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Buffy feels awful. There’s a dull ache in her groin and lower back, she’s tired, and she feels like she’s overheating even in the chilly night air. She’s getting the post-slay cravings, too, which are only compounded by the hormone influx from being on her period. She always gets horny when she slays, and hornier still this time of the month.
As the final vampire in the small pack she’d been fighting crumbles to dust, she decides that she’s had enough for the night. It’s time to head back home, try to decompress, and hope the throbbing—all forms of it, painful and pleasurable—dies down. A hot shower sounds good.
She’s about to slide her stake back into her sleeve when she feels a prickle in the back of her head, her Slayer senses telling her there’s a vampire nearby. She spins around on the dewy cemetery grass and spots him approaching leisurely from a distance. Seeing Spike makes her stomach go swoopy for a second. The craving for sex is unbearable for a moment, and then she gets a handle on it. A few more days and she can go back to making that mistake.
“Slayer,” he greets her, hands shoved in the pockets of his duster.
“Spike,” she replies curtly, stowing the stake.
He stops short where he is, about fifteen feet from her, and cocks his head. She sees his nostrils flare, and he sniffs.
“One o’ the beasties get you?”
She scoffs. “As if. The day I get overpowered by a measly three vampires is the day I hand in my Slayer badge.”
Spike ambles closer. “I smell blood.”
She blinks once, and if she were a little younger, a little more insecure, she might’ve blushed. He can smell it?
“You must be mistaken,” she says.
“Oh, sure. The daffy de-fanged vampire doesn’t know what blood smells like.” He’s scowling now, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally catches up to her.
Buffy rolls her eyes. “Okay, with the bitching. Was there something you wanted?”
His eyebrows jump up a little. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but then his face goes a bit slack, and he inhales deeply. “Christ, but you smell good. Are you sure you didn’t get, I’unno, stabbed or something?”
“I think I’d know if I’d been stabbed, Spike.” Her patience is growing thin. She just wants to get home and soak her sore muscles in near-scalding water.
He looks her over, still sniffing, as if he’s searching for the source of the scent. His gaze flicks down, and finally it clicks for him. “On the rag, then?”
She makes a noise of disgust. “I’m leaving.” She turns on her heel.
“Well, hold on.” Spike darts forward to get in her way. She doesn’t stop walking, so he begins to walk backwards so they can remain face-to-face. “I could help you out with that.”
She stops in her tracks. “With what, exactly?”
“A good orgasm can work wonders for the cramping and whatnot.”
She grimaces. “Um, ick?” she says, pitch flicking up at the end to accentuate the obviousness of the ick factor.
“Oi, don’t be like that. We’d both be getting something out of it. You get to come, I get a hot drink. Win-win.”
“A hot drink? Gross, Spike.”
“It’s blood, pet. Sort of the opposite of gross to a vampire.”
“It’s not just blood, though. It’s, like, squishy bits of stuff falling out of my uterus as it sheds.” She wrinkles her nose. “Major ick.”
Spike shrugs. “Dunno what to tell you here, Slayer. It all sounds good to me. And you clearly need to get off.”
She grits her teeth. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “I’m just saying, you seem like you could use a mood-booster. I’m offering, is all.”
She forces herself to take a deep breath. The frustration remains but the outright anger ebbs, and she’s left to contemplate the keyed-up feeling that she always gets from slaying, and the hormonal outpour from her period, and the fact that Spike is willing. Not only willing, but eager.
She’s never done it on her period before. Never even touched herself; she’s always too squicked out. But he’s offering.
“Fine,” she says. “Let’s go, then.” And she turns and heads off in the direction of his crypt.
He doesn’t let her get far before he’s hurrying to catch up and walk alongside her, a grin on his face. “Wasn’t sure you’d go for it.”
“Still might change my mind.”
He falls silent, apparently not willing to risk it.
They arrive, he lets her in, and she immediately sets to work peeling off her outer layers. The jacket, the boots, and then she takes her hair out of its sensible ponytail. Beside her, Spike removes his duster and boots as well.
They wander towards Spike’s bed with its dark purple sheets and suddenly, she’s feeling awkward. What now?
“Should you… put a towel down?” she asks, unsure if he even has a towel, seeing as the crypt lacks indoor plumbing.
“I really don’t mind the stains,” Spike says. At her look of disgust, he amends, “...But I should probably put a towel down. Fine.” Then he ducks away to grab one.
