S p i k e / B u f f y . F a n f i c t i o n . b y .K J .D r a f t
STILL LIFE IN SUNNYDALE
"Did you do it?" Buffy whispers, materializing at his crypt door from the depths of night. He can tell she's come straight from rounds. A little heated. A lot bothered.
Spike's only recently off duty himself, still exhibiting a predatory demeanor. He curls his tongue briefly to his front teeth. "You wanna hear the beatific details?"
"No," she states emphatically.
He pouts. He's absolutely itching to share the finer points. The hunt, the invite, the conversation, the bottle of Scotch, the kill the souvenirs Most intoxicating, the entire operation was not only sanctioned by Buffy, but requested. (Well, maybe not the souvenirs.)
He's been sporting an almost painful erection the entire night.
She closes the heavy door, leans back against it.
"And how'd you make out this fine, muggy evening?" he inquires, strolling toward her.
She stretches languidly, raising her arms above her head, shirt climbing, providing him with a glimpse of her toned belly. Pulls her hair out of its confining ponytail. Lets the circular band drop to the floor. "Not too shabby. Three vamps, one demon of undetermined origin..."
"...all dead," he finishes. Then grins lazily. "Love giving people what's comin' to 'em."
"Mmm," she agrees, then speculates innocently, "So, what do I have coming to me?"
He's by her in a flash. She gazes up at him, bestows a tiny twitch of her red lips. Almost a smile. He gathers her hair in one hand at the nape of her neck. Tugs her head back slightly. Lowers his mouth.
Thirty seconds of tongue and teeth.
They tug and tear at each other's clothes, starving, delirious, like animals who've been waiting, tense and trembling, at the starting gate the past month but now the flag's come down and the race is on and there's treats just around the corner.
He picks her up and she helps him, wraps her legs around his waist. Only time she helps me or lets me guide her is during a shag. And even then it's push, push, pull. As if on cue she pulls now and he stumbles blindly toward the couch. A few missteps, but it's all right because they're dancing again, truly, dancing, yes, but dancing like kids at a prom, clumsy with lust, fumbling with buttons that didn't exist prior to needing them off.
After removing her shirt, Spike flails with his, then spreads her down on the couch, rises up to shove his pants off, hurry, hurry, don't leave her long, don't give her any chance to get bored, then wrenches her tight jeans down, she's helping again, panties too, he lifts her legs, one by one, rapid, not stopping to appreciate the diaphanous material.
"Buffy," he moans simply, with a certain amount of awe, re-wrapping her legs around his waist, shifting a little and sinking inside her.
Buffy stills, giving her body a moment to adjust and accommodate him. She wonders how many days it's been since he was last inside her. Knows that if she asks, he'll be able to tell her. Decides not to ask. Doesn't want to be reminded of the obsessive nature of his devotion. Even though the way he's staring at her, stripped and unguarded, proves it more than numbered days, more than piles of cigarette ash outside her mother's house, more than fixated circumnavigation of secretly-vegetable fast food joints during hellish double shifts.
She responds the only way she knows how, closing him out, blocking the sight of it, and slowly swivels her hips, grimacing a little, aroused and wet but unstretched, swallowing him, inch by inch, in and out, slow and shallow, coating him until it doesn't hurt anymore and they can both move and surge with abandon.
Her eyes pop open then. She'll only look at him if they're going fast, faster, faster, faster is good, and then she's brave and willing to give spoken title to what's begun, what they've lost and now regained. Coos,"Ahh, Marathon Sex."
Spike nods. That's right, baby. Missed it, too, didn't you? Missed me? The things we do together. He grips her thighs firmly in his hands and thrusts vigorously into her deep, eager pussy, amazed by the way she twists and grinds herself off against him. He shudders, balls tightening.
"Think someone needs to slow down," she observes.
"Doin' fine," he growls back, knowing he shouldn't take offense, knowing she's just flirting, but even her flirting is sadistic, and old reflexes are hard to squelch and how dare she imply --
She rephrases. "Okay, well maybe I need you to slow down."
