Title: Served Cold
Words: 4300 (one-shot, but in two posts due to size)
Summary: What do you do when your vampire ex-boyfriend comes to town, stalks you with the help of your so-called friends, and then leaves without saying hello, much less goodbye? Revenge sex, obviously! Shameless PWP set after Pangs.
Thanks to EF's Sigyn & Zabjade for betareading!
Holy crap, she was insane.
Looking at Spike lounging across the cot, his face all sexied-up like he was some sort of Bondage Chippendale, she couldn’t even describe how she felt; her insides were all a surreal mish-mash of fury and disgust and disbelief, all knotted up with a shocking amount of actual arousal tingling crazily through her belly.
Because she was by god going to do it. She was going to have sex with Spike, right now.
She just had to figure out how.
Spike must have sensed her hesitation, because he held out his manacled wrists to her with what was probably supposed to be a winning smile. “Do much better with these off.”
“I can’t just unchain you all the way,” she sighed, biting her lower lip. “You might run away.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just threw myself on your mercy,” he pointed out.
“For food. Which I gave you already.”
He shrugged. “Fair cop, I suppose.” He gave a sensual wriggle. “Could work around them.”
Finally, Buffy settled for fastening one wrist to the long chain, releasing his ankles and other wrist; he rubbed his freed wrist briefly, face settling into lines of satisfaction, and that threw her misgivings back into play, because a satisfied Spike could not possibly be a good thing.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Spike looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are we skipping the shagging and going straight to the tears and recriminations, then?”
“Yes…. No…. Dammit, Spike!”
He stood up. “Thought you wanted to teach bloody Angel a lesson.”
“I do!” God, even hearing his name made her mad all over again.
“Want to drive him ‘round the bloody bend, yeah?” He started to pace to the limits of his chain, like he was a football coach giving a motivational speech.
“He thinks he can prance on off to Los Angeles, play the field with bloody supermodels and actresses, and you’re supposed to just wait for him in your ivory tower, locked away until he can claim you as his prize.”
Whoa, wait. “He’s been playing the field?”
Spike seemed to be building up a good head of steam himself. “Rescues a new chippy every night, from what I saw. And when you send him a prezzie, what does he do with it? Destroys it, that’s what he does! When there’s any number of blokes who’d’ve been happy to take it off his hands.”
“…He destroyed the Gem of Amara?” Ah, yes, there it was. Pure cold rage, like a lump of ice in her chest. She was shaking now.
“Bloody right he did!” Spike growled. “And after I drove all the way—“
“Shut up, Spike!” Buffy snarled, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming her lips onto his.
Spike heard his shirt tearing in the slayer’s fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when she was kissing him like that, demanding and furious and hot as the sun. Bloody thing had a half dozen holes in it any road, not like he was going to mend it. In the meantime, he had his own revenge to get.
Angel wanted the slayer to find someone bloody normal? Fine.
Spike might not be able to hurt the slayer, not right this moment, but he was sure as hell going to ruin her for normal men.
He suspected the slayer had no idea how exhaustively Angel had detailed their soul-stealing sexual encounter, back in the day; Spike had heard it more times than he could count, Angel deriding her sighs and whimpers and girlish shyness, laughing at her naiveté, mimicking her wide-eyed wonder. At the time it had been infuriating – bullying, even, since Spike had been paralyzed and forced into the role of spectator to Angel and Drusilla’s near-constant shagging – but he blessed the memory now, because if he was going to keep Buffy from once again succumbing to her better judgment, a little inside information would surely be handy.
He put some of that inside information to good use, sliding his free hand up to the sensitive nape of her neck, drinking in her gasp at the cool sensation.
“Rip it off,” he murmured against her lips.
“What?” she said, lolling her head back into his grasp as he nibbled at her jaw.
“My shirt. Tear the bloody thing.”
She took a step back, jaw jutting out angrily – god, she was glorious! – and took the neck of his shirt in her fists, rending it halfway down in one yank.
Bugger. “More,” he hissed.
She ripped and shredded the black cotton until it was tatters, barely hanging off his arms, and then she took the remnants and pulled hard, tossing the former shirt behind her.
