She hadn’t slept in two days. With bags the size of carry-on luggage under her eyes, Buffy watched resentfully as Willow and Tara left to go home to bed. She’d done the good hostess thing—forced her lids open with double caffeinated caffeine, and tried not to think of Spike out and about in black, or her soft inviting pillow on her bed.
She couldn’t give in to the call, though. As soon as her head would hit softness, she just knew other parts of her would be impaled—without her permission—on things of much hardness. And that was not on her list of things to do for the next however long it took to work out this rabbit and carrot mystery.
She’d already wracked her slayer brain for the past two days on why the original slayer might be doing this to her. Obviously, thinking about it wasn’t enough and she should probably have employed Willow’s much more higher-functioning and efficient brain for the job. She had her little list of clues—and taking a leaf out of Willow’s book, she’d even used pretty colours to do it. Yes, orange and purple featured prominently, but that was totally a conscious thing. And the little hearts she’d sketched around her purple Spike were so totally planned as well.
It had all started with the werebunnies. So not fluffy, by any means, and really not part of Spike’s admittedly minutely small fan-club. Still, it was the first dream and he’d been in it, and since that moment, he’d seemed to have as much access to her very important R.E.M time as she did. A seemingly strong connection, then, had to be the gargantuan vegetable life popping up all over Sunnydale. How it had taken over Spike’s home and led him into hers could have been a coincidence, but Buffy wasn’t taking anything for granted. Nuhuh. Not anymore.
As bizarre as it appeared, Buffy figured these items on her clue list were pretty normal as far as things went on the Hellmouth. It was how her dreams had progressed to be tormented by not just one of her sisters, but the original one of her line that had her confused. The First Slayer wanted her dead, and seemed not above manipulating a permanent connection to a notoriously evil—though not-so-dangerous—vampire to do it.
Though she was pretty sure the sex part of the curse wasn’t supposed to be as potent as it was. Or for it to have even gone past the claiming part of the objective.
Buffy smiled tiredly. She’d read up a little on claims—well, as much as she could,which turned out to be not too easy—since she’d come by the decision to not completely confide in Giles. She was so far from ready to admit that she was having very sexy, er, sex, not only in her dreams, but in real life, as well. There were certain things a girl deemed necessary to keep to herself, and doing the wild thing with Spike qualified very high as one of those things.
So far it all seemed to make a whacky kind of sense. There were werebunnies on the loose, and whoever had summoned them to Sunnydale was also growing size-appropriate carrots to keep their hunger at a minimum—presuming they were herbivorous. Fighting said bunnies wasn’t going to be the pushover Buffy might have originally suspected if she’d come across them on-the-job rather than in her sleep, and using Spike as a distraction might do little more than have him sliced and diced into pretty black and white ribbons.
“You still tryin’ to suss all this out? I bleeding well told you. Get Rupert on it already.” Spike stomped through the house after shutting the front door a little less loud than usual, and Buffy assumed her ‘Spike-is-totally-invisible-and-not-living-in-my-house’ routine and ignored him, tapping a violet gel pen against her orange notepad before resting the end of the cylinder on her bottom lip.
And then came the weird orange and purple metaphors, and that’s when her ideas veered off in the direction of the not having of any. She was idea and explanation free, and that just stunk. Stunk as bad as rotting werebunnies, if she had to guess. Which ewwww, she’d so rather a raincheck on that one—except for the part where they were dead and a non-threat.
She’d twisted her mind into all sorts of interesting avenues of exploration the entire day, and as a conclusion, she’d come up with nothing. And all it led to was the seriously unhappy realisation that she was gonna have to tell Giles. She was going to have to let the secret out of the bag and admit to having wild and compulsive, hot, naked sex with Spike, and shamefully confessing she wished she could do it without the intervention of her dreams. Or the inconvenience of guilt.
Giles was so going to kill her.
Her body was burning up for Spike. Every time he was near, she wanted to tackle him to the ground and make him naked. Every time she looked at his face, she saw them together, years into the future, fighting evil and spending the night lovingly in the other’s arms. It hurt her head—but even more, it hurt her heart.
She was totally going to kill Dawn.
