Work Text:
“Oh, Buffy,” Spike says with his most evil grin, “I would love to see you try.”
That grin shouldn’t do things to her, but it does. Buffy swallows and ignores the flutters from Spike’s evilness.
“How hard could it be if you had to cheat to win last night?” Buffy asks. “I can totally beat you at poker. And when I do, you’re going to help me rescue the poker chips. Kittens. Poker kittens? Whatever.”
“Poker. All right,” he says, that grin still in place. “And I don’t need to cheat to beat you, Slayer.”
Buffy scoffs. “You’re going down, vampire.”
“Promises, promises,” he leers. It takes a moment before she understands the innuendo, but she feels her face flame red once she does. And then the bastard has the gall to wink at her! “So, one game, strip poker. You win, I help you with the poor wee little kittens.” He bats his eyelashes at her. Stupidly long eyelashes. “And I win…I name my prize.”
Buffy opens her mouth to protest not knowing his ‘prize’ before they play when the rest of his words penetrate her brain.
“Did you say strip poker?” she squeaks.
How did she get here? Arguing with Spike about strip poker, of all things. After her hangover had cleared this morning, she couldn’t stop thinking about the poor little kittens from the poker game last night getting eaten up by big awful demons. Not that the demons last night had been all that awful, but still. She had been too numbed by grief to think too much about the kittens last night—okay, and too sloshed—but she’d spent the day feeling increasingly guilty about how little she had done for them. Sure, she’d tipped the basket over, but then she'd left the kittens running around under the table in the room full of demons trying to recapture them. Not the most effective jailbreak in the world.
(Though for the kittens’ sake, maybe it’s better that she’s coming back for them, considering how much she yakked after they fought that weird winged red demon in the diaper thing. She wouldn’t want to have to wash vomit out of soft little kitty fur.)
She can’t even remember where the bar was they’d gone to last night. Somewhere Not Willy’s, but still demon-friendly. They’d ridden Spike’s motorcycle, her drunken self curled up against Spike’s back as the engine purred beneath her legs, and all in all, she’d been too drunk and far too turned on by the way Spike felt pressed up against her to pay attention to where they were going. Which leaves her with only one lead in terms of helping those poor, defenseless little kittens. Or, if it’s too late and the ones from last night had already been gobbled up, from helping future poor, defenseless little kittens.
When she had kicked the door to the crypt in, Spike was sprawled out on his chair, yelling answers at Jeopardy and swearing when the contestants got them wrong.
“We’re going to go rescue those kittens,” she had said without preamble.
“Like hell we are.” He’d laughed without taking his eyes from the TV. “You want to go be the Patron Saint of Poker Chips, go do it without me. What is Lake Baikal!”
“Lake who-what-now?”
He’d gestured at the television set. “Deepest lake in the world. No, you wanker, not Crater Lake! I swear, where do they find these gits?”
“No, I’m sorry, the answer is ‘What is Lake Baikal,’” Alex Trebek had said from the TV and Buffy shook her head.
“I’m not giving you a choice, Spike,” she’d said. “Get up and take me back to wherever that bar was. Or else.”
Spike had arched an eyebrow at her. “Or else what?”
“Or else I’ll make you.” She’d made a fist, cocking it back like she was going to punch him, and his expression morphed from ‘I dare you’ to big old puppy dog eyes.
“You wouldn’t hurt a poor, defenseless vamp, would you? Not when you’re so concerned for the harmless, all the fluffy kittens and chipped vampires of the world,” he had said, even batting his stupidly long eyelashes at her, the jerk!
And the thing was, Spike has been so nice to her lately, so easy to be around that she hadn’t wanted to punch him. Ever since Willow and the others had torn her out of heaven, he’d been her only safe place. Before, even—telling her that he knew he was a monster the night she died. Her fist had dropped back to her side. At least he didn’t look smug about it, the jackass.
“Fine,” she’d muttered. “How about…how about…I beat you at-at-at…” She flailed for an idea. “At poker!”
“Poker?”
“Yeah, poker! If I win, you have to help me rescue the kittens from the demons at that bar, and if you win… uh…”
“Do like poker. What rules do you fancy? Texas Hold ‘Em? Five Card Draw?” And that was when he had stood, in a fluid, graceful movement, stalking toward her. He eyed her up and down, did that evil grin, and practically dared her! “Strip?”
Much the same way he’s eyeing her now, actually. Like he can already see her naked.
“No stripping!” she squeaks.
“Well, then, have fun rescuing the little fleabags yourself,” he says, turning back to his chair.
She can’t get naked in front of Spike! Who built a sex robot that looked like her. Who claimed he loved her. Who chained her up in front of his ex.
(Who stayed, for 147 days, watching over her bratty kid sister.)
She needs his help. She’ll never find all those kitties without him…And she does plan on winning, after all…
“Wait!”
