Length: 1,877 words
Pairing: Spike/Buffy, of course
Set in the blackout in Chosen, after her final discussion with the First as Caleb, then herself.
Some lines from Chosen by Joss Whedon are used at the beginning of this story.
We’re going to win.
Spike ran for his unlife, his undead heart beating ferociously in his chest his breath rasping in his throat, as stylish yet affordable boots hunted him down every alley in Sunnydale. Pairs of cute pumps and nifty sneakers blocked every escape route. He leapt for the top of a wall and could see only shoes wherever he looked; button boots of the sort Dru always favoured allied themselves with elegant brogues, and a pair of spats offered themselves as part of a makeshift ladder to help adorable red booties clamber up to him. Heavy Doc Martins advanced, their tongues hanging out, and the zips on a long, long pair of thigh boots looked horribly like teeth.
Manly reserve be buggered. Spike yelled, “I’m drowning in footwear!” and sat up abruptly. He was awake, which mean it had been a dream. The heartbeat and breath ought to have been a clue; it was over a hundred and twenty years since he’d had either.
“Weird dream,” he said, turning to check if he’d woken Buffy and realising that where she’d been was a stretch of cooling bed. “Buffy? Is something wrong?”
She looked disoriented, but with a strangely radiant expression. “No.” she stopped herself, paused for a moment and pulled her thousand-mile stare back to focus on him. “Yeah. I just realized something. Something that really never occurred to me before. We’re going to win.”
“Come again, love? What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shook herself slightly and moved smoothly back towards his bed. “Our friendly evil visitor was here. Gloating.”
“That’s what it’s for, love. I shouldn’t let it worry you too much. Who was it dressed as?”
She sat down and patted his hand absently. “It started out as Caleb, but then it was me. Can’t say I like that sort of talking to myself. But it gave me an idea.”
Spike’s right hand stole round onto her shoulder. “Those are dangerous things to let loose in a Slayer’s noddle.”
She shoved him back, gently but firmly. “More talk like that, Mister, and you get to sleep on the cold, dank earth.”
“Better than in it – done that plenty of times too. You gonna tell me your idea?”
Buffy’s shoulder fit neatly into the slight hollow beneath Spike’s collar-bone. She relaxed bonelessly into him, his cool body a pleasant contrast to the warm night. “Better not. I’ll need to talk to Giles and Willow more first – I think it should work, but I can’t be certain.”
He twisted his head to stare at her, a quizzical expression on his face, “Who are you and what have you done with General Buffy? I thought the gig meant you listen to no-one, make your own decisions?”
She punched him lightly in the chest; he deftly caught her wrist and lifted it to his lips. She murmured but made no attempt to pull it back.
“This is big, Spike. Never-been-done-before-in-all-history big. I’m allowed a little cold-footedness, I think?”
“Cold feet? Not while I’m on duty.” He reached down, dropping her arm and grabbed at a foot, hauling it into the air. She squealed, but very quietly, and grinned as he began an expert foot-rub. He did know what appealed to her, that was for sure.
She told him as much. “You know how to make me feel good.”
He smirked, his mind clearly going to X-rated places in his memory. Then he stopped himself and looked at her soberly, warily. Last year had been off-limits, conversation-wise, most of the time since he’d been back from Africa.
Buffy smiled. “It’s OK, Spike. We’re good, you and me. We’ve both changed – you don’t have to look as if you’re scared I’ll stake you any minute for mentioning that we have a past.”
He couldn’t help himself – he guffawed. “A Past? Slayer, you sound like one of those trashy newspapers Dru used to enjoy, all romance and bodice-ripping in between the murders that gave her some jollies. We’re not in the nineteenth century any more, and you never were.”
“Reminding yourself you’re an Older Man, Spike? I never did go for the young ones.” She nuzzled him, just a little, and stroked the strong hand still around her shoulder.
His eyes opened wide and an almost comical expression of alarm filled them. “You making a pass, Buffy? Not saying I’d object, mind you, but I thought holding was all we’d agreed on?”
It was her turn to smirk now. “Spike, what say we just make out? Just a little, doesn’t have to go anywhere, but if it does, I’m not saying I’d object.”
