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Kantayra
Author's Notes: Ah, a brand new smutty saga...how exiting... Just so you know the setting. This occurs after S5, but I kinda assume that Buffy didn't die. Come up with your own generic and overly-used explanation for how this is. My personal fave: Buffy has the common sense to notice that Dawn's bleeding and wipes up the blood before it opens the portal. I mean, how obvious was that anyway? Everything else should be pretty straight forward. Enjoy the start of some new Spuffy goodness... ^_^
Summary: For over a year Spike's dreamed of Buffy, so what happens when he's finally offered her...at a terrible price?
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I don't own Buffy, Spike, or any other BtVS characters that might appear in this story. They all belonged to a bunch of crazed clowns that call themselves Mutant Enemy because they think that sounds more respectable. Like I said: crazed clowns. ~_^ we’ll be able to work out a suitable…arrangement…”
Abruptly the roaring engine cut off, leaving the dark street just as silent as it had been before the midnight visitor’s arrival. Several stores down, the street lamp flickered with a bulb in the waning stages of life, adding a seedy, dangerous edge to a commercial district that was thoroughly respectable by day. But few people dared to venture here after the sun had set.
One who did, however, was the man still seated on the now quiet motorcycle. He flicked on a sliver Zippo lighter, unfazed by the threatening environment around him. In fact, he seemed eerily at place in the still dark of night, almost as if he were a part of it.
One might almost be tempted to say that he was the danger that lurked in the blackest shadows. Those who knew him certainly would, but that was a long time ago.
He casually lit the cigarette between his lips and dismounted his bike. Paradoxically, this newfound warrior of the light still wore the costume of his previous position: faded jeans, tight black tee, Doc Martens, and a long black leather duster. His bleached-white hair shone in the false illumination that alone had graced him for the past century and then some.
He paused for a moment to detach the bag that was fastened to his newly ‘acquired’ black Triumph and scanned the street once to make sure no one was watching. Satisfied, he turned to the nearest darkened storefront under the sign that read ‘The Magic Box’ and turned one of the many keys on his chain in the lock.
It clicked open, but the handle still wouldn’t budge.
With a seep sigh, Spike rubbed his hand over his eyes and grumbled under his breath, “Miss Kitty Fantastico.”
The magical nighttime security measure lifted under the incredibly inappropriate password for the former Big Bad. He entered the shop in a foul mood but couldn’t quite manage to suppress the sly smile that snuck upon his lips each time he was reminded how well these people trusted him now.
Of course, he was still little better off than ‘hired help’ – and that, in fact, had been what this last mission was all about – but, in the end, the minimal acceptance he’d gained while helping to defeat Glory had been well worth the effort.
You’re such a wanker, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time.
He closed and locked the door behind him before making his way down to the basement, bag still in hand. The basement was pitch-black of course, but with his vampiric vision he didn’t even notice. To his eyes, the basement looked perfectly normal…well, perfectly normal for a shop that specialized in the occult, that is.
Jars of strange and exotic ingredients – that he was unfortunately far too familiar with due to all the botched spells he had become victim to – lined the aisle as he walked to the far back corner of the storage cellar. He cringed in particular as he passed the jerix root, not quite ready to deal with the horrifying memories of Flowerchild!Spike just yet…
The back wall looked like all the others at a casual glance, but once one looked really closely at it, it became apparent that the ‘impressions’ of writing on the labels and items in the jars were false. In fact, if one looked at it just right, it suddenly looked just like a metal door.
Spike had long since learned to see past the illusion, and it parted before him. He casually moved aside a jar of slug’s tails on the shelf to his right to expose a number pad. He pressed in the appropriate combination, and the door swung inward on its hinges. The magic that guarded the door was trained to accept his presence, and he entered without incident.
He zipped open his bag and removed the brittle, old book from the protective wrap of his spare T-shirt and jeans. Carefully, he placed the tome on one of the shelves to be protected by the double safety of science and magic just like all the other objects in the room. That pretty much ensured its safety since the only person Spike had met in his entire unlife that had any skill in both fields was Willow.