Spike turns back, smirk firmly in place.
“There have to be rules. A-a-and no cheating,” Buffy says, swallowing. His eyes are heated as they map her body, undressing her before they’ve even started the game. Except she won’t be undressing! She’s going to win.
Oh god, she’s going to see Spike naked.
Oh god, she’s going to see Spike naked.
Arms of Spike. Chest of Spike. Butt of Spike.
(Cock of Spike.)
She knows she must be redder than Spike’s overshirt, but she lifts her chin defiantly.
“No cheating,” she repeats.
“Promise I won’t cheat,” he says, holding his fingers up in the Boy Scout pledge. She scoffs. Like he was ever a Scout.
“And it has to be even,” she says. “You have all those layers and that’s more clothes than me and…”
He starts counting on one hand, ticking off items of clothes as he names them. “Duster. Shirt. Tee. Jeans. Socks. Boots.”
“Y-you’re missing one,” she says. “Your uh, um.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “Underwear.” Underwear of Spike.
His grin is wide and lascivious. “Oh, those are missing all right. Even missing from my drawer.”
“Y-you don’t wear underwear?” she says in a strangled voice. There’s nothing but a zipper standing between her and Spike’s dick.
Not that she wants to see his dick, of course, not that she has ever thought about it, dreamed about it…and even if she had thought about it, well, that was just the aftermath of Willow’s spell, right?
“They’re all…constricting, don’t you think?” he says. “Man needs room to breathe.”
“But—you have to—I mean, you must—” she stammers. She’s staring at his crotch. She has to stop staring at his crotch. “Underwear goes under the jeans!”
“Thought a lot about me naked, have you?” he says. “About what I look like under all this black?”
“Of course not!” she squeaks. Can vampires tell when you’re lying? Buffy closes her eyes. Okay. So. No underwear of Spike.
“What about you, love? Got some frilly little knickers on under there?” Spike leers at her. Or at least, she assumes she is, because she’s still got her eyes closed. “Lacy ones? A thong, maybe? Or—”
Her fist flails out and connects with his nose before she can stop herself, but he just laughs as he wipes the blood off his face and then licks his fingers.
Which is totally gross and doesn’t have her thinking about his tongue. Nope, no tonguing of Spike in her brain. Uh, tongue of Spike. None of that in her brain. Nope.
“Guess you’ll just have to keep wondering,” she says too sweetly. “Since you won’t get to see them while I kick your butt in poker.”
“Still gonna have to spill now that I shared,” he says, laughter still making his eyes sparkle. No! No sparkling eyes. Just evil glints.
She huffs. “Fine. Jacket, shirt, jeans, socks, boots, bra-and-panties,” she mutters.
“That’s one more’n me,” he says. “Unless you’re counting those last two as one. Underthings.” Somehow, it’s the dirtiest word she’s ever heard when he says it like that, his tongue tapping the back of his teeth. “Since you want it to be even and all.”
She hadn’t even thought about Spike maybe seeing her boobs. Except he won’t, since her shirt is staying on, thank you very much. She nods, reluctantly.
“I’ve got a rule suggestion of my own,” he says. “Winner picks what item comes off next.”
“No,” she says. “You already got strip poker. Loser picks what to take off.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. We done negotiating then? Moonlight’s wasting.”
He shuts off the TV—she hadn’t even realized Jeopardy was still playing—and leads the way back down into the lower level of his crypt, where they’d spent the night before drinking and laughing.
Drinking with him had been the first time since she’d been back that she felt almost human again. Deep underground, hanging out with a walking corpse. She shivers, hugging her jacket closer, as she hops up onto the coffins they’d sat on last night.
It’s wrong, she knows it is, but he’s the only thing that feels right anymore. Somehow, Spike is the only one who treats her differently than before the jump—and the only one who at the same time treats her the same. She’s still just Buffy to him, but he doesn’t expect her to act like bubbly college girl Buffy, who still had a mom and a normal boyfriend, was still enrolled in college and pretending she might have a future. Not the Buffy being crushed by debt, by the weight of her friends’ expectations, by duty. By the very weight of being alive again.
Spike unearths a deck of cards from somewhere and she holds out a demanding hand. She checks that all the cards are there and none of them look marked before she starts shuffling.
“What are we playing?”
“Five-card draw?” he suggests. “Keep it simple, for later. When we’re…distracted.”
When he’s drooling all over her panty-clad, he means. Except he isn’t gonna get that chance, because she’s going to win.
For the kittens.
(And not just so she gets to see him naked and gets the chance to see if a quarter really will bounce off his ass, or if it just looks that tight and firm under the jeans.)
She’s confident, before looking at her hand, that she can beat Spike easily, get him naked and rescue the kittens in just a couple of hours. She’s played poker with Xander and Willow loads of times, especially back in high school, when they were too young to do much on weekends besides watch Bollywood movies and wager with Skittles.
