Summary: Season 6, possibly not long before Dead Things. Post-Spuffy sex, Spike is in a surprisingly good mood. Just a little PWP.
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Disclaimer: Joss, Joss Joss Joss…….
She can hear the exhaled chuckle as he replies, “Got it.”
“Just as long as that’s clear,” she says, refusing to make eye contact. Because she doesn’t want this firm principle confused by the minor fact that she just had sex with him (again), or whimpered his name when she came. No mixed messages here, no sir.
“Dunno where I could have got any other idea,” he tells her gravely, shifting his weight onto one arm to look at her properly. She carefully examines the pattern on the rug.
“You’re a pig,” she informs him, somewhat unoriginally, and he oinks in unoffended agreement. She’s vaguely pissed at his resiliently good mood. It’s easier to do this when they stick to their usual routine, which consists of the mutual exchange of increasingly nasty insults to fill the time until her legs work well enough for her to storm off in an outraged huff.
She chances a glance at him and has to fight to maintain her glare in the face of eye-twinkles and evil dimples. With an irritated sigh, she falls onto her back again and contemplates the ceiling.
His hand brushes over her stomach, barely grazing the flesh with tickling fingertips; she wriggles a little but doesn’t push it away. Taking advantage of her temporary reluctance to punch him in the face and take to her heels, Spike drops his head towards her neck, gently tasting, licking his way to the base of her collarbone before returning to her earlobe. A tiny whine of contentment escapes Buffy’s lips and he feels her stiffen beneath him at her own unwanted display of….involvement. The hand on her stomach stills for a moment, its steady weight calming her before it returns to its entirely evil journey, caressing her skin so softly she can hardly bear it.
He nips gently at her ear, and she responds with a growl that seems to come from the base of her throat. Thus encouraged, his hand meanders over her ribs, sending a shudder through her body that she can’t even begin to disguise. He grins broadly, then notes her scowl and pushes the truly delightful idea of tickling her to death towards the back of his mind. A plan for another day.
So he moves away from territory that can only lead to his early demise, skirting teasingly over her hip, stroking the smooth skin of her behind until she bites her lip to keep from moaning. He ignores the way her legs have opened again, the invitation obvious; instead trailing circles over her leg, closer and closer to where she wants him, needs him, then further away again. He teases the silky flesh until he can feel the tremors that run through her body. Then he draws back and looks at her thoughtfully.
“What?” she demands slightly breathlessly. Why? screams her mind
“I think it’s time for you to say something nice, pet,” he explains, holding back a smile at the sight of her undisguised horror. He dips down to run his tongue over her collarbone before explaining, “Make me feel all appreciated, you know?” She glares at him searchingly, not quite sure that Spike could be capable of self-restraint in her naked presence. When she realises that he means it, that his evil-bastard self is as strong as his infatuation, she grabs his wrist, prepared to use force to make him resume his interrupted mission. He laughs then, snatching back his hand and chuckling, “Now pet, that’s not nice.”
“Bastard,” she hisses.
“Not quite what I had in mind either,” he calmly corrects. Twisting her hand in his, he brushes a kiss over her wrist before returning it to the bed, then simply gazes at her. He chews on his lower lip as he contemplates her internal struggle, adding to her dilemma without realising.
“What exactly do you expect me to….?” The frustration in her voice is evident as his hand returns to her thigh, tracing ever-decreasing circles that lead to ever-increasing desire, but do nothing to solve the problem.
“Something nice,” he murmurs into her ear, sending new shivers down her spine that meet and meld with the shivers that are travelling upwards, leaving her feeling shaky and desperately aroused.
“God, I hate you,” she groans, an inkling of the magnitude of this defeat hitting her. If he’d tried this, anything like this, a few weeks previously, she would have picked up whatever ragged threads were left of her clothes and stalked out. Something nice, indeed. But now she knows she can run but she can’t hide, that bringing home this level of thwarted lust just doesn’t work. It leads to cold showers and twisting, turning, writhing nights of little sleep, where she tries her best with fingers and vibrator and shower head to pacify the raging beast of her body’s arousal and nothing ever really works.
Because what Spike has created, only Spike can fix. She groans again, sure that there’s some message in that. A bad, evil message about not getting involved with bad, evil, ridiculously talented vampires who have a hundred years of experience over her.
He watches with poorly concealed amusement as her pride wages war with the increasingly urgent needs of her body. His finger entwines a curl or two, playing with her, making her hips rise off the floor as she tries to force his hand. Her eyes plead with him, a sight that makes his heart leap giddily, but he’s set the conditions for this and she can damn well say something nice to him, he decides, it won’t kill her.
“Please,” she says quietly, masking the urgency as best she can. His eyes widen; this is a new addition to her vocabulary and he thinks he could get used to it. He makes a mental note to root out the handcuffs he knows are around here somewhere. Images of a hot, writhing, shackled slayer begging for it fill his head and he shifts a little as his groin throbs painfully, forcing the realisation that the problem with his current game is that if she doesn’t play he won’t get to either. He hopes she doesn’t notice.