Making sure everything was securely shut behind him, he made his way from the shop and into the warm summer night air. One of those mercurial moods he was famous – and infamous – for overtook him then, and he let out a whoop of excitement and freedom as the engine of his bike roared back to life. One final rev to the engine, and he rode off down the street, the wind in his hair and a smile on his face.
After all, next stop: the girl of his dreams.
He took the scenic route because: 1) it was a beautiful night and there was no need to hurry; 2) it put that extra annoyed flush in the Slayer’s cheeks whenever he woke her up after two am; and 3) he needed to strategically edit his account of his trip to make it more, er…appropriate to someone who was tired, annoyed, obsessively moral, and – most importantly – wielded sharp wooden objects.
In truth, he’d gotten a little bit carried away with himself.
The courier had been one of those nervous little tweedy men with a weak chin and eyes that darted around like a scared rabbit’s. He’d just landed in LAX when he heard on the news of the roving gang that had just been in Sunnydale and correctly assessed the demonic nature of the incident.
After that, no amount of cajoling over the phone from either the Slayer or her Watcher could get the nervous courier to take one step closer to the Hellmouth.
Hence, the need for Spike to go out and meet him; sometimes being the only member of the group with no job, obligations, or schedule really sucked.
However, he’d more than made up for it when he realized that no one had bothered to inform the nervous man that the ally he was meeting was a vampire.
Hilarity had ensued, at least from Spike’s perspective; it had been a long time since anyone had been scared of him, and he’d used it to his full advantage, reciting all that cool, bad ass stuff he’d been saving up over the past few years.
Of course, he’d left the terrorized human untouched – what with the chip and all – but he knew it was exactly the sort of thing that would set the Slayer off on another ‘why Spike’s evil’ rant. Like it was his fault the Watcher had sent such a coward…
The story appropriately edited in his mind, he slowed down Revello Drive until he came to a stop in the street right outside her window. He revved the engine a few times, and evil smirk on his face.
When he’d first ‘acquired’ the bike from a member of the aforementioned roving demon gang, he’d done exactly this. Stopped by the house, caught her attention with a flashy display of noise, and asked her if she’d like to join him on a ride.
She’d refused, of course, complaining about the noise and the somewhat illegal way in which he’d ‘acquired’ the bike.
He’d protested that the previous owner had been a demon, and he’d had to kill it anyway, so why not profit from it as well?
She’d rolled her eyes and stuck her nose up in the air, accusing him of never being able to understand.
It had been all too clear to him, though.
He wasn’t good enough for her. Oh, he was good enough to help her fight the new evil in town, and be her patrolling partner every night, and protect her friends and Li’l Sis. But it ended there.
He wasn’t good enough to spend time with, to have fun with, to get to know better. And, sure, she’d give him quick little kisses – OK, so only two, and only then for saving Dawn and the world from certain annihilation at Glory’s hands – but she’d never sit behind him, wrap her arms around his waist, rest her cheek against his back, let her inner thighs press against the backs of his. Oh no, he was just a demon…
Spike briefly pondered whether to be aroused or angry at the image he’d just produced in his head. He settled for mildly bemused, called himself a wanker again, and went back to the ‘not brooding’ that unfortunately occupied most of his time nowadays.
But he would never let her know how much every little rejection hurt him, so he just made a joke out of it. She complained about the noise? So, he’d show her just how noisy it could be. She looked down on his hopeless attempts to woo her? Well, she couldn’t mock him if he did it first.
And that was pretty much all he could pull off anymore: a sad mockery of courtship. Oh yeah, he hated his unlife…
Except when he loved it.
However, tonight she didn’t seem to be rising to the bait.
He revved the engine a few more times, hoping she’d make an appearance at the window – tousled bed hair, lacy nightwear, and brassed off expression – to yell at him for the racket. But, still, she didn’t come.
He frowned. All the lights in the house were off, and on the odd occasion when Buffy wasn’t home for his little performances, Dawn would at least clue him in so she could get back to sleep.
