“Yes. God…more…please—” Buffy was almost beside herself as Spike pumped her to another mini volcanic-like explosion, waiting less than calmly as it gathered enough power to erupt from the coil deep inside her body. Her leg was stretched over his shoulder, his mouth suckling at her marks as his hands rubbed through the sweat that had left a heavy layer over her body. She collapsed back against the stairs, finding her voice hoarse as Spike kept thrusting, her orgasm gone but another building even faster. With one almost painfully held breath, Buffy screamed, letting it out at last what a continuous three hours of erotic exercise did for her mental stability. Angelus might have tortured Dru free of hers, but Spike had without a doubt fucked her raw and left her sanity somewhere upstairs. Quite possibly on the living room floor right in front of her mother’s favourite chair.
Her panting breath was raspy and over the desperate gasps for oxygen, Buffy thought she could hear a knock somewhere above her. Spike had collapsed, completely exhausted on top of her, the rough basement steps making their mark deep in her back. And she’d never felt better or happier in her whole life.
Spike lifted his head from the comfy pillow of her breasts with a long leisurely lick.
“Think your mates might be back.” As reluctant as they both were to move, he levered himself up on strong arms, Buffy following tiredly after. She watched in fascination as Spike slowly pulled his cock back, feeling as well as seeing the blatant run of their combined fluids as it flowed out of her.
Buffy felt so bad. She’d been literally screwed into the ground and was covered in sweat and come as her friends waited for her fresh, wholesome presence to let them into her house. She was meant to be protecting them and yet she was still thinking of the places she could be pressed naked with Spike pounding into her.
She was so wet and slippery that it wasn’t possible to put on pants. She could feel semen dripping down the insides of her thighs and she was extra glad that she’d worn a long skirt and light top when she’d come to the basement under the pretence of setting up Spike’s bed. At least she could be dressed while she let everyone in and then she could escape for a quick shower.
“Mmmmm,” she moaned as Spike bit at her neck gently. His human teeth were even more erotic than the primal feel of joining she felt with his fangs lodged inside her body. She giggled as he continued to taste her, nibble on her as she struggled back into her clothing. “Maybe you should stay down here while I let everyone in and then have a quick shower. You know, so you don’t end up scaring anyone.”
Spike looked at her through hooded eyelids and agreed without argument. He’d never been so shagged into the ground in his unlife. Even Drusilla hadn’t been interested in a marathon like this. And Spike was fast realising the woman he’d thought was his partner for life was far from compatible with him for the long term.
A quick peck on the lips and Buffy was thumping back up the stairs, running through the house and opening the front door, and all the while, Spike lay back on the basic cot bed with a sappy grin on his face. Almost absently he tested his legs, bending his knees and straightening out his legs while suspended a little in the air. That was it. Feeling. He finally had it back and all it had taken was a complete switch in his attitude, in his lifestyle, and in his diet. He should have been wiser and known that staying forever with Dru would get him killed. She gave him life, after all. As daft as she was, she probably thought she could wipe him out with the fickle turn of her mind.
Spike considered the Slayer, the woman who had taken him from that and changed him to something he didn’t yet understand. Well, not completely, anyway. But for reasons he wasn’t privy to, it didn’t matter. This was a new place—one where he wasn’t expected to be anything but who he was. There had been no games—except those the Slayer was inclined to initiate when she was in the right kind of mood—no head tricks to alter the way he felt or acted. Buffy knew he was a murderer, a killer, a monster that had fed and bled thousands in his time, and yet she seemed to discard his history as something to be faced at another time.
This time was for them, to learn who the other was down deep. Not the killer of his kind, and not the beast she was formed to save the world from. Just Spike and Buffy on a journey to work out why they meant so much to each other—and so fast. It sent a trickle of fear through him, knowing that more than likely the brown sludgy stuff was bound to hit the fan sooner than later—especially once they faced the reality of her friends being upstairs. As much of a party it seemed to be, even with the snack foods—and no he wasn’t referring to Harris’s neck though it gave him plenty of cravings—they were there in need of protection. And now that Buffy was his, and he was hers, he was part of that protection. That it was from his own family—the ones who’d taunted and tortured him throughout his unlife—was neither here nor there. They could play like it was all normal, but Spike knew better. He knew if not tonight, then next week his sire would have her vengeance, and he knew more than likely one of these people his Slayer was attached to would be gone from her life.
He never had known this kind of sadness, and that was enough to make him stand firm in this joining. In this relationship that defied time and reason. Losing any one of those now plonked in front of the telly would be too much for her. Her pain was his to bear now. His to absorb, and it was an uncomfortable knowledge.
Still, they were playing at normal tonight. A time off from all the scary thoughts and deeds. A time off from the reality of what they were in the dark—natural enemies who were raised to take the other out. Tonight, he just wanted her to be his girl.
He could hear the jollility of her friends and the dry curses of her watcher as they settled in for a night of telly, no doubt arguing over a pile of movies. Buffy didn’t take long to rejoin them and Spike salivated at how fresh and clean she must be. He wanted little more than to go and touch her, kiss her, and make sure that what he’d experienced with her since he decided to be dusted by the Slayer was real.