None of this had ever been a blip on her radar until her pesky sister created the possibility by opening her mouth and releasing words. Painting pretty possibilities that her friends would flay her for even considering. For participating in…even if she had been asleep.
Okay, so back on track. It was the naked, the claim—which, all right, she got that. Her sister slayer thought if she was tied to a notoriously vicious slayer-hating vampire, one of them would end up dead with a more than average chance that it could be her. It was harsh, but she understood that bit. What she wasn’t getting was the failure of the curse, because Sineya—huh! pretty name—was totally with the determined, and yet Buffy and Spike were making with the loving, rather than the killing. And as much as it galled her to admit it—even if it was silently to herself—she wasn’t finding much about that to complain about.
As scorching hot lava rushed through her veins in place of the usual blood, Buffy cringed and admitted to herself that there wasn’t anything to complain about. She’d never suspected that sex could be so porntastically perfect outside of a movie, but she should have known. Spike had always been the type to rise to the challenge. And rise he had, over and over again.
Buffy had only just begun to lose the fire in her cheeks when she looked up and found Spike standing in the kitchen doorway, staring contemplatively at her and her notebook while he sipped on a mug of blood. He’d lost the neat new leather coat somewhere and Buffy gulped at the image of physical perfection in front of her. She’d never considered his form before. Sure, Spike had been a perfect example of what to mock, but really, when the blinkers of prejudice had been ripped off and crushed to a cinder—and the sensations of experience came into play—Buffy could see herself hooking up with a lot worse than Captain Peroxide.
“You know, we could have put those carrots to some interesting uses.”
And that was totally one of the reasons she’d never thought of Spike as anything but an evil, nasty vampire that would look so much better as ash in her vacuum.
“DO NOT add anything else to that sentence,” Buffy ordered, standing slowly and letting the notebook fall to the coffee table. And yet images began flashing behind her eyes and the colours in the living room changed suddenly without explanation. She felt light-headed, disorientated and consumed with a driving lust to see skin-of-Spike.
Spike’s eyes narrowed as he watched Buffy’s focus seemingly shift and blur before returning to pin him with a gaze of intent he’d never seen from her before. His head tilted to the side, Spike wondered at the very distinct change in her in the ten minutes since he’d entered the house. He could smell heat in the air; his body was being attacked by the scent of her lust and his fingers tingled with the desire to shed her clothing and run his tongue over her compact yet very sexy body.
“Buffy?” He took a step inside the room, leaving the mug absently on the desk and drifting past it.
“My mom is out of town tonight, and she didn’t trust me to have Dawn in the house.” Her voice was low and husky and Spike couldn’t help being overtaken by whatever mist around them was drawing them together, inhibitions and commonsense on permanent vacation.
“What are you saying, Slayer?”
She didn’t say a thing. Instead, he was slapped in the face with her scanty stretch-top and then a black lacy bra was hanging around his neck. Two rosy tipped nipples pointed at him with purpose and Spike licked his lips, still in control and yet eager to give in to whatever had the good sense to make the Slayer hot for him while she was conscious.
“Should your mum be gallivanting around the countryside so soon?” He cursed his tongue and his insane need to talk, almost terrified that she’d snap out of this daze and cover those luscious little lovelies up. That would be too cruel, not now that he could map the exact contours of her body.
“She’s not gallivanting. She’s partying. With her sister. Aunt Diane. It’s her birthday.”
His brow perked up at the implied difference of definition, and he refrained from grinning at Buffy’s frequent confusion of seemingly simplistic concepts, and yet again he couldn’t really care. Joyce—bloody brilliant woman—but Buffy was getting naked, and that was something he’d been aching to see without the influence of sleep for longer than he could remember. Though he only supposed it had been a few months, time flew when circumstances conspired to make you love’s bitch yet again.
“Birthday in the family then. We should celebrate.” Spike took another step closer, pulling his tee out of the waistband of his jeans and loosening the snap at the fastening of the denim as he went.
He was gratified by Buffy’s mesmerised focus at his crotch, and then almost laughed giddily as her hungry gaze traced the progress of his lifted hem until the shirt cleared his head.
Buffy was nodding when he ran his hand over his crotch, the ache in his engorged cock almost doing him in. Nodding and swallowing hard, and yet still progressing toward him.
“Spike?”
