Characters: Spike and Buffy Summers
Rating: Ranging from PG through NC-17
Warnings/Squicks: Angst, violence, blood, het, sex and character death, usually in that order. The setting runs through the angst of seasons 6 and 7 of BtVS (with a brief stop in AtS season 5) though a post-Chosen/post-Not Fade Away Spuffy utopia (maybe). Also, many sentences contained herein are of a very dangerous length, and should not be attempted without proper medical jaw and lung supervision.
She knew it was wrong, just all kinds of wrong – from the automatic Oh, my God, he’s a vampire to the wistful I shouldn’t be using him like this – but Buffy just couldn’t stop herself, because with Spike (in his arms, in his bed, just with him) was the only place she ever managed to forget that her friends had ripped her from Heaven.
He thought he’d gotten the measure of her with those lip-locks (now strangely insipid) they’d shared under the red witch’s spell, but as Buffy wound her fingers into his leather, tugging him closer and clutching at him as if she thought he’d try to run away, Spike realized that this – the feel of her lips, the taste of her tongue spiced with old tears and despair – was not only something he’d never experienced before, it was more than anything he’d ever had.
Firm, muscular chest, abs on which coins would bounce, stubborn enough to give a brick wall a run for its money – everything about Spike was sharp angles and hard edges… but then Buffy looked into his eyes, and the love she saw shining there melted her every time.
At first, in typical Buffy-fashion, she wouldn’t let herself remember, because remembering hurt so, but the beauty of him as he stood in the sunlight as he saved the world his soul shining so very brightly wouldn’t be denied; it wasn’t until she realized that burning in the sun was the most agonizing way for a vampire to die that she could move past the numbness to cry for him.
It always amused her to no end – all she had to do was mention Angel, no matter how innocently, and Spike would immediately pout and start to mutter under his breath that his grandsire was a brooding pillock; he finally caught on to her little game after she burst into a fit of giggles when he called him a glorified spud farmer with his crop up his arse.
Buffy had thought sunny days would be the worst – after all, if the sun hadn’t been shining, Spike wouldn’t have burned up – but they weren’t; on the days that storm clouds turned the sky dark, she found herself raging against the fate that took him from her until she couldn’t tell if the wetness on her cheeks was rain or her own tears.
Her day had been nothing short of horrible, but it was already vastly improved: Spike had lit soothing candles to flicker around the bed, given her a massage with sweet jasmine-scented oil and now he was feeding her bits of fruit dipped in warm chocolate; she hummed delightedly and licked his fingers as if that were the real delicacy.
The years since she’d become the Slayer had been filled with hardship and sacrifice, and she’d nearly forgotten how it felt to be anything other than miserable, but now… now, she had Spike oh, God, he’s here, he’s not dust back in her arms, and it took a long time for her to realize that the feeling welling up inside her until she thought she would explode was absolute joy.
The line crackled and was silent, and Buffy clutched the handset so tightly that she thought she heard the plastic break, waiting for a word, a breath, something that would give her a reason for the hope beating in her chest, until she couldn’t stand it anymore and tearfully whispered, “Spike?”
For a long time, Buffy thought they were his erogenous zone; all she had to do was breathe Spike against the shell of one ear and he would groan as he grew hard, and if she accompanied it with a little nip to the lobe, he would tumble her over immediately… but then she discovered that spot on the back of his neck, and the expanse below his navel, and happily decided his whole body was an erogenous zone.
He had so many ways of saying it – the sharply barked “Buffy!” of warning while they patrolled, the growled “Buffy!” of exasperation, the roared “Buffy!” of completion echoing her own scream – but her favorite by far was the one only she heard, when he cupped her cheek and breathed “Buffy” against her lips, his love for her shining in his eyes.
She was a feast, Spike decided – sunny-bright and golden with sparkling emerald eyes, her skin smooth and firm, covering her deceptively strong muscles, and oh, the orchid-spice scent of her – but he couldn’t decide which was more satisfying: the honey-ambrosia taste of her or the soft, breathy moans he swallowed with every kiss.
“I’m not afraid of it,” Spike said in quiet response to the question hanging in the room, “an’ I’m not lookin’ for it, either… I’ve got no plans to see the Grim Reaper again for a while, ‘cause I’m not goin’ anywhere until I see the Slayer’s one more time.”
“It’s not death and taxes, Xan,” Willow said, and glanced up at the second floor, just as the enthusiastic thumping culminated in Buffy’s shrill “OhGodSpike!” and Spike’s rough bellow of “Buffy!”, and when all fell quiet once again, she just looked at her friend, her cheeks as red as her hair, and finished, “not in this house.”