But when she looks at her hand she realizes she’ll be lucky to win with a high card—even worse, with an eight. She shoots a glance at Spike, who gives all new meaning to phrases like ‘wears his heart on his sleeve’ and ‘his face is an open book.’
Normally, at any rate. Now his face is impassive, giving away less than Angel after she asked him a question he didn’t want to answer.
Buffy chews her lips as she considers her hand. She can’t fold now, or she’ll have to…unfold? Her clothes? Anyway, she’s not giving up so easily, especially not on the first deal, so she bets after Spike and then opts to discard three cards. Discarding more seems like a bad idea but she kinda probably should.
“Everything all right, pet?” he drawls, cards flat on the table. He looks all cucumber cool, which is utterly unfair, what with the vampires not sweating anyway.
“Peachy with a side of keen,” Buffy bluffs. “Prepare to get naked, Spike.”
He bursts out laughing and she growls at him to shut up before discarding her three cards.
She gets her three new cards—Spike only gets one, which has her sweating, and oh god, can he hear her heart hammering? Should she have specified no using weird vampire hearing or smelling senses as part of the no cheating thing?—and her hand is not any better. She has a pair of twos now, at least, but the rest of her hand is utter garbage.
“Read ‘em and weep, Slayer,” Spike says, laying out four of a kind. She makes a face at his cards. “Well? Gonna show me what you got?”
Her face burns at the leer he throws her—and she didn’t miss the double in that entendre—as she throws her cards to the table face down and takes her jacket off.
He laughs and throws a wink at her. “Can’t accuse me of cheating on the hands you’re dealing, love, now can you?”
She glowers at him and flings the cards at him for his deal only somewhat ungraciously.
“Ta, pet,” he says, then starts doing fancy shuffling tricks. She eyes the cards with apprehension. “You know, Dru and I spent some time in Vegas? Back in the 50s. She liked to listen to Sinatra. Me, I spent some time listening to the crooners, but it was the poker I liked. 'Course, the casinos have a problem if they think you’re counting cards. The trick, though, the trick is to lose just often enough they can only suspect you of cheating.”
He grins at her, that evil grin, that shark-toothed grin.
“You promised not to cheat,” she says faintly.
“Oh, trust me. I don’t need to cheat or count cards to beat you, love.” There’s an earnestness to the way he says it, none of his usual bragging or cockiness. Like it’s just a simple fact.
She stares at him as he deals the cards smoothly and Buffy doesn’t have to look at them to realize something true.
She is truly, deeply fucked.
~~~
Her skin is smooth like silk and he thinks it looks even softer. Not that she’s like to ever let him touch, not without losing the greedy hand. His fingers twitch with the urge to stroke the skin of her bare thigh so he lights a cigarette to distract himself. She’s lost her jacket, boots, socks, and jeans at this point and he wonders idly if she’s warm enough. He’s only removed the duster; he threw an earlier hand, not wanting her to be utterly humiliated to the point she never talks to him again. He thinks they might be—maybe not friends, but something close to it, despite last night’s meltdown before they left the bar.
So he lost the hand and the duster, and now he’s staring at that soft, soft skin. It’s pale now, paler than she used to be, before. A year fighting a hell god, fighting to keep her head above water, and then long cold months in the ground have robbed her of her tan. But not those glorious golden locks, which tumble in loose waves around her shoulders.
“Hello? Earth to Spike?” she says, snapping her fingers in front of his nose. “I said, I call.”
She’s antsy, squirming, and he can’t help but think about the way her thighs are rubbing against each other even as he absently lays his cards down. He’s not even sure what his hand is, to be honest, or hers, not when he’s thinking about her wrapping those creamy thighs around his head.
“Ha! I win!” she crows. He blinks and tears his eyes away from her and to their respective hands. A straight flush to his straight does win, all right.
“Well done, Slayer,” he says, smiling at the way she’s wiggling in a victory dance. “But you’ve got an awful long way to go to catch up.”
He stands up, hands hovering over his belt. Her eyes are intent on him, like she can’t look away, and he makes a show of thinking about taking off his jeans. Instead, he turns and does a little shimmy as he slips his overshirt off.
He glances over his shoulder, sees the slightly glazed expression in her eyes and thinks there might even be a hint of arousal spicing the air. He whips the shirt around his head, rolling his hips as he turns around, before letting it fly toward Buffy.
“Your deal, pet.”
~~~
Buffy didn’t realize Spike could dance—at least not in the way real people dance, as opposed to his weird metaphorical, dancing-is-fighting way of talking about dancing. Or maybe she should say, not the way real Chippendale’s dancers dance, because hoooo boy. When his shirt hits her in the face, she’s too shocked for a moment to react.
“Your deal, pet,” he says, in a voice that’s a deep, sexy rumble. A nice rumble. Nice the way his hips move is nice, where nice is not so much the word as very, very naughty.
