Take Heart 12, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: NC-17
Thumbnail: Buffy’s friends are alive and back in her life; Spike’s chip is dead and gone. Yet those two crazy kids still can’t seem to keep their hands off each other. The sluts. All is not rainbows and puppies, however. Buffy needs time to think, while Spike gets Restless.
Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21;
Author's note: Big hug to the glorious Spikejones for beating;
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305;
Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
The last evening sunshine creates a rosy pool of light in the bottle of water on Giles’ coffee table, just to the right of Spike. The faint taint of singed hair from his trip through the daylight still floats about him and he shakes his head as if that will dispel it.
The Scoobies are ranged around the low table, the uneasiness on their faces the only thing they have in common just now. Buffy and Spike share the couch, the others have ensconced themselves in separate chairs.
Giles’ glasses are lying on the coffee table next to the stack of tarot cards. He eyes them longingly as if he wishes to fiddle with them but won’t allow himself. At last, he clears his throat.
“Willow? Would you start, please?” he says.
Willow jumps guiltily into action, her hair flying and ruffley pieces of clothing shaking with her small precise movements. She lights candles and gives one to each of them.
“I’m not going to do a repeat of the joining spell, guys. I’m thinking it’s not a good idea to call upon Sineya again, since it didn’t work out so well, and I think she’s gotta be a little wigged and maybe .. you know .. homicidal about being inside a vampire’s brain. So I’m going to invoke the goddess. It’s going to be a little weird with there being five of us. We’d usually be the four corners of the earth, but…”
Spike gets it already. He doesn’t belong with them.
“Now each of you picks two cards. I’m going to do the beginning of the spell, and then you’ll have to turn over the first card when I ask you to. Clear?”
Terse nods from all around. Buffy pinches his upper arm. Spike twitches around to see what he’s done wrong now, but it’s just tension.
“Who first?”
There are no takers until Spike gets impatient and holds out his hand.
Willow holds out the thick stack of cards to Spike and with a big show of not-caring he picks the two top ones. Buffy echoes him; Xander roots around until after much hesitation he’s found two separate cards from the middle, almost causing the pack to fly out of Willow’s hands. Giles picks his with precise, delicate movements. Willow divides the pack in two, picks out two cards from the lower stack, and cracks the halves together again.
“Put them down in front of you,” Willow says.
Spike dutifully does so, while trying to sneak a peek under Buffy’s cards. The flashes of color and thick black outline mean nothing to him. He resigns himself to not knowing and sits back, waiting for Willow’s spell.
Willow intones some words in mangled Latin, strews a few pinches of kitchen herbs around and something in the room changes. It’s now charged with presence. Spike looks around uneasily, never happy in the vicinity of magic, but everybody stares seriously at his or her candle and with a sigh he follows suit.
“Spike, turn you first card face up.”
He obeys. It’s the Fool. Well, that would be about right. A fool for love, that’s him.
One by one, the others turn their cards, following him widdershins as they sit in a rough circle around the table. Buffy has the card of Strength reversed, Xander the Page of Pentacles and Willow the Magician wrong side up. Giles hesitates a long time but finally lays down his cardboard oblong with a snap. The Emperor.
Spike knows nothing of Tarot, that was Drusilla’s gig, but he sees Giles and Willow study the cards earnestly. Giles’ eyes rest longest on Spike’s card, the Fool. The snide quip he expects isn’t forthcoming.
Willow chants some more semi-Latin gibberish. Spike zones out and thinks of Buffy. Buffy has to elbow him in the side when it’s his turn again to lay down the second card. He dutifully puts it down, only slightly creased from when he was unconsciously kneading it while he was lost in sweet Buffy daydreams.
King of Cups. Hah, he’s a king. That can never be wrong. Willow frowns and looks from him to Buffy. Buffy lays down the Queen of Cups. That has to mean something good. Giles’s scowl indicates as much. Then come Willow’s Tower, Giles’ the Lovers and Xander’s Seven of Pentacles.
