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

 

TITLE: Tooth and Nail

AUTHOR: KJ (Katherine Jay) Draft

SUMMARY: PWP. S/B bring the house down. My first Buffy fanfic. Written January 2002 in response to NautiBitz's "Fill in the Blank between Smashed and Wrecked" challenge. So, it's all her fault. Also, she supplied the great title. Are you sensing a theme here? I'll help you out: "Yay, Nauti."

RATING: NC-17

DISTRIBUTION: Feel free to link, just give me credit. It'd also be cool to let me know where. Thanks.

FEEDBACK: When I first posted this on ff.net, I got the following response (paraphrased): "I'm almost ashamed by how much I enjoy this story." I love that. That is good.

Confessions of shame welcome at: quietones33@hotmail.com

DISCLAIMER: Shouldn't be hard to believe that I ain't getting paid to write this. Nothing and no one belongs to me, either. Though sometimes, maybe, I bet they wish they did. They do have quite a bit of sex when I'm in charge, after all.

 

 

TOOTH AND NAIL

CRASH.

He's staring at me. I can't help staring back, and I can't stop moving. His hips rock and push and undulate, yeah, right there... rising up to complete the circle of movement. So slippery, I'm coating him, soaking him, yet still I'm being stretched, I can feel every hard inch of him... I can't look at him, I won't look him in the eye anymore.

Buffy slams her eyelids shut, concentrating... Speeding up. Fucking asshole... I'm going to grind him into dust, I'm going to force an orgasm out of him, so hard, so fast, he won't even know what hit him, I'll tire him out right away and then take off. Even if he wants more, he can't have it 'cause he won't have any strength left, and that'll drive him mad. That'll*kill* him... Just a bit longer... Oh God, oh God... this rhythm, this beat, this tempo, without even trying, it's perfect, how did he know how to match me?

"Bloody fuck, Slayer..." he growls quietly, roughly, right into my ear, the words rip forth from somewhere deep inside him, below, the same place I can feel mine building up, the throbbing ache gaining momentum. She sneaks a quick glance. His eyes are shut now, his face contorting, he looks like he's in severe pain... Good, good, he deserves it... he's trying not to come... Asshole...I'll go faster and finish him off, finish the whole thing off, I'm close anyway, I'll make him explode whether he wants to or not, then I'll hit the ground running while he tries to calm down... my clothes just need a bit of adjusting and I'm outta here, like this never even happened at all... he'll have no proof that it did, which will torture him... just a bit more... c'mon... she bounces now, violently, painfully deep, milking him, gliding up his body, rubbing herself on his stomach and emptying herself of him, them slamming back down and making him fill her again, her insides retightening each time he leaves, so she's always a tense, taut fit, clutching and squeezing the life out of him... All that moaning and whimpering and panting... is that me, is that coming from me?

"Wait..." he commands harshly, grasping her frantic hips, trying to slow her down. Like hell... "Buff--" His face grimaces... Spike's fingers dig into her hips, clamping tight. Here he goes, yeah, C'mon Spike, just do it, shoot your load, you know you want to -- wha--?

He spins them over in one fluid motion. She's pissed. I'm supposed to be on top! She glares at him, viciously, her eyes filled with lust and passion and endless rage. This serves only to fuel his pleasure. His lips slowly spread into a malicious grin as he pins her wrists above her head, his thumbs digging into the delicate pulse points.

Pounding her into the floor boards, he dips down to kiss her, tugging and pulling at her mouth, flicking at her lips with his tongue, then delving deeper and deeper inside her, mimicking the movements below, plumbing the depths, trying hard not to think about how luscious and full and moist her lips are, how he's finally got her right where he wants her, 'cause that might be enough to push him over the edge... Trying not to think about how their clothing binds them, constricts their movement, makes everything tense and tangled and deliciously difficult to move, cutting off circulation in parts of his legs, beautiful numbing, throbbing, pain... Oh, who gives a bloody damn, let yourself think about it, don't deny yourself any more...