His shirt smells like him, but more so. Tobacco and whiskey and the night, danger and sex and home.
She wants to bury her face in his shirt, in his scent, and roll around in it.
She reaches up and pulls it off her face.
“Right. Dealing. Cards.”
She’d never noticed before, the way the sleeves of his t-shirt cut off at just the roundest part of his bicep.
She’d never noticed before, either, how she wants to sink her teeth into all that muscle.
~~~
She can feel his eyes on her like a caress. She’s down to just her bra and panties now, and per her stupid rules, they count as one.
Spike, meanwhile, has only lost three hands. She’d feel better about that if she didn’t suspect he’d thrown at least one hand, and been distracted during another. But that means he took off his duster, button-down, and boots, leaving him with his t-shirt, jeans, and socks. It’s weird to think Spike wears socks. It’d be pretty gross if he didn’t, but she never really thought about Spike sans boots before. She wonders what his bare feet look like. Long and elegant, like his hands?
And maybe she’ll find out! She’s feeling good about her hand—four nines, so beat that, stupid vampire! It’s all she can do not to squirm in her seat in anticipation.
(And okay, a little bit of the squirming would be from the heat of his gaze on her bare skin.)
She tries to tell herself it’s just like wearing a bikini, it’s fine. It’s nothing. But she’s all too aware of his desire for her, can practically taste it. She finds herself wishing her bra and panties weren’t so plain. A cute little polka dot bikini and she’d feel a lot more confident. But lately, she keeps passing over her cute underwear for plain, practically ratty options, practically period panties. Comfy and boring with no thoughts required. She doesn’t even have matching undies today, though at least this pair isn’t ripped or relegated to period panties—at least she doesn’t have her period, today. Not that she would match her undies for Spike. Or wear a cute lacy little number. In say…red and black. Nope. Wouldn’t do that.
He’s still staring at her, tracing his eyes up and down her body like he can feel her skin with his eyes, and it’s almost like she can feel his fingers through his gaze, like he’s actually touching her. It’s making her feel uncomfortable.
It’s turning her on.
“Are you going to bet?” she snaps, growing uncomfortable as she realizes her panties are getting damp. She’s going to have a hard time hiding that from him after she wins. No way is he not going to notice, or buy that it’s just a thing that happens sometimes, which it totally is. Sometimes. Fuck. Okay. He’s going to lose, and then she just has to win two more hands and she can somehow find a way to get her jeans back on without standing… She can totally do this.
He blinks at her and nods. “I call.”
She spreads her hand before her triumphantly. “Read 'em and weep, vampire. Four nines.”
“That’s a good hand,” he says appreciatively.
“Now strip,” she commands.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says. He’s way too calm about losing. Her heart starts beating faster. “Not so fast. You haven’t seen my hand yet.”
Oh no. No no no no no. She won, she won, she had to have won!
He lays his cards down without a word and she stares at them.
“Believe that’s a better hand than yours, Slayer.”
All hearts.
Ace. King. Queen. Jack. Ten.
He’s got a fucking royal flush.
She whimpers.
“That’s right. What was it you said?” he says with an evil grin. “Ah, that’s right. ‘Now strip.’”
“You were gonna name your prize,” she says, trying to stall. “For winning.”
“Oh, don’t worry, love, I will. Later,” he says, a mischievous light in his eyes as he does that sexy tongue thing. Which is bad. He can’t do the tongue thing now. “C’mon, you lost the game, now it’s time to lose your clothes. Those are the rules, after all.”
She licks her lips, all too aware of how his eyes drop to her mouth to follow the motion.
“Right. The rules.”
It’s just the rules. That’s why she’s letting Spike see her naked. Just the rules.
She stands, ignoring the way her legs are trembling. Her hands move behind her to unclasp her bra, and they’re shaking, too, and she ignores that, too. She slips one strap off her shoulder, then the other, clutching her bra to hold it in place, her eyes never leaving Spike’s. But he’s staring at her still-covered breasts, his gaze hungry and intense. Like he wants to devour her.
Reluctantly, she lets her bra fall away, fluttering uselessly to the floor, and he takes her in. She’s not sure he’s even aware of it when he stands and takes a step toward her, but she takes an involuntary step backward. He is so alive, so full of energy and feelings and want. When was the last time she felt as alive as he looks right now?
Tonight, she realizes. She’d been wrapped up in their game, in how he looks and how he looks at her, at her half-dressed state, the way the cool air has her nipples tightening, to remember the losspainfearhardhell of her life since she came back to Sunnydale.
“All the way now, there’s a love,” he coaxes her, his voice a deep rumble, deeper than she’s ever heard before, and it strikes a nerve in her, one she thought was long dead. A nerve that most definitely feels alive.