Spike looks at Willow, waiting for the explanation. Willow bites her lips and hesitates visibly, throwing looks at Giles. Willow's easy enough to read, although there are various interpretations possible. She doesn’t like what she’s seeing, and she’s not sure she should reveal what it says. Who is she protecting? He’s seen Dru play with cards for a hundred years, and he knows what the cards could mean. A thousand things, but he chooses to pick one he likes.
Spike and Buffy, King and Queen of Cups. He turns his head to smile at her, but she refuses to accept the cheese he holds out. Now what? She always liked his cheese before. Willow’s hair is bleached a dead white and stands off from her face like it’s electrified. She doesn’t do more than glance at his cheese platter. Xander recoils from Spike and the cheese, but that’s mostly normal.
“I don’t wear the cheese, the cheese wears me,” Spike says earnestly to Giles, but he’s ignored. There are people everywhere, but he can’t seem to find Buffy again. Angel is in his crypt, performing like a circus freak for a crowd of people. Angel puts a pipe pensively in his mouth, crosses his arms, and plays the violin. Then he exchanges it for a big gun, a slouchy hat and a cigarette. Mr. Big Detective, yeah, right. As if anyone is going to buy that.
For a second he thinks he sees Buffy playing in a sandbox, but it’s another girl. He cringes when he realizes he’s inadvertently standing in the sun, but then he looks down at himself and sees he's wearing Xander’s body. No, no, that is the wrong way around! Giles and some other ponce are sitting on the swings, playing at being fools. They succeed remarkably well.
Spike wanders off. Maybe they’re in the dorm. Willow’s in her room, and he strips and lays down so Willow can paint his back. It tickles, and is curiously soothing. A kitten wanders over and he snacks on it absentmindedly. Willow screams in horror and drops the brush.
“What?” he says, annoyed.
But it’s clear he has to leave there. So far, he hasn’t found the right place. Where does he fit in?
Buffy would know, but when he follows her he’s back in that desert again. Another Spike is burning up while Buffy looks at the flaming heart she holds on her palms. He doesn’t want to die for her; he wants to live with her. It's a whole different vibe.
He becomes aware that there’s someone standing in the shadows next to him.
“I am the hand. The killing blow. The deadly arrow whistling though the dark.”
“The hand?” he says, irritated and confused at the same time. ”So what does that make me, the nail polish?”
Spike turns and leaves. He needs to find his own space, not hang around the others waiting for them to toss him crumbs and metaphors. He encounters a soft, musty barrier that flies into his face with clingy stuffiness and panics him a moment before he remembers he doesn’t need to breathe.
He’s in a dressing room, a theater’s dressing room, rows and rows of dusty costumes in all imaginable styles. Here’s a pirate’s suit, complete with eye patch. That is not for him. An empty tweed suit, the spats and waistcoat hooked on the same hanger. Higgins, he guesses. Spike fingers the Eliza dresses hanging next to it, they look like they might fit. He tries one on and paints his mouth with a stick of oily red theater make-up. He makes kissy face and presses a red rose on the dusty mirror. He looks pretty fetching, but it’s not him, he guesses. He doesn’t have a reflection, and his vowels are perfectly rounded already, thank you. Mother was always careful about his speech. Spike puts on the Darth Vader helmet. He’s always wanted to do that, but it’s stuffy and claustrophobic in there and he wants to take it off almost immediately. The clasp is stuck and he can’t get it off.
“Buffy!” he calls out, his voice distorted through the weird breathing apparatus. “Help! Get me out of this thing.”
Buffy pokes her head around the door, wearing a Chinese dressing gown like the one Darla used to have long ago and, obviously interrupted in the middle of putting on her own make up. One half of her devilishly fetching mud patches is already obscured by peachy girl-color.
“You‘ll have to help yourself, Spike. Helping vampires? Not what a Slayer is for. And anyway, if I take off the mask it would kill you.”