It's that sick tempo again, she can really feel it working on her, the push and pull of his dick, she can feel the tension in her stomach now, a ball, coiled, poised, contracted, so tight, so ready to spring... she sucks on his bottom lip, drinking it in, holding it between her lips, bruising it, as they fight for dominance. He relents and releases her wrists, regretting it immediately when she enacts her revenge by flipping him and finishing what she started, rolling on him, rubbing against him. Her movements suddenly become slack, rigid, the familiar rhythm pausing briefly, then jerking frenetically.

"Oh!" she yelps, her eyes widening. She's looking through him, far, far through him, somewhere between this world and the next, not able to close her eyes, a tiny noise, yet so, so, so sexy that Spike can't take it anymore, can't take knowing that she's coming on top of him. As she rides the wave that seems to have incapacitated her entire body, her teeth and jaw clench and he allows himself to let go as well, all the agony and hatred and pain rushing forth from the center of his being and exploding into her, filling her with all that he feels, all that he has to offer. I'm going to fill her 'til it oozes out of her every pore, he thinks, grunting a few times, involuntarily, in sync with the surges pulsing out of him.

God, how much does he have? she wonders, coming down from her own orgasm and focusing her eyes again, the pleasant coolness of his body and his come making her shiver slightly. She's suddenly aware that Spike is burying his face in her neck, nuzzling her, clutching her, holding her, like... well, like that was the best fuck of his life. Can't really argue with him there, she admits to herself. He's shaking a little bit. Soon his body will relax and I can get out of here. But his body doesn't relax. His dick doesn't shrink down and get tucked back into his pants. It remains thick and hard, covered in their mutual, slick desire, buried inside her.

"You're not tired?" she asks, annoyed. Impatient. Anxious.

He seems surprised by the question. Snorts. "Not bloody likely." A pause. "You?"

"No," she huffs back, insulted. She's about to follow that up with a longer, cutting remark, but he stops her by trailing his tongue along her neck, then placing tiny feather light kisses up her cheekbone toward her ear. She shivers again.

His voice takes on that low, rumbling timber that alternately drives her crazy and... drives her crazy, the other, really good way: "So let's have another go."

"What does it take to tire you out?" she asks, trying to be casual, trying to gauge his stamina. If we fuck two more times, maybe, or three, he'll be spent, then I can go...

"More than that," he murmurs in her ear, reading her thoughts. "But it helps if you're naked." His hands begin tugging playfully but insistently on her clothes.

She slaps his hands away. He persists. "You really expect me to keep humping you with your clothes on?" he spits out.

Fine. You asked for it, Spike. Round two. This time, I will drain you dry. I will use your body up thoroughly and completely. You won't be able to move for a week you'll be so exhausted --

"Whatever little internal monologue's playin' in your head, can you rehearse it with less clothing?"

Furious, she stands off him, breaking their intimate contact, and moves away. Spike leans back against a post, pops a cigarette into his mouth and raises his lighter to it. Buffy yanks off her top and tosses it to the ground.

"Slow down, I want to enjoy this," he drawls. Lights the cigarette and inhales.

"I'm not kissing you if you smoke that."

"Take a drag, then. We'll taste the same." He offers it to her.

She ignores it. "I'm serious."

He shrugs. "Suit yourself." He blows a long, thin, steady stream of smoke toward the ceiling.

She continues her angry strip tease. Divests herself of her skirt, discarding the panties that were bunched up inside. Spike watches with interest. Stupid skirt, she thinks. Stupid goddamn skirt, why did I wear you tonight? Because you *knew*, another voice answers. It sounds suspiciously similar to Spike's voice. But he's not talking. He's... appraising her. Looking her up and down, impressed, intrigued. She's absolutely stunning. Her hair's a mess, her skin is flushed -- no, glowing. A surge of possessiveness envelops him. My Phoenix, risen from the ashes.

She rolls her eyes at his scrutiny. "What?"

"You're beautiful." Gorgeous. Magnificent. "Now do a little dance --"

She yanks off one of her boots and hurls it at him. He dodges quickly, barely avoiding it. Chuckles.

She approaches him, all business. "Put out your cigarette."

He raises an eyebrow. "Or what?"

"Or I put it out on you."

His eyes widen. Hey now, this just got interesting... "You don't have the guts." He blows a stream of smoke in her face.