She meets his eyes and now he’s the one licking his lips, and she doesn’t think about the way that tongue felt in her mouth, a lifetime ago, a death ago, when Willow had cast her stupid spell. She doesn’t think about how that tongue might feel, cool and bold and buried between her legs.
She drops her hands to the waistband of her panties. She doesn’t have it in her to make it a show, to do a shimmy, to make it sexy, or anything like that. So she just bends down, keeping her eyes on his, and pushes her panties down.
And Spike whimpers.
She straightens, standing before him, bare ass naked, as he drinks her in, like a dying man in an oasis, like a vampire drinking blood. She wants to squirm under his gaze, to use her hands to cover herself, to duck behind the sarcophagus and hide.
(To tear his clothes off, too, so he’s just as naked as she is.)
He steps forward, one step, then another. She forces herself not to move.
He said he wouldn’t touch her. Right? Was that in the rules? She must have put it in the rules, she had to have.
“So…” she says, her voice breathy and high and all bedroom voice and she suddenly remembers this is his bedroom—his bed, in fact, is just a few feet away. She swallows and tries again, but it’s no better. “So.”
“So,” he says.
“Name your prize,” she says.
He doesn’t touch her, not with his hands, but she can feel the weight of his eyes on her, and it feels like sparks that ignite a fire that’s burning inside her. He steps closer, and closer, until he’s almost-not-quite touching her, lips millimeters from hers as she pants helplessly. His eyes are closed as he breathes in deeply.
“My prize,” he says. His lips brush against hers as he speaks.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “For winning.” It’s like a kiss, almost, his mouth soft and pliant as she moves her own against his. “You said you’d name it. Later.”
“What should I ask for, hmmm?” he whispers. “What could I ask for? When I’ve everything I ever wanted, right here?”
She can’t take it anymore, his words, the strokes of his lips against hers bringing back online systems deep inside her that had been offline since long before her jump. She brings her hand up to his head, holding him to her as she kisses him, a real kiss, an on-purpose kiss, and it has all of her in it, everything she’s wanted to say since she’s been back, every scrap of life and emotion left in the dried husk of her body.
And oh god he’s kissing her back, not the teasing whisper of his lips against hers with their every word, but somehow firm and soft all at once. She feels frantic for more but he kisses her slow, deep, sensual and drugging, and she finds herself matching his pace. After an eternity he presses his tongue against her, seeking entry, and she opens for him with a gasp.
She’s had kisses before that felt like an invasion, but this is a homecoming, and not just because they had kissed before, all those months ago. His coolth matches her warmth, and his tongue is skilled as it explores her mouth, sending her passion spiraling higher and higher.
She runs her fingers through his hair, flexing her fingers as she grips it, and it’s only then that she realizes he’s not touching her, no contact anywhere but their mouths. But oh, what contact it is. Every stroke of his lips, every flick of his tongue, the way he slants his mouth against her, all of it is stoking the fire he’s lit inside her.
And she needs more.
She reluctantly tears away from the kiss with a gasp, gulping air she’d forgotten she needed. And he doesn’t need that air, but he’s gasping too, resting his forehead against hers, and it’s not enough, she needs so much more.
“Touch me,” she rasps, and how is that sex kitten voice coming from her? But it is, and he doesn’t wait for her to say it again before his hands are at her waist, crushing her to his chest, his hard abs, her belly rubbing against his cock, long and thick and hard inside his jeans. And she’s not blind; even if he weren’t constantly drawing attention to it, she’d have noticed that bulge. Spike is packing, and the thought she might get to see it, do more than see it, has her whimpering, all her careful denials thrown down with her last losing poker hand. “More.”
He kisses her again, greedily, even as he starts to explore her body with his hands. Squeezing her ass and stroking her spine; tickling along her tummy and tangling in her hair. The cotton of his shirt and the denim of his jeans rub against her bare skin even as she drops her own hands to his shoulders, squeezing his biceps as she clings to him, desperately trying not to get swept away in the torrent of passion he’s unleashed.
“So beautiful. More than I dreamed, even. Someone caged the sunlight inside you. Glows through your skin, can’t hide the shine,” he whispers in her ear as she gasps against his chest, frantic for air once more. “God you’ve got such perfect tits. Broke the mold when they made you, love.”
His poetry makes her head spin but also makes her all too aware of her nudity where he’s still almost fully dressed. She grips her fingers in the fabric of his T-shirt, then pulls at it, desperate to even the playing field. The fabric slips up inch by torturous inch, revealing all those pale muscles she knew he had. But what she didn’t quite expect was just how cut he is, like someone chiseled him out of marble just for her to play with. She drops her tongue to his abs before she’s even finished pulling his shirt up, nipping and licking the ridges of his chest while she undresses him.