“I suppose that’s pretty good for you, Slayer,” he concedes, before his mouth closes around a nipple, sucking on it till she sighs in sheer contentment. His hand ups the ante, one finger lightly slips inside her, his thumb brushes her clit with a featherlight movement she can hardly discern except for the quakes of pleasure that travel the length of her body.
She hates him so much right now, resents that he can cause this reaction in her traitorous body. Hates that she can’t just punch his face in and turn on her heel, run away and never think about him again.
But she’s too far in now.
“Oh god, Spike, please,” she whimpers. He grows harder at her words, his erection grinding against her hip as his tongue duels with her nipple, his teeth just touching the golden skin of her breast, not biting, merely reminding. He slides a second finger inside her, his thumb working her clit in rhythmic circles.
And then ceases all movement.
He looks into the bright eyes that brim with indignation and he grins unrepentantly. That indignation has been so long missing that he feels a genuine thrill of pride at being the cause of its return. Of course, the joy in his eyes in turn sparks whole new levels of irritation in hers. “Spike, you prick, get on with it or I’ll…..”
His gaze turns sceptical, a hair’s breadth from icy. “Or you’ll what?” he asks levelly. “You wanna go by yourself….” He shakes his head slightly in a way that leaves her in little doubt about her options.
It’s Spike’s way or the by-way and the world is so frickin’ unfair.
She’s so close to the edge now that she seriously considers walking out (or maybe crawling), just so she can release this tension herself. Not the first time, either. Standing outside his crypt, hoping it’s beyond the range of stupid vampiric senses, shoving her own hand beneath her pants, barely having to touch her clit before her knees shake with the force of the orgasm. And then trudging home, feeling twitchy and dissatisfied. She did it when the fucker threw her invisible self out, but she’d rather not do it again.
“Spi-ike,” she whines, but that doesn’t seem to be enough. He hovers over her, so close that the hairs on her skin quiver in anticipation. “C’mon,” she begs. He’s made her beg. She will *never* forgive him for this.
“You, ah, want something, Slayer?” he drawls, nuzzling against her, nibbling at her shoulder.
“You to…oh, please!” She drums her feet against the floor, a futile gesture of sheer frustration.
“Why me, pet?” he asks. “Why me and not your own hand?”
And now she curses him again, him and his psychic abilities besides. “Because,” she groans. His tongue is continuing its evil games with her neck, her right breast. God, she hates him. And it he doesn’t make her come right now, she’s going to kill him.
Just as soon as she regains basic motor functions.
“Was there going to be a reason there any time soon?” he enquires politely.
“Because you’re better, okay?” she huffs, sufficiently indignant that she sits up on her elbows and glares at him.
Her head hits the floor with a bang as his tongue brushes her clit. How the hell can he move that fast? She releases the shuddering breath she’d been holding as he gets to work, reducing her to a molten mess in seconds. And now she knows that walking away, or just walking per se, is out of the question. What she wants is simple, she wants him to suck her clit until she screams, she wants to remember the full advantage of sleeping with the unbreathing.
And instead he plays games, waiting until she is lulled into a false sense of security before he moves his tongue from her throbbing clit, placing biting kisses on the surrounding flesh, darting down to her inner thigh and teasing the delicate skin with his mouth. Then returns to tracing patterns over her clit, teasing her beyond endurance as he pumps one, two, three fingers into the centre of her burning heat.
Never allowing her release.
And there comes a point when she realises - he’s going to keep her there, on a knife edge of not-quite-coming forever. Oh, god, and she’s going to let him because she’s lost all will to move, to speak, to fight this delectable torture. Plus, - no way her legs are going to work now.
The bastard slides up the length of her body, plants a kiss full on her lips, laughing against her mouth as she pummels her fists against his chest. Gathering her reserves, she grabs his cock with one hand, the other pushing his shoulder, flipping him over onto his back. For a moment he lets her, lets his eyes close as he enjoys her revenge; then he recovers himself and the situation and reverses their positions again. She fights him, but either her ability or will to fight is sadly diminished by the aching, throbbing need between her legs and he wrestles her back to the floor with ease. She curses him loudly, pumping him harder and harder but failing to distract him.
“How good?” he teases, and she batters his chest with one hand, the other still busy.
“No,” she hisses defiantly, sure of her ground for the first time; he’s too close to the edge himself, the hellmouth will open before he can pull back now.
He stops, cocks an eyebrow at her helpless whimper of frustration. Her mouth opens and closes impotently, not a word emerging.
“I think the phrase you’re looking for is, ‘Oh, Spike, I need you, fill me with you giant cock,'” he falsettos, dodging the fist she swings at him.
“I think the phrase I’m looking for is ‘Fuck you,'” she retorts, the ability to speak returning as her fury grows by the second.
He smiles, vaguely in awe of his own self control as he holds himself at arm’s length above everything he wants from this world. It’s taking skills he didn’t know he possessed not to plunge straight into the pool of heat beneath him. Poised, ready for her word, he offers, “Don’t suppose you’d like to prefix that with, ‘I want to?’”