She snatches the cigarette from his mouth. Places it barely between her lips to free up both her hands. Tears his shirt open, exposing his chest. So pale, so white. So clean. Too clean. No bruises or scrapes have surfaced yet from their fight upstairs. Have to change that, she thinks. His eyes glimmer with anticipation. The smoke gets to her and she coughs, pulls the cigarette out of her mouth. He smirks. She looks at him for a moment, remembering all the times he taunted her about her inability to stake him, as though it were a weakness instead of a choice. Well, we're on equal footing now, aren't we, Spikey?

"Just how bad are you, Spike?" She asks him, her voice low. "How much pain can you take?"

"More than you could possibly imagine," he growls back. I'm in love with *you*, aren't I? "Anything you can dish out."

"I don't know, I barely touched you this past year."

"Barely touched me? You slapped me down every time you saw me!"

"Trust me, I held back out of pity." She spits the words out with disdain. He hates that she can use the term "pity" in regard to him. Buffy places the cigarette, now half spent, back in her mouth. Pushes him flat on the ground and straddles his forearms with her knees. He struggles briefly, then relents. More fun to stay put, I reckon.

She yanks his belt from his jeans. His hips rock up, thrilled at this turn of events. C'mon Buffy, hurt me real good.

She's not entirely sure what to do with the belt. He watches the wheels turning in her brain. Tries to send her telepathic instructions. Tie me up! Bind me with the belt, you bleedin' idiot!

She snaps the belt once, taking satisfaction from the slapping noise, then loops each of his wrists in it and wraps it around the slim post. That's it, pet. Now pull nice and snug... She refastens the belt, making her own, new hole in the leather so it's extra tight.

Spike practically hums with pleasure. Always knew you had it in you. She taps the cigarette to rid it of ashes, then presses it down hard on his upper chest.

He roars. "Bloody hell!"

He struggles, legs and hips flailing. Tries to yank his hands free. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea? She grinds the cigarette deeper, turning it. He bangs his head against the post, yowling. ... But God, she's sexy. Hurt me, Buffy, hurt me. Hurt me...

She releases it. Flicks the dead cigarette casually away. "Just seeing what you can take."

"Fuck!" His hips buck up at her again, more urgently. There's a nasty red welt near his collarbone, some black ash mixing in with the skin. "At least clean it out a little," he pouts, "give a bloke a chance to avoid infection."

"Fine." She leans across him to fumble in the pockets of his duster. He's confused, and then distracted by her breasts in front of his face. He strains his neck toward her, desperate for a nibble. So close... She sees him straining and pushes her chest toward him for a split second. He latches onto a nipple with his lips and tongue, and she instantly pulls back. Flashes him a wicked little smile. "Oh, did you want that?" she questions. He seems to have lost the ability to speak, resorts to nodding vigorously instead. She angles toward him, just out of reach. He tries to touch her with his tongue, but she's just a centimeter too far. He stamps the floor with his heel, frustrated beyond all reason. Tries to hook his foot behind her back and push her in closer. Ready to admit it now: This bondage thing was a bad idea.

At last Buffy finds what she was looking for in his coat. Waves it in front of Spike's face: it's his flask. His eyes widen. Definitely a bad idea... He grits his teeth, anticipating the enormous pain she's about to inflict. Struggles with his restraints, tries futilely to get his mouth near her breasts. She slowly uncaps the flask. Tips it over the cigarette burn. The liquor slaps his skin and the wound sizzles anew. A half mangled howl escapes his lips and his body twitches in agony. "There, all clean," she murmurs. Her wet, hot tongue emerges, ever so slightly, to lap gently at the wound. Oh God, that tongue... all the places it could go... He bucks his hips up at her. Hurt me again, hurt me more... ! She sucks on it now. Hard.

"Gaaahhhh -- !"

She whispers in his ear. Ridiculing him. "My cute little masochist..."

He growls. I'm not your "cute" anything... He jerks his hands violently above his head, trying to free himself.

She holds the flask to her lips. Runs her tongue around the rim, just to make him jealous. It works. "You wanna sip?" she questions innocently.

His throat is suddenly parched. "Yeah," he rasps.

"Might help with the pain."

"Yeah."

"You'd like that, then?"

"Yeah." Please, please, please...

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