He took her shoulders in his hands, as hard as he dared, and kissed her again, thrusting his tongue deep in her mouth, and bloody hell, Angel hadn’t said anything about that, the way she sucked him in, her own tongue clashing with his so deliciously, and then it occurred to him that he’d probably never had this, the fury and the challenge. Angel had taken an innocent girl, sweet and pure and tender.
Spike was going to fuck a brilliant, passionate, demanding woman.
He groaned and gave himself over to it.
Maybe it was ripping off the shirt, or maybe it was the clinking of the chains, or maybe it was just everything about the situation, rage and determination and adrenaline and just a hint of despair, but Buffy was feeling wild and reckless, like when she’d been Cave-Buffy except without the drop in her IQ, and she didn’t hesitate before shoving Spike back down onto the cot – not even bothering to be gentle, and from the way his eyes flared that was how he’d wanted it.
She whipped her flimsy tan shirt off over her head and followed him down.
He didn’t waste any time filling his hands with her breasts, grinning cheekily, and oh, his fingers were cool and firm and demanding, just right for the mood she was in; she tossed her hair and arched into his touch.
“How many?” he growled, licking a long stripe up the center of her chest.
What the hell? “Two is the usual number of breasts, Spikey.”
“Bloody hell.” He squeezed hard, eyes furious. “How many times, slayer?”
She flushed, but something about being topless made her feel honest. “Two.” God, that sounded pathetic.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Angel made you come twice? Must be a new record for him.” He leaned in and swirled his tongue around her nipple and she clutched at his head, gasping despite herself.
“No! God! I… I’ve had sex two times.” Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Laugh and I’ll stake you right now.”
In reply Spike shifted around so she was laying back on the cot, hands going to the fastening of her slacks. “Right,” he muttered into her nipple, doing something unspeakably evil with his teeth. “Now, what’s the answer to my actual question?”
There had been an actual question? Oh. “I don’t know. I… I wasn’t counting. Do people keep track?”
He knelt back, tugging her boots off her feet. “As I expected. Not even one.”
“There was so one!” She struggled up on her elbows, glaring at him. “It was a very nice… one.” She was pretty sure that bit at the end had been it, right?
“Oh yes, very nice,” he muttered sarcastically, then glared right back, jaw set. “Slayer, if you ever describe the way I fuck you as nice you may as well just put a stake in a me.”
“Like I’m going to tell anyone about this,” she scoffed. “And… and it’s not all about orgasms.”
He shrugged and resumed stripping her pants off. “You’re right there. It’s not.” He lunged forward then, planting his hands on either side of her waist, his face right in hers. “It’s about pleasure, love. And see, I’ve known your broody ex a fair sight longer than you have. All full of his own importance, not the type to see to his lady’s needs, soul or not.”
Buffy opened her mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap. “I suppose you could do better?” she challenged.
He grinned then, and there was something in his eyes that caught Buffy’s attention – something soft and unexpected, like actual mirth. “Just watch me,” he whispered, and then he started to kiss down her belly.
“What are you – that isn’t – oh god,” Buffy moaned, and then sank back as he licked her right through her panties, which was something she’d heard people did but she didn’t think guys would actually like doing so she’d figured it was, like, a special request or something but Spike seemed to think it was just business as usual and oh god what was he doing? Because whatever it was, it was fantastic.
“I hate you,” she moaned, suddenly feeling the need to remind him of this important fact.
“I hate you more,” he rumbled into her crotch, lifting his head up just far enough to take the waistband of her panties in his teeth. He took the elastic in his hands, and yanked hard with teeth and fingers until it parted, ripping fabric and popping elastic.
“Hey! I liked those!” Buffy kicked her heels against his back.
“Evil,” Spike growled shortly, rending the remains of her cute undies and setting his mouth to her again, and oh god, he was, he was so evil, and then his wicked, wicked tongue did something extra-evil that made her eyes open wide and her legs spasm and sent jolts of pleasure all the way out to her fingertips, and he laughed into her, sounding a bit shaky.