It takes her a moment to connect the sentiments; her scowl deepens when she does. “Oh, come on,” she begs, hating the whine in her voice, hating what he can reduce her too. No one has ever made her beg, and the idea that it would be him….
He collapses back onto one arm, the other hand reaching for her nipple, twisting it until she moans. The he takes the other into his mouth, sucking harder and harder, punctuating with tiny licks until her body twitches and one leg tries to kick out at him. Finally, he raises his head and with eyes full of mischief suggests, “We can start over again if you’d prefer?” Her eyes widen in horror.
“Fine,” she spits, knowing that he means it, that he’ll do it. Bastard finally has a way to torture her to death that doesn’t even leave blood on his hands. Stupid hands. She takes a deep breath, sighs her dissatisfaction with the world and says, “Spike. Please?”
“Wrong answer,” he taunts, “Question was ‘how good?’”
“Fucking evil bastard,” she breathes, falling back onto the floor, taking careful breaths.
“Gratifying, thanks, love,” he laughs, his voice hitching as he positions himself above her. “Not the magic words though.”
“Good,” she tries hopefully, watching for his reaction from beneath heavy eyelids. “Really good?” she offers, as he remains impassive.
“Fuck,” she sighs, trying to ignore the urge to just give in and bring herself to an urgently needed climax. Because she needs more than that now. “Better than Riley, okay?” At his smirk of victory, she begins the speech about, “You know, I really, really….”
He enters her so slowly that for a moment she’s afraid she might scream, pulls out equally slowly on strong arms that she longs to sink her teeth into. He keeps up the leisurely pace, taking his weight on one arm now as the other catches her hands. She can’t take this agonizingly gentle torture any longer; her arms struggle against his but he holds them fast, prepared for her reaction.
It takes an age for it to get to Spike too, finally he slams into her, his face contorting as he loses himself in her hot depths. He begins a barely audible commentary as he pumps into her, faster and faster, muttering and panting a bit as she clenches and releases around him.
This is easier, this she can deal with, good, hard, fast fucking, rutting, shagging. This is more like the first night, the one she tries not to think about. He pounds into her, knocking her back repeatedly against the stone ground; they seem to have lost the rug somewhere. She doesn’t object, it’s more on general principle that she rolls them over, takes her rightful place on top. He grins, unperturbed, ready to let her have her way at last.
“I-hate-you,” she grits as she bounces hard off his hips, her muscles milking him deeply.
“That’s ‘cause I’m eee-vil,” he drawls, eyes half-closed as he reaps the best possible benefits of a pissed-off Slayer. She slaps his chest for that, leaving a stinging handprint, but her efforts are concentrated on her own pleasure now, not his pain. He brushes her arms aside without a fight and tweaks a nipple, rubbing the rosy peak until pleasure becomes pain and pain becomes pleasure. She lets him. She pumps harder, frantic and jerky, until her face contorts with the sensations that flood her body. And with a strangled howl, her entire body tenses for a moment as she climaxes hard and fast; the ferocity of the thing wringing her body until she slumps onto his chest.
His hips increase the pace as she clings to him, worn out and helpless; bucking into her exhausted form. But the sight of her orgasm is always enough to affect him and it’s a matter of moments before he roars his own release, clutching at her hips as he drives frenetically into her. Her reaction is infinitesimal, an increase of pressure as she clutches at his arms, driving her nails into his flesh, but it’s enough to make him smile.
Slumping against the floor, he wraps his arms around her, trailing tickling fingers down her back, making her shiver and tremble. He smiles as she half-giggles, half-hiccups. Groaning into his chest, she swipes a hand through her chaotic hair and then, with an enormous effort, rolls off him and hits the floor with an, ‘Oof.” Her eyelids droop wearily but the smile that plays on her lips remains.
“Yeah,” he says soothingly, a hand stroking her hair, “it’s hard bloody work to be nice for ten minutes, isn’t it?”
With a small frown she opens her mouth to discuss the ‘ten minutes,’ then finds she can’t be bothered and closes her eyes without argument.
He surveys her exhausted form with interest as she gradually begins to breathe normally again, her pulse relaxing as her heart slows. “I suppose you’ll be needing to run off now,” he suggests neutrally, waiting for a reaction.
She groans quietly, not moving an inch or a muscle. “I might just….rest first,” she admits, unsure if she wants to try to stand up on legs that feel like overcooked spaghetti. All she wants to do is sleep…..
A smile tugs at his features as he rolls over to grab a cushion off a chair, which he throws towards her to be used as a pillow. She shivers slightly and with an exaggerated sigh he gets to his feet and finds her a blanket. He knows offering her a comfy bed will be futile and self-defeating, guaranteed to send her scurrying out the door.
“Hate you, Spike,” she murmurs, as he takes advantage of her limp exhaustion to snuggle closer, wrapping one arm loosely around her waist and nuzzling into her hair.
She’s almost immediately asleep and never hears the affectionate reply. “Hate you too, Buffy.”