To Spike, it was something wondrous; all he had to do was run his hands down her back, or down her sides, or stroke teasingly light over her breasts, and Buffy melted into him with a moan… but in return, she merely had to brush her fingers across his cheek, and he was her willing slave.
When Spike curled his tongue like that, her knees turned to water, and when he whispered “Buffy” in her ear, her insides trembled; when he took off his shirt, the only thought in her head was God, this man is gorgeous, but it was his tender “I love you” that just reduced her to a tearful, clinging mess.
Buffy turned her expressionless gaze on Willow, and said, “I can’t even… he gave his life to save the world, so it doesn’t seem right… I mean, how can I cry when it seems like it would somehow lessen what he…” and though she choked on a sob, her eyes stayed dry as she whispered, “but God, Wills, if I started, I don’t think I could stop.”
“Hurry,” she gasped, arching into him, and she was so ready, so hot, that Spike couldn’t stop himself, just thrust into her faster and harder, covering her mouth with his when she would have screamed out her pleasure; they were in and out of that closet in five minutes.
The First was building the apocalypse around her day by day, needing all of her focus, but Buffy still couldn’t stop herself from replaying the image that had popped into her head when she saw Spike wearing his duster again; striding down a hall in the school, all of his bad boy swagger in place, the tails of his coat flapping in the wake of his passage – just as he’d been before she’d broken him.
He’d sought out the soul so he could be a better man, to be the kind of man that would never hurt the woman he loved… thinking – hoping – that it would let her love him as well; he’d never thought that he’d be caged by his own never-ending guilt.
Buffy had always known that there were certain things (a day on the beach, a child of their own) that Spike would never be able to give her, but when this happened – when the soul he’d fought so hard for ripped him up inside with guilt, whispering that he would never be good enough for her – convincing him that she wouldn’t trade what they had built for anything was more difficult than any apocalypse.
Buffy told him again and again that there was nothing between them, that he was just a friend, but Spike still became sullen and uncommunicative whenever Angel visited, which, she supposed, was only fair, considering how green she turned whenever Drusilla was mentioned.
He loved touching her, loved the way she felt – her soft lips on his, the silk of her skin against him as they made love – but more than that, Spike adored the way she touched him now, her fingers gentle, almost reverent at times, as she tried to erase the damage her fists had done, telling him without words how much she cared.
The sting of bourbon strong against her lips, the way the lingering aroma of cigarettes lent smoky undertones, and, best of all, the flavor that was Spike, sweet-sour-bitter-salt that seemed to make her whole mouth tingle; oh, yes, Buffy reflected dizzily, there were so many reasons to kiss him other than his talented tongue.
Even before, Buffy had never minded this – in fact, she loved getting down on her knees and taking the cool, hard length of him in her mouth; one of his trembling hands swept her hair back from her face, and when she peered up at him through her lashes, the look of awe and pleasure on his face humbled her.
He could read her so well that he knew exactly what she was going to say before she even opened her mouth; covering her lips with his hand, he growled, “Don’t even soddin’ think about askin’ me to ‘move on’ after you die, Buffy,” then his voice caught, and he cupped her cheek as he went on, “’cause there’s no bloody way I could spend a day here without you, much less eternity,” and all she could do was nod, tears shimmering in her eyes.
It wasn’t the first time she’d been bitten, not by a long way – it wasn’t even the first time Spike had bitten her, but the sight of his red-smeared lips and the tang of old pennies when he kissed her always surprised her, because he did it so rarely, and then the force of her own orgasm overwhelmed her, not because of his bite, but because it meant he’d completely lost himself in her.
Not for the first time, Buffy wondered if there was something wrong with her, to make her prefer the company of the very vampires she was Called to slay, but the wealth of emotion in Spike’s eyes – the devotion and love – made her think that maybe (just maybe) there would have to be something wrong with her if she didn’t want that.
Buffy counted herself lucky when she heard him singing snatches of song even if most of the time he was belting out punk loud and proud; very occasionally, though, she heard him rumbling something a lot slower and softer, and his sheepish, hopeful little boy expression when she caught him told her that it was something original… about her.
“If it’s not a bloody prophecy,” Spike growled, and the fear underlying his words was clear, “it’s an omen, an’ if it’s not that, it’s a portent of doom, an’…” but that’s where Buffy stopped him with a kiss and tried to reassure him that they made their own destiny, that it wasn’t controlled by balls of burning gas in the sky.
He’d always known that her blood was strong stuff – after all, she was the Slayer – but he’d no idea just how powerful until the First had him in its evil clutches and a single taste had thrust him back into reality; now, on those rare occasions when he tasted her blood, it was stronger still, filled with love and comfort and all the things he thought he’d lost as his mother crumbled to dust in front of him.