“Hope you counted that one, pet,” he crooned, kissing the inside of her thigh sweetly before diving back in.
“Shut up, Spike,” she whimpered, because she really needed his tongue to be doing not-talky-things.
But he had been right.
This was definitely not nice.
Spike might have kept at the slayer’s luscious, hot quim for the rest of the night if she hadn’t gotten impatient and started yanking on his hair, muttering something about needing a thesaurus, and given the way she’d been squirming and moaning – and yes, she was in fact a screamer – he was bloody well sure he’d already left Angel’s “nice” showing in the dust, and so more than happy to proceed to the main course.
He had his own flair for drama, though, so he stood over the cot, looking down at her, all sweaty and disheveled and wild-eyed, and started to undo his belt as slowly as he could bear.
That lasted about as long as it took for Buffy to sit up and start helping.
Of course, her idea of helping was to grab the waistband of his trousers and fling him down to the cot, popping the button and yanking down the zipper and getting his trousers all the way down his legs before she had at his boots, and then he was naked and she was on top of him, rubbing her warm, strong body all over him, and he suddenly remembered Drusilla’s last words to him, you’re covered in her, and oh god he was, she was all he could see, and he watched as his hands helped hers fit his cock to her and then she drove down and he thrust up and it was like dying all over again, the feel of her hot around him, and he took hold of her hips and thrust harder, harder, and she clenched around him, wringing a curse from his lips, and then there was a groan and creak of metal and the cot collapsed beneath them.
She didn’t stop moving above him, just laughed brokenly and fucked him harder, and all he could do was watch and do his damnedest to keep up.
She came again, eyes wide with disbelief, and he took the opportunity to roll her over, wrestling the thin mattress around beneath her naked body as he pounded into her on the floor, and she wrapped her arms around him and bucked up against him madly, and he couldn’t stop kissing her, her face and her throat and her shoulders, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that this was somehow wrong, that he should just be taking his hateful pleasure and bugger hers, but bugger wrong and bugger hate, he did what he damn well pleased and he pleased to please his lady, so he did, he set his hands and his body to worshiping hers and when she shuddered beneath him yet again, going boneless with her release, he let himself go, coming with a bitter groan and collapsing beside her, pulling her in to pillow against his shoulder.
He could cuddle his mortal enemy if he damn well pleased.
Buffy stared up at the ceiling of the basement, not entirely sure what had just happened, except that it had been like opening a closet door and finding a brand-new world on the other side, all forests and mountains and castles, instead of rows of blouses and shoes.
Finally, she rolled away from Spike’s soothing arms, struggling to stand on decidedly weak legs, and looked down at him. He gazed back up at her, eyes unreadable. But whatever that expression was… she didn’t think it was hate.
“We sure showed Angel,” she said at last.
He tucked his hands behind his head, chain clanking across the concrete, and gave her a smug grin. “That we did.”
“So… Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“Suppose it is.” He stretched out one arm to trace a random design on the concrete, which inexplicably made Buffy want to kneel down and run her tongue up along his bicep.
They were really, really good arms.
“You want some blood?” she said instead. “Of course you want some blood. Why don’t I go get you some blood?” And she turned and fled up the stairs, pulling another Tupperware out of the freezer – holy crap, that was cold! She’d never opened the freezer naked before! – and popping it in the microwave, watching it spin around and around.
Her head spun right along with it.
When the microwave dinged, she checked the temperature and popped it in for another forty-five seconds, because it wasn’t like it was that much trouble to make it actually warm, and when she checked it the next time it was a lot better. She popped a fresh bendy straw in and headed for the basement.
She made sure to stop by the fridge and snag the leftover Reddi Whip.
Because now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure she was still feeling a little bit revenge-ey. She was almost positive. Might as well get it all out of her system now, right? Wouldn’t want any spare vengey-ness cropping up later and ruining a perfectly good day. Nope, the best plan was just to head back down and nip that right in the bud. And who could blame a girl for wanting a little whipped cream on a bud she happened to be nipping?
After all, it really wasn’t Thanksgiving without dessert.