He moans, his hands taking over from hers to pull his shirt the rest of the way off. And with his shirt off, she puts her hands to better use, mapping the planes of muscles on his torso, nails scratching, fingertips stroking, all while she drops kisses and bites along his chest. She swirls her tongue around his nipple and he hisses, so she does it again, then bites it gently. She’s never done anything like it before, but he seems as into it as she would be if the positions are reversed. And she’s seen him shirtless before but never to touch or taste, so she’s relishing the chance to indulge in her most secret, most forbidden desires.
“Harder,” he groans, so she does it again, harder, before licking her way across to his other nipple. “Fuck, Buffy.”
And that’s the idea, isn’t it? She wants to fuck him, she’s always wanted to fuck him, ever since she first saw him in that alley behind the Bronze, since before she’d fucked anyone or really knew what it meant to want to fuck someone, before she’d used the word like that, even. But she’d learned all too quickly that he was off-limits and buried the desire deep, so deep she almost forgot about it.
Except the times she didn’t, like every time they fought, or their verbal sparring. Like when she agreed to marry him, on what was the happiest night of her life.
Like when he looked up at her from the bottom of the steps of her house, twice, bracketing her death with his love.
Like tonight, when he challenged her to strip poker and she felt her body sparking back to something like life.
“Did you cheat?” she murmurs, nibbling and sucking on his neck.
“Promised I wouldn’t,” he gasps. “Won fair and square.”
She believes him, or maybe just wants to believe him, but he grips a hand in her hair and pulls until he can capture her lips in a greedy kiss and she forgets all about needing to believe him lost in sensation. He steps forward, body pushing hers until she stumbles back, step after clumsy step until her knees hit the back of his bed and she’s falling, pulling him down with her.
“Oof,” she says, but she likes the weight of him on her. His skin is cool and dry, not like Riley’s always-sweaty bulk. And he’s slimmer than Angel, fitting against her like a jigsaw puzzle piece instead of overwhelming her with his mass. And jigsaw puzzle pieces interlock… she grinds her hips up against his. His jeans are rough against her pussy, and she’s throbbing with need for him.
He groans, a hungry sound that makes her shudder with hunger of her own, biting at his lips, licking his neck, her nails digging into his back like she can scoop him up and into her, make him a part of her.
He fumbles at his belt and she drops her hands to help him push his jeans down. She may have lost the poker game but she realizes she’s getting a hell of a consolation prize as his thick, uncut dick springs free. She wraps a hand around him, strokes tentatively at first, then more boldly as he pants her name and whines in her ear.
“Such hot little hands, god, Slayer, burning me up, that’s right, just like that, oh god, oh fuck, Buffy,” he growls into her ear. She had always thought that dirty talk was silly before, but maybe that was just because Riley had been so bad at it. He was so earnest all the time, even in bed, and it’s hard not to giggle at a man when he’s earnestly telling you he wants to stick his dick in you. Spike, on the other hand, is sex and sin, sensual and sensuous. When he tells her what he wants to do to her pussy, it makes her clench with need.
He slides down her body, dropping kisses between strings of profanity, slipping out of her grip to position his head between her legs. He drops kisses on her inner thighs, his touch cool and yet it’s making her hotter, building a fire under her skin, and then his tongue licks her slit and she nearly jerks up off the bed.
“Fuck, love, taste so good,” he moans.
Maybe she should have expected a guy who smokes, a vampire, no less, to be good at licking and sucking. But she’d never really thought of it beyond the “ew gross” bloodsucking-and-murder way, and now he’s putting that oral fixation to good use on her pussy and she thinks she might die of pleasure. Is that something you can do? Die of pleasure? Because she’s keening, a raw sound, deep-throated, and she realizes she doesn’t want to die, not if it means losing this—not even if it means going out like this. She feels alive, truly alive, for the first time since she crawled from her grave, the taste of her own decay and grave dirt filling her mouth.
He’s worrying her clit with his teeth and lips and she looks down at him, and it’s obscene and pornographic and hot, a vampire eating the Slayer out and growling into her clit like she’s the best thing he ever tasted. His eyes lock on hers, and it’s intense, so much, too much, she has to get away, look away, and she closes her eyes just to break eye contact. Her hips rise up as she tries to grind herself against his mouth but he splays a large hand over her belly and pushes her down, his strength holding her firm and tethered and here, with him.
“Sp-spike,” she stammers.
He looks up at her, chin glistening with her juices and a cocky grin on his face. “Gonna come for me, love?”
And then his mouth is back on her, and he’s sliding a finger inside her, no, two—three? and pumping, stretching her, filling her, making her want more, but his tongue is on her clit and he’s pushing her higher and higher, stretching her tighter and tighter until she thinks she might rip right apart at the seams and dissolve into nothing.
“So beautiful,” he breathes, fanning cool breath over her molten core. “Come for me, kitten, there’s a good girl.”