"Worried I won't tend to you properly?" he interrogates, rapidly approaching Thoroughly Pissed Off. "Chuffed to buggered, you always got there first."
He thrusts extra hard then, driving her into the cushions.
"Whatever." Come on, Spike, fight with me. Having sex with Spike, she realizes, is simply a continuation of their regular communication, yet somehow more pure. Straight to the point, no jerking around. Fucking each other with insults.
"Yeah, made sure of that, didn't I? Ladies first and all that rot." He slams into her again, just the right angle...
Uhhhhh! "Maybe," she gasps, unable to resist, "maybe I was faking."
Mid-thrust, he ceases all movement. "You weren't faking."
She stares back, challenging. Obstinate.
He remains stationary, don't move, get her really worked up first. She tightens her ankles around his body. Yeah, beg me for it. She thrums her heels against him impatiently. He smirks victoriously and starts rolling his hips again, having made his point.
"Well tonight you're gonna come first. I'm gonna make you," she declares a moment later.
And thus the gauntlet's thrown and the true battle of the night begins. Spike and Buffy's earlier kills are but bland memories now, nothing significant about them except as prelude to this.
She squeezes, quivering tight with legs, arms, thighs, inner muscles, claiming him the only way a human girl can. Not that she needs to. The muscles in his back twitch with each drag of her nails. Her fingers leave suddenly, then reappear on his firm ass, clutching him and shoving him in further, harder, until she gasps in pain, cramping up, releasing more fluid so there's almost no friction. So wet. Hot tight wet scorching Buffy. Oh. Christ. She's right. Can't keep this up.
He pulls out, ignoring her cry of loss and surprise and hostility, and kneels on the floor before her. Always comes down to this, doesn't it, to achieve anything, Beneath Her, servitude, Whipping Boy, pushes his mouth immediately against her shiny pussy, licking and sucking her out. Marathon sex it may be, but he considers them a team, and he refuses to reach the finish line without slipping her the baton once or twice.
She slaps at him. Cheater! Snatches a fistful of his hair, yanks his face from between her thighs. Goddamit! "Get back in me."
His tongue swipes out defiantly, teasing her clit with the lightest of pressure. Oh, Jesus, maybe not yet. She quakes and releases him, her hand falling limply to rest on her hip, her head settling back onto the cushions of the couch. Spike slips his tongue across her again from a distance, then returns to his original position, up close and personal.
She's all smooth down there except for a little triangle, bet she did that just for me, never admit it though, but I'll reward her for it. Nah, let's be honest, I'm gonna punish her for it. Anticipates the luscious rage that's sure to follow her orgasm. She'll take it out on my poor hide but who cares. 'Make me come first.' Please. He caresses her lightly; languorously. She tastes all hot, churned and thick from her slaying. He wants to cover her with his mouth, never let her go, live there, taste her during every mood, compare them all
Decides instead to pretend they've started over and are just beginning the foreplay. Nice 'n' slow. Maybe that'll help me calm down, too.
She squirms in agony. Tries to gain control over her reaction. I can enjoy this without getting off, she reminds herself, panting, not believing it for a second. Alters her train of thought to a brief, commanding chant: Don't come, don't come, don't come...
Spike licks in a circular motion, tongue exploring, moving at a leisurely pace, ever closer to her center, lapping up all of her sexual frustration and energy, taking it inside his mouth, tasting it, swallowing it, closer now, faster, curling strokes with just the tip of his tongue, focusing, transforming then transfers it all back onto her hard, tight, tiny little knot and she feels like she's burning up, her skin's on fire, and her hair whips back and forth as her head thrashes, and she claws at the couch, and her neck arches, and her eyes close and she's about to, she's about to -- !
No! Clenching her fists, she slams them down simultaneously on each side of her body, propelling her hips up, sharply knocking his chin with her pubic bone, Ow! but he's swift, grabs her wrists, legs, pins her down, maneuvers his face back to the task.
You're going to come for me, Buffy, you're gonna shriek, right now -- She wriggles away, squeaking in frustration, scrabbling with her fingers for purchase, then kicks him -- front snap kick -- right in the solar plexus.