He slid to the floor and gazed up at her. “Love, do you know what you’re doing here? You can’t just throw the cellar-dweller a crumb of pity, you know? Not now – not with my soul in there. You have to be here with me, or not at all. Can’t go back to where we were, you must know that.”
She leant forward and cupped his cheeks in her hands, gently stroking those astonishing cheekbones with her thumbs. “I know, Spike. I can’t promise eternity, but I can promise I’m here, with you, now. We didn’t finish that conversation this morning; I had places to go, preachers to slice. I don’t even know what “we” means, but I do know there is a “we”. I’m here, Spike. All of me.”
He seemed frozen on his knees, like some knight of old. Then he shrugged and rose fluidly to his feet, pulling her up to stand against him.
They were both lightly-clad and it took little effort to strip off. They took it slowly, snatching kisses, tiny pecks, whenever a new stretch of skin was revealed. Finally they stood, facing each other, a few inches, or a few thousand miles, separating them.
Buffy pushed him gently, again, till the backs of his knees hit the edge of his bed and he could go no further, He looked at her, a question in his eyes.
“Lie down. We’re going to make this the first time. And it really is.”
It could never be the first time. He knew that. She knew that, he knew that she knew that. But in another way, it was. He lay back and felt her strong, small hands run across his chest.
“Close your eyes.” He did so.
The next moment he almost jumped to hit the roof, as he felt soft, warm lips start at his navel and travel slowly, deliberately, inevitably downwards.
Buffy could feel his body go still. She glanced up at his face, where expressions of awe, astonishment and lust fought for primacy. Time to go with the lustful.
She let her hair hang low and swept it back and forth across his abdomen. She blew gentle breaths, then dipped to lick the soft line of hair which led down from his belly button. More cool, gentle breaths.
He groaned. It was working. Before it could work too well, she dipped and took the little, swiftly-swelling prick into her mouth. She licked and teased, pressing the softness with her teeth, flicking and stroking with her tongue. She started to suck, pulling her head back and letting her lips enclose him completely, pulling and rubbing back and forth.
Eventually she pulled back, when her mouth was no longer sufficient to take it all comfortably. She ran her fingernails up the sides of the no-longer-little-in-any-way-whatsoever evidence of his enthusiasm. She glanced up at his awe-struck face and smiled. “Is that OK? I wouldn’t want to break any rules here.”
He very nearly snorted. “Didn’t think there were many rules left we haven’t broken, you and me. God, Buffy, that is so good. I need to hold you now, love. I really need to.”
She slid onto the bed, stretched out next to him and took his left hand firmly in hers. “You know what? Seems I need to be General Buffy after all. Here, feel this.” She guided his fingers down between her legs. She had never been so ready, and he noticed it. His fingers began to stroke, to pinch and pull lightly, to dip in and out. His other hand and his mouth fastened on her nipples, while she reached with both hands to continue stroking, pinching, pulling in return.
Buffy’s breathing became faster, more erratic. He lifted himself away for a moment. “You OK, love?”
“Very much OK. As OK as I can be. The very pinnacle of OKness, even. Spike, I need you. I need you now.”
Now was absolutely and totally not the time to ask which position she preferred. He stroked her abdomen; he trailed his hands lightly from her jawline to her pubic hair; he curled his fingers in the curls of her head and the curls of her sex. She smiled and lay back, her legs opening for him.
“This way, Spike? Gentle and, well, normal?”
He laughed. What in their sex life of old had ever been either of those? “Always a first time, Buffy. Oh god, Buffy, I just have to say it. I love you.”
He slid inside her, the muscles giving way to him, yet grasping him firmly at the same time. He kept up a litany of love words as he slid gently back and forth.
Gentle in sex is always a nice idea, but it can never last. As he began to move more insistently, she began to clutch his hips, dig her nails into his buttocks, raked the backs of his thighs with her heels. The pressure made him move more vigorously; his movements increased her pressure. It seemed to take forever, but also to be far too soon, and then they were both overwhelmed by sensations which allowed no delay, no thought, nothing but themselves.
And it was over. They lay together, joined, clammy from sweat and the heat of their engagement. He lifted himself onto an elbow and stared down at her, worship suffusing his features.
“That just proves what I said,” she murmured, lifting a hand to caress his face again. “We are good alone; as a pair we rock the world. We are unbeatable. We really are going to win.”
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