That can’t be true. He’s not the mask. He wrenches at it, but knows deep inside that she’s right. It’s not fair. Can’t he be allowed to choose which face he wears?
Buffy’s gone again and he almost runs after her again, but that’s not going to help. She doesn’t really want to. He enters the hallway after her. It stretches away endlessly, white featureless doors on both sides, door after door after door.
He picks one at random and opens it. Whoa. A snarling, weeping Buffy looks up from the face she’s been bashing into purplish mush. Lamplight glistens on platinum blond hair and wet leather. Spike steps back quickly. He so doesn’t want to go there. There was pain in both parties, and not the fun kind of pain.
He decides to pick a door on the other side. He’s in a dark basement, chest and tables stacked everywhere in dusty, tottering towers. He moves forward cautiously, not letting go of the doorknob. There’s a rhythmic, bonking sound, and when his eyes have adjusted to the gloom, he sees the source of it. A sandy frizzy head full of curls, the tips still platinum, bashes itself against the concrete wall.
“Not a quick study,” a refined voice whimpers. “The chalk ran and I was punished. Have you come to cane me?”
The Buffy who stands implacable in front of the pathetic, fraying creature has a face as hard as granite. All her girliness and sweetness have melted away, leaving only this grim general. Spike doesn’t want her either.
He stands and thinks or a moment. How is he going to find the right door? The trembling voice was right; he never was a quick study. But then, patiently figuring out was never his style either. He’ll just have to try another one.
His own face rises off the neck of a brown haired teenager, lying on the alley paving bleeding her life out. His jaws are covered with dripping blood, and while Spike watches, game-faced Spike wipes off some blood perfunctorily with his sleeve and grins wildly. Spike sees other bodies lying close by, Willow, by the look of the hair and the shirt, Xander.
“Buffy,” the girl whispers out with her last breath.
Spike steps back again. This is confusing. Who was the girl? Killing Buffy’s friends isn't his goal anymore. He likes this room even less than the ones where he is the victim.
He paces a long way forward in the hallway, but the view doesn’t change. The floor and the doors keep stretching away from him on both sides.
One more door and then he’ll try something drastic.
Another lovely tableau. Isn't there any future for him where anything good happens at all? Buffy is standing in the pose he’s starting to recognize, stiff and withdrawn, her arms crossed before her chest. The Spike is kneeling abjectly on the floor. The humble, craven expression on his face makes Spike sick to his stomach.
“Please, Buffy, please,” the Spike begs. “Let me make you happy.”
The Spike paws at Buffy’s legs and with reverent, trembling care lifts up her shirt and kisses her belly.
“You could never make me happy,” Buffy says tonelessly. “You’re a disgusting, soulless thing. You can’t love. You’re nothing.”
The Spike nods and hides his face against her jeans.
Next door. This one’s almost familiar. He’s burning up somewhere and Buffy is fleeing away from him.
Next. He and Buffy lie chastely curled up on a cot, dressed and unmoving. It’s not as awful as most of the other pictures, but there’s still a sad hopelessness that's possibly worse than pain and despair. He tries to imagine what he'd have to go through to turn into that bloke, and gives up in disgust. Not gonna happen.
Spike shuts the last door with a reverberating slam and leans against the wall. No, no no and no. He refuses to entertain any of these images as one of his possible futures. He’s not going to go there.
He pulls at the Darth Vader helmet again, and some blood seeps from the join where flesh and mask meet, but it doesn’t budge. He‘ll have to own up to the mask and face the consequences. He takes a deep breath and rams his hand through the wall. He peers through the opening and sees red curtains. Right. That’s his cue. He widens the hole and wrenches himself through it, stepping out onto the stage.
Spike strides into the spotlight, proudly wearing the mask. He refuses to be ashamed of it and spend his time on a spaceship, away from the multitudes.
He declaims ringingly, not knowing what words will come out:
“They being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel.
My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,
And they shall be themselves.”