With a muffled thump he falls onto his back. She's on him in a flash, small, pert breasts heaving, straddling his waist, her knees scraping the floor, arms quivering slightly as she hoists the rest of her body above him, scared of making even the slightest contact. He rubs at his sore chin, rotates his jaw, and grins up at her.
"I didn't come!" she insists, heart pounding erratically, "I didn't!"
Buffy fights the urge to slip one of her fingers between her legs and give herself a stroke. Just one quick stroke!
Spike watches her struggle, utterly captivated.
If I do it myself, he doesn't technically win, she rationalizes briefly, but knows that argument won't hold up, will actually provoke worse consequences, and she'll never hear the end of it. Time for a new tactic.
"Slayer?" he parrots her, eyebrows raised, mindful of a decided shift in her offensive methodology.
"You feel so good," she laments, so raw, and he discovers apprehensively that Buffy has developed a thrall all her own to draw him helplessly in.
Without intending to, he bucks up at her. Oh God, this isn't fair. Buffy's voice, when she wants it to be, is tougher on Spike than all her Slayer strength combined. Don't fall for it, she's tricking you, he tries to tell himself, but these warning bells are laughably distant, far removed from his willing body and completely disregarded.
Buffy cautiously lowers herself, Concentrate, that's it, no jerky movements, no pressure on my clit.
"Sit up with me," she orders, slipping her legs around his hips, coaxing and guiding him into a position she likes. Entwines their limbs tightly. Flattens her velvety breasts against him. He wishes he could mold her around every inch of his flesh, feel slick and encased, warm and alive all over. Buffy rocks a bit, careful not to provide herself with any inadvertent release. One wrong hip swivel, slightest friction in the wrong place, and he'll be gloating for a month.
"I'm almost there, Spike, you have no idea," she confesses in a half moan, licking her lips and pressing them softly to his.
He groans desperately, slightly higher pitched in tone than he would have liked. Stop! Stop! Pulls his lips reluctantly from hers.
"Oh, I think I have some idea," he purrs back, hoping that if he keeps time with her verbally, she can't jolt him into orgasm. His dick is never going to forgive him for this treachery.
"Spike," she continues quietly, aware that merely hearing his name on her lips drives him insane, "Spike...no one else makes me feel this way. Only you, Spike...only you."
He trembles. "Is that right?" he replies, dazed, each of his senses blanketed and drowning in a sea of euphoria, forgetting that sedatives of this magnitude are only administered prior to unspeakable pain.
"God, the way you fuck me," she whimpers, "it's so much better than anybody else." She drags her fingers through his hair, creating an unruly mess. Clenches tight around his cock. Rocks faster.
He pushes into her rhythmically, making their pelvises smack together. Buffy smirks, revealing her true intentions, but Spike's one step behind, doesn't notice, so mesmerized is he by her words. She never speaks to me this way, so honeyed, so kind, so --
"Oh, pour it on!" he spits out, as realization pummels him "Don't speak to me like that unless you mean it! " He thrusts angrily, fucking bitch! oddly juxtaposed with his voice, which turns unexpectedly vulnerable. "Do you mean it?"
"Why should I tell you if I mean it or not?" she retorts, no more opiates, and then surgery's over, his heart successfully removed. "We're playing a game."
"Maybe I don't want to play that way," he blusters.
"You concede defeat?" Her eyes shine spectacularly, as God, he loves her she begins to bounce, wringing him tensely. He grunts and jerks against his will. Oh, yes, Buffy, yes! Wait, no, can't let her -- ! Mustn't come -- !
With a tormented grumble, he forces himself to stop thrusting. His cock is painfully sore, wrapped and trapped inside her, aching for closure. He's surprised he hasn't turned blue down there.
"Bloody unnatural, this is, fighting off our own gratification."
"What's 'bloody unnatural' is the fact I let you touch me at all," she retorts cruelly, trying to goad him.