While he’s gone, she tugs her top off, hesitates for a beat, and then takes her leggings off as well. Her socks are the last thing to go, and then she sits gingerly on his bed in her underwear.
When he returns, his shirt and socks are gone. He yanks the bedspread back and drapes a ratty towel over the sheets, and then gestures for her to lay on it with a sarcastic sweeping motion like he’s a prince inviting her to dance. The whole situation is feeling very unsexy, which is unusual for them, and it’s making her self-conscious.
Spike ends the unsexy feeling by crawling over her and leaning down to kiss her. She kisses back eagerly, and opens her mouth for his tongue. His mouth is room-temperature, and for some perverse reason, that sensation sends little tendrils of pleasure curling through her. God, she’s really fucked, isn’t she?
His kiss is hungry, aggressive, and she loses herself in it, lets herself get caught up in the arousal that pours through her. His fingers rub gently at her over her panties, circling her clit through the fabric, rapidly becoming damp and sticky. With her leggings off and her heightened Slayer senses, she can smell the blood, as well as the slickness of her want.
Spike nuzzles into her neck, inhaling the smell of her sweat, feeling the way her pulse thrums beneath her skin. This is the gentlest he’s ever been with her, by far. Granted, she’s never wanted him to be gentle, but he must be erring on the side of caution.
He scrapes dull human teeth down her neck and chest until he’s stopped by her bra, at which point he reaches under her and deftly undoes the clasp. He pulls it from her body and tosses it off the side of the bed, and then wraps his lips around one of her nipples and sucks.
She gasps, threading her fingers through his platinum-blond hair, and lets her head tip back and her eyes drift closed. He plays there for a moment, but then continues making a path down her body, dropping kisses and playful little nips as he goes.
“Fuck, my mouth’s watering,” he mumbles into the skin of her belly, and reaches up to tug her panties down. As he flings them away, she resists the urge to close her knees, and instead lets him gently tug her tampon out. There’s a definite gush that she does her best not to think about, and then Spike leans over the side of the bed and she hears a rustle that must be him depositing the tampon in a trash bin.
Buffy looks down her body at Spike, whose eyes are half-lidded as he gazes between her legs, breathing in the scent of her.
Usually he teases her, so she gears herself up for that. He’ll mouth at her inner thighs, licking the crease where thigh meets hip. He’ll nose at her where her skin is thinnest, tell her he can hear the heartbeat in her femoral artery. Maybe he’ll even let his fangs slide out and he’ll prick her skin, just barely, just enough to make her bleed a little. She’ll relish the sting, and he’ll murmur his appreciation for the way her heartbeat pounds harder and faster and louder. She shivers with anticipation, ready for whatever he might be planning.
But he doesn’t do any of that tonight. He must be in a hurry to get what he wants. He leans in and licks her, and the relief of it is like scratching an itch. It’s bone-deep and so satisfying, and she moans, but he moans louder. She feels the bumpy ridges break out across his forehead. His tongue is cool and soothing against her overheated flesh, and she lets her legs fall open further as he licks into her.
“Fuck, Spike,” she sighs, and grips the sheets in her fists.
He lets out a wordless hum and presses his tongue inside, slurping loudly as he drinks from her. His nose is pressed to her clit, and she’s eternally grateful that he doesn’t need to breathe as she grinds herself against him. He laps her up like he can’t get enough, tongue scooping out fluid for him to swallow down, flattening to lick broad stripes over her, and then curling again. Her body buzzes with the sensation of it, his tongue playing at her entrance and lips skating over damp skin. It feels good—God, does it feel good—but she wants more, too.
“Spike,” she hiccups, and takes hold of his hair to tug him up. “Lick h-here.” It’s hard for her to be vulgar with her language, to speak in anything other than euphemisms, but he gets the picture and drags his tongue up through her flesh to lick her clit. She moans brokenly, and it’s almost what she needs, but he’s being too delicate. She arches her back, trying to press herself harder against his mouth, and gasps out, “More, more, more, please.”
He rubs his tongue more firmly against her clit and she whimpers with pleasure, sparks shooting through her, but now—fuck, she wants him inside her, too.
“God,” she whines.
“Hardly,” Spike says, voice muffled.