Bollocks. He’s too young to play Prospero. He doesn’t want Buffy to see him as an old man, but he can’t stop his own voice,
”But this rough magic I here abjure, and, when I have requir’d
Some heavenly music, which even now I do,
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book.”
Spike stares at the curly black letters on the white leaves of the book. Have they gone smaller or what? He holds the small volume away from his face, trying to get them into focus. There’s a loud, ominous banging on the door of his crypt. He doesn’t know who it is, or what she wants, but he does know he needs to step away from this moment. He picks up a pen, scribbles a few lines on the lower margin of the verse, but he doesn’t even have to reread them to know it’s the same desperately awful crap that always dribbles impotently from his pen. Shakespeare’s words flow up form the page to become graceful black swallows, circling and flapping away from him into the distance. His own words follow, careening clumsily and their harsh cawing obliterates the sweet sounds from the other birds. The blackbirds wheel and turn over his head and he hangs on their every maneuver, head thrown back. His feet are wet. Spike looks down; the sea is rising rapidly while he stands gawping like a fool. He turns his head to see if he can still make it to the beach, but the pale yellow sand stretches out into infinity, dotted with sage brush, and he can just make out the pink sari and the burning vampire. That’s not the way out.
The chilly spume bursts against his skin with tiny kisses, changing the white foam into translucent green. He stares into the fathomless depths for a long time, and then he sighs and kisses her long bumpy nose, her lips. Now to persuade her to go skinny-dipping with him.
“Take off your costume, Buffy,” he says.
He chucks his and dives in. If she knows what’s good for her she’ll do the same.
He comes up and shakes his head wildly to get the brine form his eyes and hair, to see if she has followed him. The droplets fly around and land all over Giles’ living room. Spike stops, ashamed. He’s not a dog.
“So did I just have a 'sode, or did I fall asleep or….did you guys dream too?” Willow says uncertainly.
Giles sits up straighter.
“Dreaming? I wasn’t dreaming. I was just out buying ice cream with…Well. Quite. I was dreaming. Why was I dreaming? And what were those creatures that kept running off together? Never seen anything like it. Demons, or people painted to look like demons. Like black and white images of each other.”
“I never saw them together,” Willow says. “One of them…I was painting it, and then the other one attacked me and it ran off and burst into flame.”
“No, that wasn’t it. I had one of them locked in my basement and it kept escaping to be with the other one. I locked it up for its own good. It so needed a leash,” Xander says.
“Buffy?” Giles says.
Buffy stares at her hands, curling and uncurling them like claws. She touches her face, as if trying to rub off a speck of dirt.
“Giles, what are Slayers? Are we demons?” she says, staring off into the distances at something only she can see.
“Don’t be absurd.” Giles can no longer resist the temptation and rubs his glasses with feverish intensity. “There’s nothing in the Watchers library that suggests….” He trails off and stares into his handkerchief. “I don’t know, Buffy. I don’t know who or what Sineya was. Whether she was human, or if she was made into something else. If the Watchers have ever known, the knowledge has been lost.”
Spike leans over to Buffy and whispers in her ear.
“Take off your costume,” he says, so softly no one else will be able to hear.
Buffy turns her whole body towards Spike, staring at him in shock and fear. She touches her lips with hesitant fingers.
“Were you there in the dream? Was that really you or just something my brain made up?”
“I was there,” he whispers back. Not that he's completely sure she saw the exact same things he did, mind you, but he knows it’s the right answer.
She smiles at him, relieved, it seems. She turns away from him again. Spike sighs when her attention leaves him and sags against the backrest of the couch. All that frenetic dreaming has drained him.
“Willow, what do these dreams mean? How can they tell us if you guys are all right or not? My brain is bursting at the seams from trying to remember everything that happened,” Buffy says plaintively.
Willows’ brow crinkles and she scratches her scalp with the pencil. Spike pays close attention because he fears the return of unhinged Willow but she seems quite sane, just lost in thought.