But he's wise to her now, won't fall for the bait, no matter how she presents it. Lowers his head and tongues one of her nipples into a taut point. Moves to the other firm breast, sucking, flickering his mouth ardently between the two, back and forth. Yummy, she thinks blissfully, starting to work her hips in a circle. What are we doing again? Mmm, mmm, mmm... Oh right, trying not to come. Whose brilliant idea was that?!
Spike takes advantage of her pliant state and lifts her off his lap, using all his will power to ignore the delicious wetness she provides along his length. Slams her back down. She cries out, clinging to him, mewing in frustration. Uhnhhhhh...
After a controlled, meditative breath, Buffy arrives at a resolution. This. Ends. Now. Without breaking their enjoinment, she arches herself backward and grabs onto a large, rectangular couch cushion. Springs forward and whomps him with it, covering his upper body and face.
Leaps off his lap, spins 180 degrees, and sits on top of the cushion, holding him in place. He bucks his shoulders and fires out a litany of British curses, muffled, under her weight. She can't tell what he's saying and even if she could she wouldn't pay him any attention. Gonna make him come if it's the last thing I do! Which, judging by the tsunami taking place beneath her, might very well be an accurate statement.
He struggles more, tries to cast her off. She hitches and rides the cushion, eventually subduing him. Jams her fingers into her mouth, quickly lubricates them, then encircles his cock with both hands. Giggles maniacally. I win!!! Grips him tightly and jerks, alternating hands, carnal and rough, the way she's seen him do it himself.
"Whatsamatter, Spike?" she inquires, all faux innocence and confusion. "Don't you want to come?"
His arm busts free, searches madly for her, and succeeds in grabbing one of her wrists, but she can still use the other, and with a final, exquisite, burning tug of her hand -- No no no! -- Spike climaxes.
His body convulses so violently that Buffy is flung several feet away, deafened by his yell of rage and release. His come jets out, pooling on his chest and stomach, sliding onto the cushion, the floor...
He shudders again, hips plunging wildly, as he continues to churn it out.
While she watches, Buffy can't help but picture those insects that bite the heads off their mates during sex, abandoning their nether regions to pump frantically even after death.
Spike slowly and deliberately removes the cushion from his face. Hurls it one handed across the room.
Murderously scans the area for Buffy, who scooches away on hands and feet.
Too late. He leaps like a cougar, tumbling into her and rolling them both over.
"Stop!" she laughs. His come is smeared across both their bodies now. "Oh! You're all slimy --"
He pushes her head playfully toward his chest. "Clean me up."
"Don't know what you're so mad about, you're the one who got off! "
"Didn't feel good!" he protests.
"Riiiight. That's why you're covered in, like, a quart of gunk."
He pushes her face down again. "Yeah, and you're going to slurp up every last dribble."
Shit, he's serious. "I could get you a towel," she offers reasonably, although I have no idea where, and don't know if you even use them, straining to resist his strong hands, her face centimeters from his slick stomach.
"Oh no," he counters, "You're gonna fill yourself with it."
"Huhhhhnn" she objects incoherently. Glances up at him. "But then it's my turn?"
He nods shortly. Settles back and closes his eyes. Relishes the feel of her hot mouth and tongue lapping at him. You're lucky I'm not screwing your corpse right now, he thinks drowsily. Yeah, that's it, pet, eat it up.
"Slayer," he murmurs contently, stroking her hair with gentle fingers. He could conceivably curl up and ship off to dream land. Regards her instead through a half lidded gaze. She's still glowing from her triumph, mouth all plump and shiny, but...
He props up on his elbows, concerned. "What's wrong?"
"It's stupid," she replies instantly, moving away, startled and a bit mortified hat he could discern such a thing just by watching her while she uh, goes about with the cleaning business.
"Buffy," he persists, following.
"Leave it alone, okay? You'll just, you'll laugh at me."
"I won't. Promise." Please don't say something that makes me laugh!
She hesitates. Fidgets. Then, rapid fire: "Did you, uh, have you been -- with anyone besides -- "
"No," he tells her honestly. Surprised. "Could barely stand to think about it."
"And with Anya"
"Not the same thing. At all." Pause. "Never meant for you to see that."
