraid to acknowledge. When it hit her, when everything exploded inside her, she could forget the way he looked at her when he was inside her. Lately, he’d been looking at her like that more and more often outside of bed, too. It was starting to make her nervous, that naked face of his.
Just not now.
She came down gradually, just in time to watch it hit him, and she got to appreciate the way it made him arch and shudder, muscles tight everywhere, eyes squeezed shut. He shook with the waves, then sagged, his forehead dropping to hers. He was softening inside her, and her heart beat seemed to bounce from her chest to his and back again. Her bones seemed to have dissolved into happy goo, and she allowed herself to press her cheek to his, her hands stroking his arms back and forth. This was the moment to beware of mind-reading, because it was always this moment that stupid thoughts swamped her: Sigh. Nice. Oh, back muscles. Curly hair. Arm muscles. Boy. So close, stay close… Stupid post sex thoughts, which, oddly enough, she’d never much had to worry about with anyone else.
Spike muttered something into the blanket, and lifted his head to brush his mouth against hers, making her hiss, because that was enough to make her ignite all over again. He was still inside her, but the kiss, his body on top of hers, his back beneath her fingers, all of it----Oh, God, she hated the way he made her feel, melting and liquid and helpless. All she wanted to do was keep him inside her, against her, make the bed their fort, as if they were grown-up children, and stay in it until she tired of him. Yeah, like that would do it, she thought. Dawn had gone away to Hank’s for the weekend a month ago, and she and Spike had barely made it through the door after dropping her off, before Spike pinned her to the wall with one rip and one thrust, and made her scream. They hadn’t even made it up the stairs for an hour, fucking in the vestibule almost fully clothed till she was weak and sore. And then when they got upstairs they went for hours and hours, stopping only to recuperate between bouts, and instead of getting tired, she got more and more insatiable. She couldn’t touch all of him all at once, and until she could, nothing satisfied her.
Spike groaned and pushed up off of her, pulling out of her and making her wince. Connection severed, she thought, current interrupted. His jeans were still around his thighs and he turned around and sat on the edge of the bed. She stretched out one leg and rubbed it across his stomach, her eyes trailing across the lean lines of his body. When she was dressed, when it was daylight, when normal people surrounded them, it made no sense, this twilight bedroom, these frenzied acts. But now, watching the play of muscle and sinew beneath his milky skin as he leaned over and shoved his jeans all the way off, it was the world of daylight that baffled her. I should just stick with one or the other, she thought. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and the muscles in his arms bunched and relaxed. She poked his stomach again, and he leaned back over her leg, studying her. Casually, he reached down between his legs to adjust, and she swallowed abruptly, her throat dry as dust.
This is Spike and this is me, and her mind shut off. Here we are, like this, together…For one second, she knew why she didn’t want anyone to know what was going on between them, felt why it had to be kept locked inside the twilight. It was theirs, something primal, and entirely between the two of them. Every other relationship had been built on all the right things, she thought---and here she was, naked and making no rush to grab a robe or a shower, and relaxed not in spite of it, but because of it.
And because of him.
She sat up, curled against his side like some static-y piece of clothing, and he frowned at her, wondering what was coming. “Where are you going?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Uh…” He studied her, looking for the irony that had to be there. Nothing. She was completely serious, and he realized this because she leaned in and kissed him, which with Buffy was a whole other language. What she couldn’t say, she put into kisses, and she had a very extensive vocabulary. He had become a skilled interpret of Buffy kisses, what with the wild swings from fuckmenowkisses to makemefeelbetterI’mdepressedkisses to, every now and then, ohohholdmeandlookintomyeyeslikethatkisses. This was a new one, though, and like the kiss earlier, he was left floundering for meaning. Usually her kisses were accompanied by going for his dick, but her hand stayed on his stomach, flattening and tensing there by turns as the kiss heated and changed. “What?”
“I said, where are you going?” Her chin rested in the space in his shoulder, which should have been irritating, except it was so girlfriend-like that his stupid undead heart thought for a moment it was alive again.
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.” Buffy looked at them, then dropped her eyes. “You don’t.”
“Good to know.”
“Darn tootin’.” She unwrapped herself from around his body with a little sigh, then burrowed beneath the covers. After a moment spent blinking at her like an oaf, he laid down next to her, tense and nervous. He propped his head up on one hand. After a few minutes, she got nervous at his nervousness. “What?”
“Who are you, and where’s Buffy?”
“Can’t I, sort of----?” She shrugged, shoving the covers away.
“Sort of---?” he prodded.
“Uh…I’m not sure, really,” she admitted. “But, are you complaining?”
That was the thing; he was pretty sure he ought to be. There ought to be some fifty/fifty decision-making going on around here. “No, not me.”
“Well…neither am I, you know.”
Which was good, sort of. He looked down at her. She was looking up at him with puzzled eyes, and he recognized that he’d bewildered her by getting all complicated about everything. She was warm against him, and had practically pulled him into her bed, not before sex---well, okay, then, too, but still----but after. This was a step forward, and when did he get so spoiled as to worry about it?
He dropped his head to her pillow, and she wriggled against him, soft and compliant. One part of him longed for the words, but the more practical side was too busy cataloging the sensations bombarding him; bedsoftBuffysleepcomfortnofighting and that was the side that soothed him to sleep.