“I felt relieved when the two creatures went away together. The first one, the first slayer I think, threatened to kill me in my other dreams. But that other beast came and then I was safe.”
Xander nods. “I didn’t like it when she escaped, but yeah, I felt safer. I felt like me again. I feel like me again now.”
“You always were you, mate,” Spike says, annoyed. “Stress induced, just like I thought.”
“You can’t dismiss those dreams that easily, Spike. It has to mean something that all four of us dreamed similar things.” Giles gaze sharpens and pins Spike under its spotlight. “Did you dream anything, Spike?”
Spike hesitates but decides to own up to it. “Yeah, I did. Stuff about costumes and masks. Didn’t see you, but you’d have figured as Higgins, no doubt. Fit right in with your tweeds.”
He leaves out the horrifying futures he saw, if that’s what they were. None of Rupert’s business. It’s up to him and him alone to prevent them from happening.
Buffy looks at him with a small frown creasing her forehead. Spike reaches out and smoothes out the line between her brows.
“Don’t worry, love. We’ll figure it out together.”
Giles coughs.
“Yeah, G-man, give us the verdict,” Xander says. “Are we doomed?”
“Certainly not,” Giles answers.
Spike feels Buffy sag in relief.
“This last joining spell has returned our consciousnesses to the appropriate bodies. There are no physical remnants, no lingering neurons. But something has lingered. As distasteful as it is to admit it, my loathing for you, Spike, is not as pure and unalloyed as it once was. Sharing a brain seems to have left some detritus of understanding.”
"Hey. I'm evil. I demand pure hatred. No sodding alloys!"
“Detritus, what's detritus? Is that like cooties?” Xander asks.
Giles and Spike simultaneously blurt out a heartfelt “No!”
”It's...a residue, but not physical. What I'm saying, Xander, is that we've shared a consciousness with each other and with Spike. Whether we like it or not, we're more intuitively intertwined now than we were before.”
Xander still looks all duh.
"We're .... closer. All of us, including Spike," Giles says.
Spike winks at Willow and waggles his tongue at Xander.
”Ew. I still don’t like it. I don’t want to be close to a vampire.”
”It's disturbing in all kinds of ways,” Willow agrees.
”Willow, you know what I feel if my best friends and my ... boyfriend aren't on separate planets? Coolness.”
”Yes, well, Buffy, I wouldn't anticipate immediate détente.”
”Huh?” Buffy says.
”He means, don't expect hugs and puppies right away,” Willow translates.
”Damn right,” Spike says with feeling.
”It's okay. I'm good with eventually,” Buffy says.
*
Outside Giles’ flat, Spike holds out his hand to Buffy. She slides her warm hand in his big cold one and they walk in the direction of his crypt without speaking. For once Spike doesn’t feel the need to break the silence; it's comfortable and friendly. He's got plenty of unpleasant forebodings from his dream to mull over.
When he catches sight of his crypt, he cant help thinking of the big bed he has downstairs, and when he turns to Buffy he sees her paralyzed by the exact same lust. They make it to the door of the crypt at a stumbling run, unwilling to let go of each other for even one moment. Spike leans her against the door and falls upon her, not knowing where to begin, where to put his hands and mouth first. There’s layers and layers of clothes to get through. He pulls at the little bow tie of her silk top with a pretense of patience at first, than with mounting frustration and finally he grabs it and tears it open from neck to hem, exposing Buffy’s cream lace bra and golden belly.
Spike stills for a moment at this glorious sight, but Buffy’s returning the favor and trying to get rid of his duster and T-shirt at the same time. The heavy door falls slowly open and they topple into the interior of the crypt. Spike has to let go of Buffy’s breasts to brace himself; he doesn’t want to fall on top of her and squish her.
Buffy gets a wide, wicked grin on her face and Spike feels himself flipped over, scooting backwards over the rough concrete flooring of the crypt until his head slides over the rim of the trapdoor.