He feels like he should say something else, something reassuring, but doesn't know what good it would do. Buffy's the one who dumped him after all, pushed him into having the bloody drunken shag... Still, that damaged look in her eyes... He reaches for her.
"Look -- "
"Shut up. I'm not insecure."
"Never said you were."
"But she's even older than you. Which, think about it, is a thousand shades of fucked up and we all need extensive therapy. Or is it expansive? Expensive, too, but my point is she probably knows a lot of stuff."
Oh, yeah, not insecure at all. "Sure, she knows a lot of 'stuff'," he replies, lightly mocking. "Watched her help your little sis with her history lessons once, didn't need to crack a text the entire time."
"You know what I mean," she grinds out, irritable and shame faced. This isn't a joke!
He can't bear to mock her further, even if she deserves it. "Buffy, Luv, it lasted all of ten minutes and we were both nearly stone-blind."
She visibly relaxes. "Ten minutes?"
"That's what I said, isn't it?"
Buffy exhales some of her apprehension along with her breath. All right for now, I guess. Back to the good stuff.
Pleased, he cuddles her to him, kisses her hand, sucks on her fingers. Picks her up and carries her to the couch, wrapping her around him. She's a ball of repressed tension, painfully strung up and twitchy.
"You're jittery with it, aren't you?" he mutters. "So tense. Ready to rub yourself against any willing surface." She mindlessly humps at him in response, eyes hungry. "You want to go alone, or shall I help you?"
He knows damn well what the answer is, but wants to hear it from her.
She nibbles his neck. Clingy again. "Help me."
Satisfied, he cups her chin, an idea forming, and waits till she fixes him with her gaze. "Right, how about I give you ten? One for each minute I wasn't with you?"
She gulps. Ten? Can he do that? Can I do that?
"Okay," she whispers weakly, as he glides two fingers inside her. She clamps around them, starts to push up.
"Don't work for it," he instructs her mildly, holding her hips down. She wants to cry, he feels so good. The need to move against him is completely intolerable.
"Please -- I have to -- "
"No, shhhh, there's a girl." Forcing her hips to remain still, he massages her clit, lightly, rubbing in a circle, then with more pressure. She gasps, trying to thrust. He prevents her.
"Please -- please -- " She closes her eyes tightly. Tears of ecstasy leak out.
He leans in to her ear. "That's it. Don't hold it in anymore. Nasty trick you played on me, but you did win. You deserve this. Let it out."
"Uhnnn." Her head slumps forward and though she appears motionless, her muscles tighten around his fingers, go slack, and tighten again of their own accord. She throws her head back and cries out, coming at last.
Spike grins and thrusts his fingers ruthlessly, still constraining her hips. "God!" she shouts, gripping his arm for support. He repeats his steady, merciless stroking until she comes again, and begs him to stop.
"No more," she pleads, "No. More." Her eyes are glossy with pleasure.
He licks the tears from her cheeks, a quick, intuitive move. So salty, so warm, so human... Then worries she'll slap him, declare it 'gross' or something. But she doesn't seem to notice the secret pleasure Spike's pilfered for himself.
He slowly withdraws his long, soaking fingers.
This she definitely notices. Shoots him a desperate look.
"Which?" he wonders, uncertain. "No? Or More?"
She thinks if his fingers leave I might die. Sputters, "More -- "
He drives them into her again, delighted by her whimpers and moans. Several minutes later she forcibly removes his hand and slides bonelessly down the side of the coach. He's having none of it. Drags her limp form up and lays her flat on her back. Looms over her.
"Not finished with you yet."
"I had a whole bunch!" she protests.
Buffy rolls her eyes heavenward, utterly spent. "Dunno"
He gets in her face, menacing. "Well you better number it out!"
"Three. No, four. Four! Four good ones."
He's gruff, resolute. "Six more then."
The absurdity of his statement hits her full force. "Nah ha -- !"
"Up you go," he coaxes, sliding his arms behind her. Guides his dick inside her slick, wet heat and begins ramming her into the cushions. Best fucking investment of my life, this couch. The couch jolts with each movement, causing the legs to scrape the floor, until it hits the wall and thumps against it in sync with Spike's determined thrusts.