He just couldn’t see how she could go from talking to him like a friend to completely shutting him out, from clutching him tight when they made love to shoving him off with both hands, from soft whimpers of his name to harsh words filled with hate; he couldn’t figure out how he’d gone from trying to apologize to pushing her down and… and he really hoped the soul would help him understand, but it didn’t.
The young Slayers she trained regarded Buffy with awe, thinking that she wasn’t afraid of anything, but there was something she kept close to her heart, hoping beyond hope that Spike couldn’t guess that while her own death held little threat for her now, the very thought of his terrified her.
Dark clouds roiled above them, illuminated by brief flares of light, and the very air hummed with evil intent; Buffy’s chirpy “Well, at least we know we’re in the right place for the apocalypse!” earned her groans from Willow and Dawn and a baleful glare from Spike.
Seeing him tied against the wall of the cavern, battered and bruised, hearing his defiance slurred by exhaustion… Buffy’s eyes dampened with tears, and suddenly, she remembered handcuffing him, having her way with him, beating him into unconsciousness wished she had the courage to acknowledge all the things that lay between them.
Aged vampire and champion though he was, Spike proved he still had one particular fear shared by most owners of the Y-chromosome; his “Buffy, pet, please, I don’t wanna go shopping!” (accompanied by a wide-eyed look of dread) was completely ignored as she hauled him out the door.
“Look at you, all vamp-with-the-times,” Buffy teased, leaning against the doorjamb; watching Spike jump at the sound of her voice and spin away from the laptop, dropping his cell phone, she grinned and continued, “and here I thought you didn’t want to deal with anything more modern than a battleaxe.”
When she let the amulet trickle into his fingers, the look on his face – so filled with awe and wonder – told her clearer than day that the trinket itself meant nothing compared to knowing that she believed in him; when she discovered she’d given him his own death, the First Slayer’s words came back to haunt her once more.
Thinking back on that awful year that Buffy had come back from the dead, and the even worse one following, Spike realized that he’d only seen her smile a few times, and somehow, that made the ones she gave him now even more precious.
It wasn’t often that she woke before Spike did, but every time she did, Buffy made sure to relish the sight – all the attitude and the years of hurt and guilt seemed to melt away as he slept, leaving behind the guileless poet he’d once been.
It wasn’t the orgasms (even though Spike was really talented), and it wasn’t his delectable body; it was just… Spike, the way he understood her, the way he loved her, the way her heart seemed to just sing when he was near, and that gave her a sense of wholeness that she hadn’t known since her time in Heaven.
There were times when Buffy could see how much it pained him that he couldn’t join her during the day unless there was significant cover in the sky; his bright eyes dimmed, his face closed off, and he pouted until she mock-sighed and pulled out his traveling blanket.
With a quick glance up at the lowering clouds, Spike pulled her to one side and said, “You said that our lives aren’t controlled by what goes on in the heavens, an’ I’m holdin’ you to that,” and she wondered, even as she embraced him, just what he’d seen to cause that edge of worry in his voice.
It was peace like she’d never known, she’d told him; she’d been whole and loved and then, God, she’d told him she was using him to forget the pain of trying to live without that, when what she was really doing was trying to find it again – even if only for a moment.
He refused to discuss it again; all he ever said was “I’m not goin’ through that again, love,” and as much as she wanted Spike to live on when she’d met her end once more, Buffy couldn’t deny him his choice to end that exquisite torment – after all, she’d spent too many endless days without him to not know how he felt.
Predictably, Buffy griped, mostly good-naturedly, about how the Big Evil always wanted to take over the earth or blot out the source of all light, and just maybe this time she’d let them, until Spike poked her in the side, saying, “All fine an’ dandy, Slayer, but if you let ‘em, don’t bitch when you can’t bask in the rays anymore.”
It wasn’t that Buffy didn’t see the hopeful, hopeless way Spike watched her whenever she was around; it was more that she couldn’t let herself see, because to admit that she noticed his soulful gaze was to admit that she wanted to see it… and she couldn’t do that without thinking about how much more she wanted.
The hordes of demons crested the hill and broke on their line again and again, but a knot of them always hung back, eddying around; Spike raised one eyebrow, tilted his head, and Buffy nodded, motioning her platoon of Slayers toward what must be the target of the dimensional portal.
It didn’t take Buffy long to discover that Spike didn’t care what she did with her blond locks – color, perm, wear them up, wear them down – as long as she left them long enough for him to comb his fingers though at night.
No one could have pinpointed exactly where the portal would open, but when she looked up from her battle at the sudden glow, Buffy saw that Spike was much too close – briefly outlined by brilliant blue light, then he was just… gone, and her entire world exploded around her in an instant; desperately hoping that he wasn’t dust, heedless of the shouts behind her or the tears on her cheeks, she scrambled over the heaving earth, stretching one hand to touch…