"You think you're a match for a Slayer, Spikey? Think you're wild? Lemme show you wild…"
Their eyes meet and the challenge in Buffy's tenses Spike's whole body like a bow. She slides over him until she's sitting on his thighs, gripping them with her powerful muscles, and just looks at him. Spikes' breathing like a bellows, aching for her to touch him, but she keeps her hands away and considers him lazily.
"You wanna be touched, baby? Where? Like…here?"
All she does is touch her finger to his lips but Spike roars and nearly bucks her off.
"Buffy! Bloody well fuck me now or I'll…"
Her hands pin his upper arms to the floor and she bends over him, teasing him with her lace-covered breast in his face.
"Or you'll what?"
Spike's moan originates from his toes and Buffy takes pity on him, just for a second. She kisses him, sliding her tongue in his eager mouth delicately, a nibble of ambrosia, sucking on his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness invading every nook and cranny of his mouth. His heart expands to see her like this, wild, glowing, her hair escaping from its earlier sleek knot into a tangle of snaky locks, her shirt in tatters around her. She's wearing way too much clothing. So is he. He wants them all off, rip those staid paints of her, burrow into her lacy undies and dive nose first into the steamy delights that he knows lie beneath.
Buffy let's go of his arms and he use his freedom to grapple with her, chest to chest, wanting her warmth close, closer still, hands pulling and wrestling with layers of lace and silk. He gets her jacket off, but now she's ripping out his belt and snapping it in the air like cracks of lightning and he still for a moment, wondering if she'll go for play with the belt, but no, she throws it away. There's time enough to discover appetites like that; he wants to be inside her now, and he wants her naked. They growl and tussle like bears, worrying at each other's clothes and mostly succeeding in upping the frustration quotient.
“Off with those clothes, off, off!" Spike growls and Buffy giggles ecstatically.
"What's stopping you, honey," she says and tears his T-shirt in two.
Spike's duster has been flung onto the sarcophagus and the stiff leather lies like a statue frozen in a grotesque plea for mercy. Spike can’t choose between the two things he wants most, like throwing her on her back, plunging inside and fucking her into the concrete, or lying there and being ravished by his Slayer.
While he dithers, being ravished wins out and he watches in helpless lust as his jeans are roughly tugged down, his cock painfully constricted for a second of two and then springing free, impossibly thick and swollen, the mushroom head purpling and shiny with urgency. Her powerful hands on his zipper, and her hot wet mouth sucking his nipples into hard points of longing.
"Buffy, inside you, now," Spike begs, but Buffy's eyes are glazed and a feverish grin adorns her mouth.
He'll have to come into action, she's going to torture him forever, he just knows that. His hands are clumsy with lust and tear her pants like tissue paper. The longed-for panties are all he's been wishing for, cream lace, wet and fragrant with Buffy and his thumbs dig in her thighs and his mouth descends on her sweet pink petals. He’s so hungry for her, he could eat her out for days on end and never tire, but his cock is clamoring for attention and he crawls forward to take her.
The sight is mesmerizing, his pale thighs between her golden ones, his darkening cock slowly being swallowed up by her reddened swollen lips. He'd go on sliding slowly, up and down, in that magic tunnel for ever, but he bumps into a yielding barrier and Buffy throws back her head moaning in ecstasy and the dance of the writhing snake and the grotto hastens mercilessly, their bodies squishing together with wet fleshy slaps and God, why does he only have one pair of hands? He needs two to touch her breast and two to hold himself up and one extra for her clit wouldn't come amiss either. Buffy tries to dig in her heels on the rough floor and slowly they slide backwards and against the stone tomb, clawing to get some traction, their sweaty flesh squeaking against each other, until the stone halts their backward progress and he can put some real power behind his pistoning hips.