"Give it to me," she croons in a breathy voice, urging him on. He speeds up. Oh God, Spike, oh God oh God oh God...
Buffy... want to die inside you! He doesn't voice this mad desire, because he's slowly learning when to keep his mouth shut. Also, he fears her rebuttal. ('That can be arranged' or something equally deflating and intentionally unrelated to what I'm trying to get across. She'll make a mockery of it, doesn't deserve to hear it.) Almost wishes she would reach under the couch, locate a stake and really end it for him. It'll never be better than this. Now matter how long I'm around. Should go out while I'm truly on top.
She slips her arms around his neck, murmurs in his ear amid fevered breath. "I meant what I said."
What's she on about? "Huh?" he breaks his rhythm slightly to study her.
"Before," she explains, with a jerk of her head toward the floor. Annunciates with exaggeration. "I. Meant. It."
Oh, fuck --! He clutches her hips in his hands, drives to the hilt and comes, powerless to prevent the brimming, open mouthed, saucer eyed production of his orgasm. Efforts out a grunt: "Uhhh!!"
Buffy's pleased. Easy as pie. Back to me now, yes? She nestles her head in the crook between his shoulder and neck. Bites him gently. Waits for him to calm down. Decides the waiting's over and wriggles impatiently. "You're suffocating me."
He shifts his weight from her. Babbles, "God, you...you... you shouldn't have said that."
"Oh, it's my fault you went off like a firecracker?"
Embarrassed, he doesn't answer. "Don't suppose you also...?"
Shakes her head. "That one was all you, Stud."
He's not sure if that's an insult. Decides to play the odds and treat it like one. Can't resist massacring the after glow, can you, Buffy? "Cram it, Greedy. You'll get your ten."
"If you say so," she remarks, feigning doubt.
"Give me a bloody minute, will you?"
He sits up, searches briefly over the side of the couch, then plucks a tattered shirt off the floor. Chucks it at her. "Wipe yourself, I want a fresh palette to work with."
She obliges, pushing his spunk out with a roll and flex of her sinewy insides, then mops herself up demurely.
"You really meant it?" he asks all of a sudden, taking her hand in his, stroking his thumb across her palm, "Or did you just say that to get me to bubble over?"
"S'pose you'll never know," she remarks, socking him with the one two punch of coy and matter of fact.
He roars with frustration, then scoops her up, flinging her over his shoulders.
"Hey!" she shouts, pounding at his back.
Spike heads for the ladder. She struggles more, but only a little, let him think he's the manly man.
He maneuvers, stomping, down the steps. Heaves her onto his bed. She lands on her butt, laughing, then suddenly nervous, feet bunching the covers as she tries to get away from the inevitable wrestling match, but he springs, pins her wrists with one hand, separates her legs with his knees, and pushes her ankles in toward her thighs, bending her legs Indian style.
The shirt, now a bit tattered and sticky, is still clutched, death grip style, in her hand. He pries her fingers open and takes it. Shreds it into three strips with his teeth. She starts to fight back now, eyes wide, smile quirking onto her lips, but he quickly ties her wrists, securing them, then shoves her ankles in closer to her crotch and ties those together as well, (she thinks of warm up exercises in gym class, they called it Butterflies, knees bent like this, well not like this what the hell is he...?)
"No more loathsome chit chat from you," he announces, taking the last strip of cotton and gagging her with it, tying it at the back of her head. Exhales. "Much better."
He settles back on his haunches, deeply satisfied, admiring his handiwork. She's spread open, totally captive, vulnerable and arranged for maximum damage. She yanks at her ankle restraints, rubs her wrists up and down, beginning to shimmy free. He becomes instantly aroused watching her. It's only a brief matter of time before she breaks free entirely, though.
He doesn't want that to happen. It's far too spine tingling to see her like this.
"If you promise to be good, stay bound and gagged, I'll give you your six straight away, no messing around."
Buffy freezes in her tracks. Looks at him, trying to unravel his statement, decide if he's speaking the truth.