He almost stopped and fought against this primal urge, recognising the hesitant tone as heralding the possibility that she’d behead him for taking advantage of this lapse in her determination come tomorrow.
“What is it, Buffy?” he asked, already feeling the pain of her withdrawal. “You want me to stop?” Just the suggestion seemed to send opposing bolts of debilitating lust soaring through his body, and Spike suspected his bits were straining a bit too hard and his hair was standing on end.
“God no,” she gasped, and then her lips were on his, her fingers gripping clumps of his hair tightly as she held him determinedly against her.
Not that Spike was complaining, but he wondered which body part she was going to cripple when she came back to herself later on. It wasn’t that he’d told her how he felt about her these days—even though he’d picked up from the few things she’d said that the Bit had probably let loose more than a few of her uninformed musings concerning the more sensitive nature of Spike’s feelings. There was no denying he was a man, and Spike found it as difficult to hold back on the offer of insanely satisfying sex as the next bloke, but there was the little issue of roaming werebunnies and gardeners with size issues. Their first order of the night should be to start sorting out the many mysteries that were playing havoc with their lives.
And he didn’t want Buffy to take it out on his balls when the mists of pleasure parted and she saw who she’d inducted to the heady cavern of sin between her thighs. He was rather attached to his danglies, and he’d warrant she was partial to them too—if she was honest.
So as much as he wanted to take advantage of Buffy’s timely interest, he didn’t want to hear about it through a spray of ugly invective for the rest of his life either.
Preparing to take the bull by the horns, Spike sucked in her tongue and soothed its fire with his own, groaning at the almost beautiful violence of his girl’s thrusts as she tried to kiss his lips to dust. But then a wandering hand travelled a little further down the front of his jeans than he’d mentally prepared for, and Spike squeaked as he pushed her away.
“Christ, woman. What the bloody hell are you trying to do to me?”
The haze of lust was slow to burn out in the Slayer’s eyes, but when it did, Spike could see she was livid. “You…you…I hate you,” she screamed and burst into tears as she ran for the stairs.
“Buffy, stop!” Spike grabbed her before she got too far, holding her writhing body as she elbowed him in the ribs and kicked his shin. His eyes rolled back at the pain and he stumbled backward, thankfully landing on the couch, but unfortunately with Buffy jarring his aching erection as she ended up on top of him.
The Slayer screamed in muffled rage as a hand slapped over her mouth and Spike’s other hand snagged a breast and squeezed just hard enough to hurt. “Don’t bloody move or I’ll rip it right off.”
Buffy was immediately still, and he could just imagine the terror such dismemberment might have wrought and felt a queer sense of satisfaction at achieving even that minor scare.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I’d dare, princess. An’ then some. But I admit it would break my heart to damage one of these pretty titties, but you bounce on my dick like that again and I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” It helped that he knew that he would never do it—helped just enough so that the chip didn’t explode in his head.
Buffy almost ripped herself out of his hold and Spike commenced a violent string of curses under his breath, but then she was turned in his lap and he was cradled comfortably at the cup of her pussy and he couldn’t hold back the groan of relief such a sensation brought him.
She had miles of shattered confidence laid out in the shadow of her eyes, and Spike knew himself all sorts of an idiot. He allowed his body to release the tension that had held him rigid, and allowed his hands to settle around her waist. Not that that was where he wanted them, but after threatening the all important globes, he thought he should probably hold off on touching her breasts for a bit.
“Wasn’t rejecting you.”
Her eyes shone as she looked up and confronted him. “I thought you wanted me? Dawn said…not that you…I mean…I thought you wanted me? Or is it only fun when we’re asleep?”
“Are you completely off your nut? What’s fun about being manipulated? If you were doing this of your own free will, I’d be right there, tickling you in all the right places, making you scream—” He was on a roll until she laughed and he lost his train of thought.
“You are such an idiot. I was using my own free will, and you pushed me away anyway. What? You can’t even tell when it’s me and not some bitch queen of the slayer line pushing my buttons?”