And it's not enough, he wants more, harder, further in. He lays her open like his own personal treasure box and gets in deeper than anyone ever has. He pushes up her knees to her ears so that her ass is completely in the air. Buffy tries grabbing the stone and pumping back to him, but she can’t get a grip. His first thrust is slow, dark and sticky like molasses and he feels something building in her, her thighs are quivering and her eyes are closed she's uttering little helpless mewls and that's him, he did that, reduced the mighty Slayer to a helpless bundle of trembling nerve ends. He drives in to the hilt, looking down to where their bodies meet, seeing his pubic bone touching her clit and she contracts powerfully, trying to wrestle free of him in a mindless urge to lose the energy that's barreling through her.
She's screaming, yowling in the agony of release. Spike watches her animal flailing until he can no longer and follows her into that bestial place of howling storm and mindless rooting, shooting his very soul into her pulsing depths until he's spent. He's empty, scoured clean and reborn.
Spike’s nose is squashed into Buffy's neck, and that's pretty good place to be. Her skin is slick and fragrant with rich decadent scents, old perfume and sweat and sex. Mussels and champagne. Gradually he becomes aware of the crouched, doubled-over position he’s in. Concrete is burning his knees and his ass is in the air. Buffy is folded around him, half her weight hanging on his hips, where they are still deeply and sweetly joined.
He experimentally wiggles his hips a little and sees with profound satisfaction how she colors red all over her face and breasts, shivering and clenching around him once more. She's up so high he could go on fucking her and she'd come every two minutes. In fact, he's gonna put that plan into execution right now. Only his elbow is unpleasantly trapped between his own body and a hard stone ridge.
"Where do you wanna be, love?" he rumbles into Buffy's ear and the tremors of his voice are enough to set her off again.
"Right here, baby," she says. "Crypt still standing?"
"I guess so.”
“How about, you know, the bed?"
"I wanna stay inside you like this all night," he says, refusing to move.
"Come on, you big, powerful vampire you. You can't carry me down on your big thick vampire dick?" Buffy pouts, but her words only fill him with the desire to prove his mighty prowess to her once more and he spends long, pleasurable minutes in getting her to make those primeval sounds again.
Eventually Spike takes mercy on the concrete burns on Buffy's back and staggers her to downstairs, glued together at the hips. He's never gonna let her off him, ever again. He's home. He falls backward on the bed and lets her ride him, experimenting with the angle of her body until he can almost reach that perfect deepest place inside her again, but the jiggle of her breasts and the concentrated faraway look on her face make up for that.
Her golden skin is beaded with sweat, pearls on satin. Her breasts sway as she undulates on top of him. Time expands and contracts. Now and then, she bends over and he can cup her breast and tease her nipples into hard raspberry red buttons, or sup slowly from the honey in her mouth.
Her nails rake over his nipples, drawing blood and he arches up form the bed.
"Hurt me, sweetheart, hurt me good.”
Buffy comes with a low, drawn out shout and sags against his knees.
"Tired, baby? Let me do the driving for a bit. Turn over for Spike. Good girl, like that, with that sweet arse up in the air. Unh."
It's great like this. Her juicy ass cheeks fill his hands and he can get in so deep, spend so much force, and she can brace herself against the headboard. He's got the biggest, most powerful cock in the world and it makes his girl scream and scream and scream. His thumbs dig deep into her flesh and he can just about see the bruises forming. That is so hot, she likes the pain, doesn't she?
They haven’t resolved anything between them, but Spike can’t bring himself to care. Resolve reschmolve. This is great, this is now. It’ll have to be enough.
They lie stickily entwined, tired and buzzing with spent passion. Spike is never going to move again. They’ll just grow together after a couple of years and be one creature, half dead and half alive.
Buffy stirs and sits up. She climbs on top of him to give him a big slurpy kiss, the kind of kiss you don’t give in public, and he’s just thinking another round is in the works when she sighs and ruffles his hair.
"I gotta go, Spike."
"Stay?"
"I have to get home. I can't just start sleeping here!"
"Why not, love? 's Not as if your Mum's gonna kick up a fuss about it, right?"