And he sucks and she explodes, all of her falling apart into tiny little Buffy pieces like confetti, like glitter, spreading out over the world and how will she ever pull herself back together but does it matter because she’s still coming, he’s dragging her orgasm out even as he drags his tongue slowly through her cunt, whispering broken endearments into her flesh as he nips and sucks at her flesh, lapping at her like he’s the kitten and she’s a bowl of cream and fuck fuck fuck.
It’s an eternity before she can speak again, whole geologic ages passing outside Spike’s underground bedroom. He crawls up beside her and she turns her head to face him and drunkenly kisses him. It’s weird tasting herself in his mouth but not unpleasant.
“Hey,” she manages when they break apart so she can breathe.
“Hey yourself,” he says, and she should probably be angry about how smug he looks but she can’t feel her legs so he kind of earned it.
She can’t think of a reply so she kisses him again, slow and languid. Though it doesn’t stay that way for long. She can feel Spike’s erection, still hard and heavy against her hip and she rolls until she’s on top of him, sitting up straddling his hips, grinding her dripping pussy onto his cock.
“Burning me up, Slayer,” he gasps. He grips her hips, hands digging in hard enough to bruise and she’s surprised to find she likes it. No one’s ever held her this way, like she’s strong, like she can take it. Angel and Riley held her like she was made of spun glass or cotton candy, like if they looked at her wrong she’d shatter or melt. Parker…well, the less said about that night the better. But the little bit of pain from Spike’s grip just makes the pleasure better, makes her realize he wants all of her—not just the girl, but the Slayer, too.
Spike holds her like she’s a warrior, like she’s fierce and proud and strong. Like she’s his equal—or maybe like she’s his religion, from the worshipful way he’s looking up at her.
His love, his awe, they pour into the black hole that’s been living inside her since she came back to life. She’d begun to think nothing could fill it—not her friends’ relief to have her back, not Dawn’s need, not Giles’s fatherly concern. No matter what anyone said or did, it was like the hole just got bigger, tearing more of her away, sucking her into its depths, until she thought it was going to swallow her and everyone around her.
Except sometimes, when she’d come to sit with Spike these last few weeks, quiet and quieting, it seemed like maybe the hole wasn’t getting any bigger. Like she was holding her ground, because when Spike looked at her he didn’t see what she could do for him—he saw a miracle.
Now, as she reaches between them to position his cock at her entrance, as she lowers herself onto him, she thinks maybe he could help her fill the hole. To not only find a way to stop her from losing herself to the blackness, but to mend the tears in her soul—the scars left when Willow cut into her like a surgeon, separating her from heaven.
His cock fills her, stretching her more than even his fingers had, connecting her here, to earth, to him. She stares at him, wide-eyed, knowing she must be mirroring the awe on his own face. He feels like a little bit of heaven inside her, he feels like love and sex and danger and safety and home.
She lifts herself up and slides back down, riding him, losing herself in him and the pleasure. He traces his hands up her sides, so softly it should be ticklish but too sexy to make her squirm. He strokes the skin of her stomach and back, squeezes her ass, runs gentle fingers along the sensitive underside of her breasts and cups them. He sits up, leans forward to take a nipple into his mouth and sucks it gently even as he pinches her other nipple roughly. The contrast makes her cry out, squeezing his cock with her inner walls and he yells, “Fuck! Do it again!” so she does, and so does he, switching his mouth and fingers and why didn’t anyone tell her sex could be like this?
He rolls them suddenly, leaving her with her legs in the air and his cock driving into her. He pushes her legs up against his shoulders and drops a hand to her clit, rubbing it as she rolls her hips to meet him.
“Guh,” she says, and when did Spike get curly hair? The gel is breaking up, and those sexy curls are flopping about it and she wants to run her hands through it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. She can’t quite reach so she drops her legs to his waist, pulls him closer and god, it is that soft, which makes no sense with all the bleach. And he’s close now, so close, they’re pressed chest to chest and his eyes are right there and shining with all that love and adoration and god, yes, it is filling something inside her, and he’s brimming with it, like an ocean, like she could pull it all out of him and still there would be more love inside.
“Oh, my sweet girl,” he whispers against her mouth, dropping kisses between phrases. “Love you so much, Buffy, let me take care of you, please.”
She feels tears stinging her eyes and nods. He kisses the tears from her cheeks as they move together.
“Gonna take care of you so good, sweetling, just watch,” he murmurs. She can’t help but remember how she shouted at him, how she had expected him to fix her life last night while drunk. And now maybe he is, filling her with his love.
She watches the muscles bunch and smooth beneath his pale skin as he rocks into her and feels the overwhelming urge to bite him, so she does, sinking her teeth into his bicep. He’s strong and firm beneath her teeth and it makes him cry out so she does it again. She wants to chew him up and bring him inside her to patch up the hole inside her but he rolls them so she’s on top again. She sits back, moaning at the new angle, rides him hard. He grips her hips and she throws her head back, feeling the ends dangling against his legs. He drops a hand to her clit, rubbing, and she feels herself tightening, her muscles clenching as she felt her climax approach.