“Spike—ah—your fingers…”
She asks, he answers. His fingers probe softly at her entrance, careful with her, and he slowly slides one inside. Before she gets a chance to beg for more, he inserts another, and then begins to pump them in and out. It feels so good she can’t even bring herself to care about the squelching sound, or the way blood is clinging to her pubic hair and spilling down her thighs.
He fucks her with two fingers, the slide easy with how wet she is, and suckles lightly at her clit, careful about his teeth. Her hips buck and he sucks harder, draping his free hand across her belly to hold her down. The weight of his arm is too much, though, while she feels all bloated and sore, and she quickly shoves it off herself. He switches to holding her thighs open instead.
He sucks and sucks and sucks at her clit, curling his fingers up, and she sees stars. Her body seizes up, knees bending so her heels come to rest against his back, and she feels her muscles clenching and unclenching rhythmically around his fingers. She tingles all over, and her breath stutters in and out of her in uneven bursts, and then the pressure inside her breaks and she’s coming, a reedy gasp clawing its way out of her throat as she arches.
He keeps sucking as she shudders her way through it, and then backs off to lick more lightly at her clit. When Buffy finally relaxes, melting against the pillows, he pulls his fingers out with another sticky flood and then draws them into his mouth. She watches as he slurps the red from them, his eyelids fluttering over irises turned demonic gold. He cleans his fingers meticulously, completely scouring all the blood from them, and then lets them pop out of his mouth. His chin is completely scarlet.
As soon as he’s sure he’s not wasting any of what was on his fingers, he dives back down and slides his tongue into her again. The coolness of the slippery muscle is a balm, and she sighs with pleasure and scritches happily at his scalp, content now to let him drink his fill. Her body pulses with satisfaction, the throbbing pains having quieted.
She lets her eyes drift shut, feeling lazy and sated as he laps at her. A couple of times, blood leaks down her body and his tongue grazes her perineum as he catches it, making her twitch and tingle. She almost dozes as she enjoys the sensation of him cleaning her up.
Finally, he seems to have decided that he’s gotten all from her that her body will give, and he sits up. His face smooths back out and his sharp fangs recede as he breathes heavily—which must be a habit, since it’s not a necessity—tongue lolling out as he tries in vain to clean his chin. The blood that soaks his face is too copious; as long as his tongue may be, he’ll never reach it all.
He’s still in his jeans, which bulge in the front as his erection strains against them. He palms himself, panting. She spreads her legs in invitation, and he scrambles to shuck his jeans and then his briefs. He lays in the cradle of her hips, taking himself in hand. He looks up at her for confirmation, rasping out a, “Yeah?”
She nods, grabbing him by the shoulders, and he looks down between them to guide himself into her. He groans with satisfaction as he sinks inside, and arousal prickles through her. The feeling of being filled up like this is almost too much, but she hitches her legs around his hips and says, “C’mon, then. Take it,” anyway.
He fucks her slowly, knowing how sensitive she must be, and from the look on his face it’s agonizing for him. She curls her fingernails into his shoulders and digs her heels into his lower back, urging him on.
He speeds up, hips rolling, and she rises on each thrust to meet him. It starts up an ache in her abdomen, but the pain is tempered by the pleasure, and she has no desire to stop.
With one hand, Spike reaches down and slides his thumb across her clit, and she lets out a happy, “Mmm.”
Her second orgasm is less intense, moving through her like a wave, body pulsing around him. He groans, arms bracketing her, forehead dropping to her shoulder as her muscles grip him. After she comes, he resumes his motion, chasing his own orgasm.
“Fuck, Buffy,” he mutters.
“C’mon,” she goads him, and uses her legs to pull him further down into her. She drags her nails down his back harshly, the way she knows he likes.
He fucks her a little longer, a few more thrusts, and then grunts and tenses up, and Buffy feels the warmth as he spills inside her. He stays hovering over her for a few moments before he pulls out and rolls to the side to collapse against the bed.
Spike eyes himself for a second, the softening length of him slick and red with her blood, and then seems to shake himself out of whatever he’s considering. Good. She’s not particularly interested in seeing him attempt any sort of self-fellating gymnastics.
They both breathe deeply for a few minutes, and she keeps her legs spread wide to enjoy the cool air on her overheated body. She glances sideways at him, sees the blood drying as it drips down his throat and clings to his groin. William the Bloody, indeed.
Buffy settles further back into the pillows, wiggling on the wet towel. She says, “You look like a walking crime scene.”
He grins at her, showing off bloodstained teeth. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”