He doesn't give her time to doubt. Forges ahead employing every technique he can think of to give her pleasure; alternating between gentle and rough he uses fingers, tongue, lips, palm, pad of his big toe, dick encourages her to hump any part of him she wants, rolls her so she's sitting on his face eventually unties her wrists, and lets her guide all of the above...
Buffy has no idea if an hour has passed, or only fifteen minutes... she's lost some circulation in places but this only spurs her into faster, harder compressed waves of exquisite, torturous gratification, and after she's had five orgasms this way, he slides his shaft into her drenched passage and helps himself.
He wants her to reach her final pinnacle with him purposefully at the wheel.
He tears off her gag, presses his thumb lightly back and forth across her lips, coaxing them back to life.
"Please, my ankles," she sputters, the only words she can form. He accommodates her and unties her ankles, helping her stretch her sore legs straight out underneath him.
"How you doing?" he murmurs, quickening his pace, thrilled by the sound of his flesh pounding her thoroughly manipulated pussy.
"Can't -- think..." she gurgles, "Can't take -- much more..."
"Okay, we're nearly done," he reassures her. "Can you get off this way? If I move like this?" he coasts against her, rubbing his lower stomach against her swollen, aching clit.
She nods eagerly, closes her eyes, and waits for the world to end.
A few minutes later, Spike changes his pace from long, deep strokes to quick, frantic jerks, rubbing and rolling, clutching the sheets on either side of her, muscles rippling, driving with all his strength. Buffy's breaths evolve into gasps, in addition to her measured moans that accompany his movements.
"Oh, oh," he whimpers, head bobbing, then slips hard across her, and inside her, shooting his load and sending her into orbit.
She groans in rapture as well as discomfort, wanting her tenth and final orgasm to last, but urgently needing to get it over with so she can finally unbend, ease off and relax.
Not wanting to "suffocate" her again, or be accused of it, anyway, he quickly dismounts and flops on his back next to her. Picks her ankles up and rubs life back into them.
Buffy stares at the ceiling, giggling nervously, coming down off her high, and with much needed relief. Drapes one slim hand across her forehead. "That was amazing," she admits, muffled. Exhausted beyond measure.
He leaves her alone for fifteen more minutes, kneading and stroking her flesh smoothly to ensure all her parts are functioning okay.
She sits up.
He braces himself for the ritual. Tries to make light of it. "Guess it's time for beddy bye. Need to borrow a shirt for the walk back?"
She shakes her head. Yawns, cute as a button. "I want to stay here tonight."
He backhands her furiously across the face, sending her tumbling and rolling to the floor.
Shocked and dizzy, she staggers to her feet. Lunges for him and punches him twice in the chest. "You asshole! What'd you do that for?!"
He grips her hands in his, almost containing her. Guess I like to massacre the afterglow, too. "I told you not to say things you don't mean," he barks out, voice hitching and shattering painfully. "Stop doing that to me -- "
"But I do mean it," she insists, gritted teeth. "Jeez, Spike, way to schizo!"
They stare at each other, and he matches her breathing. Chests heaving in sync, hands oddly gripping and twisted together, they wait to see who'll break first.
"I'm tired," she admits softly, "you know that. I want to stay here tonight. That's all. I swear it."
He lets her hands go. Leans in and gently rains kisses along her face, the side he smacked moments earlier. Brushes his lips, damp with regret, up her cheek to her forehead. "I'm sorry, oh, I'm sorry, it's just so bloody difficult to know one way or the other." He kisses her some more, almost too tenderly for her to bear. "Are you all right?"
"Let's just go to sleep," Buffy answers.
She rolls over, tugging his arm around her middle, snuggling back and getting him to spoon with her.
He knows he should be happy, he should be thanking the damn stars above for this moment, but ... There's some foggy entity circling the edges of his consciousness, repeating this isn't right, this can't possibly be right. He starts to form an explanation for her behavior toward him, works it around in his rattled brain, recalls just enough information to fit the jagged pieces of the puzzle together then drifts off.
Whatever he's realized follows him into slumber, and by morning... it's completely gone.
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