“That’s it, Spike’s got you, gonna take such good care of you,” he croons as he thrusts up into her. “You’re safe. It’s okay to let go.”
At his words, she does let go, and her orgasm washes through her. She hears herself cry Spike’s name, hears him roar her own name as her coming triggers his own, before folding herself over his chest.
“That was…” she pants. Like nothing she’s ever experienced before. Like finding heaven again, in his arms.
He chuckles below her, the sound low and rumbly in a way that makes her feel shivery. And…
“Oh my god, how are you hard again already?” she asks in shock as he thrusts lazily into her.
“Always hard for you, pet,” he growls, grabbing her hands by the wrists and rolling them over. “Mmm…what do you say about another go?”
She kisses him.
~~~
He strokes her back, long, languid strokes as she drapes over him like a heated blanket. She’s sleepy as a kitten, now, worn out after…Christ, he doesn’t even know what time it is. Hours, though, it must be. He’s fighting off sleep himself, afraid that if he drifts off he’ll wake to find her gone, or that the night was just a dream.
“I’m a bad Slayer,” she mumbles.
He feels his heart clench at her words. She’s regretting this. Rejecting him, before she’s even climbed off his cock. He forces himself to keep his tone light. “Nonsense. How many Slayers can say they’ve died twice and are still out there fighting the good fight?”
“Not…” she yawns. “...that. I was supposed to rescue the kittens. Now they’re going to get eaten.”
He relaxes slightly. Not him. Not yet, at any rate, though surely she’s going to kick him in the head and run off with her virtue fluttering, just as soon as she takes the time to think about what they just did. Nothing for it, so he hides his bruised heart and pretends he doesn’t care she’s going to break it later.
“Jealous? Could eat your sweet puss again,” he offers, dropping a hand to idly finger her folds. If she’s coming, if he can distract her, maybe she’ll stay. If he can do it enough, will she stay forever?
She swats a lazy hand at his chest. “Gross, Spike.”
“S’not what you said earlier—”
“Anyway, none of that helps the kittens,” she says, pushing herself up to look at him and pushing his hand away from her sweet cunt. He doesn’t get it, the concern over the little furballs. Humans are so weird about what they eat and what they don’t eat. If it was a pig or a cow, would she care as much? He’s seen her chowing down on hamburgers before, and never a thought for poor Bessie. “I’m letting demons just…eat them, willy nilly.”
“Not letting them do nothing, Slayer,” he argues. “‘Sides, isn’t this better than them eating people?”
Her pouting lower lip is too tempting for him not to take a nibble but she sits up even further. He groans, feeling his dick coming back to life.
“I just…they’re so cute, and fluffy, and that wrinkly guy—”
“Clem,” he supplies helpfully.
“Clem said he was going to eat them!” She looks at him with her eyes all big and green. “And I didn’t stop them, and I was going to tonight but then…” She breaks off with a blush.
“Oh, sod it, I’ll help you find the bleeding kittens,” he says fondly, reaching up to wrap her hair around his finger. Mmm. Maybe she’ll let him wrap it around his cock one day, jerk off into her golden, glorious mane.
She gapes at him. “Y-you will?”
“Just said it, didn’t I?” he snaps, then softens when she flinches. “Yeah, I’ll help, pet. The Great Kitten Caper is on. Though don’t expect me to feed the moggies, I’m just the muscle, you got it? And—”
He cuts off with an oof as she throws her arms around him, capturing his lips in a fervent kiss. “Thank you thank you thank you!”
“If I’d known you’d react like this I would have said yes from the get-go,” he says with a chuckle. She rolls her eyes but the smile on her face is fond.
“C’mon let’s go, we got kittens to rescue,” she says, moving like she’s going to get out of bed.
“Now? It’s almost dawn, love,” he says, nuzzling her neck. “Stay with me. We’ll find the kittens tomorrow night, yeah?”
She relents, melting into his arms, and he thinks he might have found heaven. She sighs as he starts to nip and suck at the skin over her jugular. “Okay. Yeah. Tomorrow. We rescue the kittens tomorrow.”
“In the meantime, we can talk about my prize for winning…” he says wickedly.
She startles. “What are you talking about? You got your prize. We, you know, we…”
He leers at her. “Oh, love, that wasn’t part of the bet. That was all you. Jumped my bones, you did. More than once, in fact.”
“Hey, wait a minute, I did not…” she says, pushing away from him. “Well, okay, maybe I did a little, but I thought it was part of the game!”
“Which time? The first one? Or the four hours after?” He smirks, then sobers. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Buffy. A kiss, maybe, but not…”
“Oh,” she says, looking a bit bashful.
“Now…I think, as forfeit for losing the bet, you should…” He pauses, biting his lip as his eyes rake up and down her body.
“Spit it out, Spike!” she snaps.