By the time he made it half way up the basement stairs, he was convinced the first flick would be in credits before he made it. His recovery was absolutely in motion, but the progress was bloody slow. Hardly a surprise when he’d managed to shag his girl for hours at a time. Tended to take a bit out of a bloke’s stamina.
The second half of the ascent was achieved with a locked jaw. Determination was nothing as the sweat began to break out on his skin. But once he’d cleared the last, the vision of Buffy stood in the kitchen doorway, a soft expression and a smile his reward. He felt so absurdly pleased to have made the effort to go to her—to spend the night amongst her group of friends—that he felt a sappy grin settle on his lips.
The strain of getting up the stairs was pure hell on his muscles, however, so the satisfaction almost died a humiliating death as he swayed at the basement door. Before he could give in—could accept his limits for the night—Buffy was at his side. She wordlessly curled an arm around his ribs, encouraging his own arm to hold her shoulders, and she led him to a vacant spot for two on the couch.
Buffy had come for him, wanted to share her night with him, and he felt himself fall a little faster to a place he knew he wasn’t coming back from.
And for some completely non-evil reason, he was fine with that. His demon was fine with that. And not even one of the heartbeats in the room, not one of the racing pulses made him want to feed and wreak carnage in her living room. What he wanted was to curl up with her and be a part of her life. And if that meant watching bloody awful teenage flicks on the telly, then so be it. Not like he wouldn’t enjoy the looks of exasperation the watcher wouldn’t be able to repress.
No. For tonight, he was free to be something other than what he’d been for the last century. He was free to let the hungry part of his humanity out and grasp hold of something new.
And hopefully something permanent.
Buffy.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Other than a little flush of her cheeks, Buffy didn’t feel even the slightest embarrassment that she’d kept her friends and watcher waiting at the door while she and Spike had finished off with the wild sex. No siree. Not even an incy bit.
So what if she dumped them at the TV and then bolted for upstairs?
They’d managed to start settling in without her. There were sleeping bags all over the floor, a half-hearted pillow fight between Willow and Xander as they waited for her to get comfy and they could press play on whatever they’d chosen to make the night appear like a normal one.
Except, how could it be? With a healing vamp in her basement—one that she knew she would rather die than give up kissing—and a demented vampire just waiting for any one of them to slip up and give him an easy snack.
Buffy was thoughtful as she looked at the as yet blank screen, knowing that all this angst would come to a crashing anti-climax if they could just get Angel back together with his soul.
And what would that mean for you, Buffy? She didn’t like that getting relative peace back in her life would rely on the return of Angel. And she didn’t like the concept of her having to choose between vampires. As much in love as she’d thought she’d been with him, nothing like what had happened with Spike had even come close to rocking her Angel world. So maybe that was her answer? Returning him back to the land of the brooding wouldn’t mean anything to her. Angel would be back on his redemptive path, and Buffy could concentrate on what yellow brick road she was leading Spike down.
“Giles? Isn’t there…I don’t know…some kind of way to give Angel his soul back? I know Ms. Calendar said that her people lost the curse, but wouldn’t there be some other way? I mean, gypsies can’t be the only ones who have that kind of magic or knowledge, right? What about the Council? Couldn’t they get their big magic guys on it and make up a spell? How hard could it be?”
By the time she’d finished, everyone was staring at her, Giles sans glasses and so his eyes looked a little unfocussed.
“Or hey, what about some kind of contact with those whacky Powers that like to pull the Buffster’s strings? Is there some way to contact them? Because I’m sure they don’t like losing a vamp with a conscience.” Xander continued munching on his snacks, fully expecting to be told off for his stupid suggestion, even though just once he’d like to be the brainy one. The guy with the solutions.
“A-as ridiculous as that, er, sounds, I think Xander might be onto something.”
Giles’s bare face was right in the path of an exploding mouthful of chips.
“I am?” the brunette spluttered, eyes darting around to look at his friends to see if they were just as impressed as he was for coming up with something viable.
“Go, Xan,” confirmed Buffy, a huge confident smile on her face that did wonders for the upbeat nature of the room as Giles wiped mulch off his face, disgust warring with admiration.
“I’ll investigate our options further when I am at home and near my books. I am certain there is a way to converse with, if not the Powers themselves, then surely some kind of intermediary.”
That was enough for Buffy. She’d started something off that could save them all, could save half of Sunnydale, and now they could settle down to munchy goodness and some nice, muscular Spike as her headrest.
Those thoughts had brought her to the kitchen just as he yanked open the basement door and dragged himself through it. The strain on his face was enough of an indication of the strength he’d used to get himself there, and Buffy felt herself burst with pride. She knew he was a fighter. Something between them had altered on a major scale, and now she felt almost like her equal was standing right in front of her.
In one wildly strange night, Buffy had brought herself home a vampire. One that had wanted to rip her heart out and tear apart her neck for months. One who had chosen her to be the marker of his death. And instead, she’d looked at him and seen so much more. Potential.
And she’d fight the world not only to keep him, but to see it through.
And she’d win. It’s what Slayers did.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This fic was started one year ago for Rae's birthday. It's that time again and what better way to celebrate than by giving the girl another chapter. Happy Birthday, Rae!