"Yeah, but…"
She sits and twiddles with the sheet in front of her breast, back into shy mode. Spike gets up and walks over to the rickety and as yet almost empty bookcase. Next to Omar Khayyam, his only book so far, lies the proud result of much worrrying and scratching out.
"Look, Buffy, I made a list. See?"
He reads the entries to her.
"’Do not kill human beings, unless Buffy says so.
“’Don't be rude to Buffy's friends.
“’Don't shag Buffy when she's asleep.’"
He looks up hopefully and thrusts the list into Buffy's hand.
"What do you think, love? I made a column for you too, but it's just got 'Don't hit Spike in the nose' on it so far. Subject to your approval, 'course."
Buffy looks as if she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"What is this for, Spike? Is this gonna be your paper soul?"
"Well, yeah?" he says, not sure how to interpret her words.
She says nothing, just stares at the paper and makes a funny face.
"Buff?"
She hiccups a little and wipes her eyes.
Spike's getting impatient and also pissed. "Slayer? You laughing at me?"
Buffy falls around his neck and hides her face in his shoulder.
"No Spike, I'm not laughing. It's just…it's really sweet. It's a great idea."
Her tone can't quite convince Spike of her sincerity. He puts his finger under her delicate little chin and lifts up her face to him. She's looking at him with such tenderness that it scares him.
"What?" he says, roughly, afraid of feeling that much.
"Just thinking…maybe there is a shortcut for this? Coz it could be like a really long list, you know, Spike?"
Yeah, he's realized that. A list as long as his life.
" I'm thinking Ten Commandments. Did you know I once got an A for bible history in grade school?"
To be honest, Spike wouldn’t have reckoned her for an honors student. More like a solid B minus due to general cuteness in the eye of the uninitiated, they who don't know about her Slayerness.
"Lemme see if I can still remember them. Not killing, got that covered. Something something about parents , let's skip that, oh! Adoring stone idols. That's a big no-no, Spike. Because nobody wants a repeat of the Acathla debacle."
Spike nods. Nope.
"I'll try really hard to keep my hands off stone idols in the future. Word of honor."
“And no stealing. Like attachable Judge parts.”
“Let Meccano maniacs lie. Got it,” Spike says.
He grins and wonders how she’s going to turn adultery and ass-coveting into Slayer lessons.
"Spi-ike!"
Buffy smiles sweetly and flips him over on his back. She takes the list from him and writes on it while it rests on his abs.
"Listen up. I wrote this: It’s a Thou-shalt-not for Buffy. It’s a Buffnot. K. Here goes: “’If her friends are around, Buffy will not ignore Spike.’"
"That'll be the day. Ya think Harris will make a list for me too?"
Buffy boxes Spike's ears, none too gently. That gives him another idea.
He takes the list back, sighing at Buffy's round girly script that takes up half the paper and poises his pen.
"Buffy will not try to turn Spike into an utter poofter," he says.
"Isn’t that English for gay? Why would I want you to be gay?” ?"
Spike gives a long-suffering sigh. "I am now and will always be a vampire. Only so far I can be domesticated. Keep that in mind, Buffy. Not your tame doggie.”
She pokes him hard in the midriff, but he stiffens his abdomen and resists her jab successfully. “Not your tame poofter Slayer either. I’ll still be fighting evil. Make sure you don’t qualify.”
“Love you. ‘s Not the same as tame.”
“Totally different. I understand,” Buffy says.
"And I’m still evil, understood? Might not do evil. But, not gonna get a soul for you.”
Buffy’s eyes grow big.
“You can get souls? There’s a Walmart for souls? Or even a black market?”
Uh-oh. Now he’s gone and done it.
Buffy narrows her eyes and looks at him for a long, long time. To his surprise and relief she remains silent.
“We good?” he says a little anxiously.
“Oh yeah,” she says and pushes him over with one soft touch of her pinkie.
“Take me now, Slayer, before I change my mind…”
THE END
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