“Oi, it’s me that pushes your buttons, and don’t you forget it.” Spike grasped hold of the important words, that touching him had been her choice and not the cue of some mystical force, and decided to nut it out another time. And preferably one where they stood a mile apart from each other and were wearing a lot of clothes. “Now, I believe we’ve got a thing to return to.” And before Buffy could pout, before she could say another word in censure, Spike was attacking her throat and his fingers were trailing up her bare torso, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Buffy arched back, her body on fire for Spike’s special talents, and she felt the beginnings of a violent cry claw free from her throat as his lips latched around her straining nipple. She was crazy; there was no other explanation for why she’d suddenly been so filled with need just from looking at him. She’d caved into the impulse and allowed herself the freedom of truly feeling what it was like to choose him. To choose to share herself with him. Her choice—not some ho-bag slayer who’d had her time long ago.
The claim had truthfully never really crossed her mind as a motivation behind the out-of-control urges to feel Spike’s hands and mouth against her flesh. That was probably a bad as Buffy knew it had to be a factor—but acknowledging it as being the driving force behind her lust and developing affection for the bleached vampire was too sad to be considered. It remained as something they had to discuss, however. If she was joined to him now—if her existence and meaning was merged with his in any way that she was ignorant of, she needed the skinny. That way she’d know which way to jump to avoid Giles’s understandably furious retorts.
Spike was feasting on her breast, his teeth gnawing at the sensitive tip, and it was so much more satisfying than his threat of before. Tingling pleasure led the way through her body and snagged against her heated centre, before building into a roaring burn that was driving her insane for his touch. His fingers were delving into her pants, and Buffy knew the frustration of tight jeans—totally uncompromising when she wanted to get her kink on—and determined that she was going to be Skirt Girl every night from now on.
There was nothing for it, they had to move. Lips locked, Buffy forcefully brought him to his feet and they both got seriously busy with sliding down zippers and jeans until they stepped out, leaving a denim mess on the floor and stumbling almost drunkenly back to the sofa with Buffy landing in almost precisely the same spot as before. This time, however, there was nothing to hinder a much more pleasurable outcome and Buffy slid with unerring accuracy down, down until she reached bottom, her breathy gasps betraying the monumental impact of stretching around him.
And then it all came to a screeching halt. Buffy sat in his lap with his cock fully immersed and her body vibrated pleasurably all over. Curling her arms around his neck, any shyness that might have coexisted with the romance of staring deep into his eyes was absent, and Buffy lost herself in swirling stories and truths.
Of all the vampires she’d known, Spike’s entrance had had the greatest impact. Even that first night she’d had the drop on Angel, the hulking mystery guy had melted into the shadows like he was born and grazed there. Spike was only one with the darkness when he chose to be, but Buffy knew even back then that he wasn’t one to select obscurity often. Spike was someone who thrived on being seen, on being recognised, and as she stared into him while her muscles massaged him toward release, Buffy could see more of his truth than she’d ever thought existed.
Almost as if the experience was new, Buffy saw that day in the sun, when quips and slander had geared her up to whip immortality off his finger and send him sizzling into the sewers. It had been a satisfying moment—and not because she’d rendered Spike useless. She’d fought against his almost overwhelming power when humiliated and in pain, and she’d won. But not only that, she thrived when she and the bleached pain met up and traded blows. It made her hungry, it made her hot.
It made her his.
Buffy hissed as she recognised how inevitable this development had been. She may have fought it and denied it to her head, but somehow her heart had always known. Her slayer heart. Her Buffy heart had been decimated by the cruelty of others.
Spike could swear they’d been fucking for hours, and all of it without actually moving a muscle. Well, none of his, at any rate. Buffy’s body had stilled as soon as she’d reached the end of her descent, and yet he could feel every inch of his cock as she tightened and released him in an infuriating rhythm that made him want to bite her as well as kiss her senseless. But he couldn’t, had to be alert as she sucked his life story from his heartfelt, loving gaze.
“What are you seeing, beautiful girl?”
Buffy flushed, pleased at how soppy and intuitive he always was, and slipped her lips against his.
“I’m seeing you, Spike. I see you.”
And it was a sight profound.
Deep Purple by Peta
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Author's Chapter Notes:
I only missed one day. Thank you all who bother to review. It really does make me feel good to know you're reading.
And...er...more smut. Sorry about that. I'll try and cut it back.
And...er...more smut. Sorry about that. I'll try and cut it back.