Not a peep from the Summers house tonight, though. Something was wrong.
He hadn’t thought anything when the Magic Box had been closed. After all, the Watcher’d moved back to England, the two Wiccas were visiting him over the summer, and Anyanka had gone up to San Francisco for the weekend on business, dragging the Whelp along with her for a “pre-pre-honeymoon honeymoon.”
But now… It they weren’t here, where were they?
In an instant, Spike had left his bike, scaled the tree in the yard, and leapt from a branch to the Slayer’s roof with feline grace. Her window was open to save on the summer air conditioning bill, and he climbed in without looking, afraid of what he discover within.
His jaw dropped to the floor at what he found. Whatever he had been expecting, it was most certainly not this…
The Slayer – his Slayer – lay on her back, stretched out upon red silken sheets, the skimpy golden negligee she wore illegal in fifteen states, he was certain. A gold band hugged her throat, glinting in the moonlight and drawing his attention to the slender column of naked flesh.
He drank the sight in with his eyes, wishing that he could drink it in with another certain portion of his anatomy as well… Stop thinking with your fangs! He chided himself with his last vestiges of common sense.
This quickly faded when, as he watched, the Slayer stretched out languidly before him, exposing even more of her tanned thighs as well as the hardened nipples that strained against their lacy covering.
He found himself in a situation he’d never been in before: he was completely and utterly paralyzed by lust. His mouth was dry, and his hands were trembling, and his cock was pressed painfully against the zipper of him denim, and he had completely forgotten how to move.
She looked him up and down with deep, emerald eyes and licked her lips in response.
His cock jerked violently in his jeans, and somewhere in the back of his mind he decided that this absolutely had to be a dream. There was no way she wanted him like this…was there?
He decided he didn’t care if it was dream or reality as long as it kept going…
“C’mere, gorgeous,” Buffy said coyly, smiling at how stunned he was, and beckoning him to her with one crooked finger.
That finally jogged his memory, and he moved over to the side of the bed, sitting down when Buffy gently patted the mattress beside her.
“B-Buffy…” His voice squeaked, and he flinched.
But she merely laughed and sat up beside him, their chests only a few inches apart…
“I’ve been waiting for you, you know,” she whispered into his ear, her breath tickling the short hairs at the base of his neck.
His cock strained against his zipper. “Y-Yeah, well, I jus’ got back into town, luv.” Ah, good. He had regained the ability to form coherent sentences…
“I missed you,” she said softly. “I was waiting and waiting…” She leaned in closer with every word until their lips were only millimeters apart.
“I’m…sorry?” Oh, damn. There went coherent speech again.
But he didn’t need it because then her lips were on his, and her hands were on his back, and her tongue…oh, her tongue! She was licking at his lips, begging for entry.
He finally came out of his ‘Buffy kissed me!’ stupor long enough to part them, and groaned when her tongue slipped inside, exploring every inch of his mouth. His own tongue joined hers, and they stroked each other slowly, gently, passionately, drawing out the other’s pleasure as much as they could before Buffy pulled back for air.
Spike let out a little gasp and began slowly kissing his way from her temple down to her throat, past her collarbone to where her breasts swelled into the thin, see-through lace of her golden down.
“Oh, Buffy…” he moaned, his mind repeating ‘this is not a dream; this is not a dream; this is not a dream…’ over and over in his head lest he forget.
“Mmm…” she let out a little, kittenish moan before shoving his duster down and off his shoulders.
It pooled onto the floor, instantly forgotten when her hands came up inside his shirt, pulling it up and over his head.
“Very nice,” she said with a small smile, running one finger down the center of his pale, smoothly muscled chest. “Lay back,” she requested, pushing him down slightly.
“Wh—?” The question on his lips was stopped by her fingertip.
“Shh,” she soothed him, “just relax, baby. I’m going to make you feel sooo good…”
He really couldn’t argue with that. He watched in rapt fascination as she moved down his body, kissing and licking as she went.
She caught each of his nipples between her teeth in turn, gently playing with the hardened buds.
He jerked beneath her, clutching her hair with his hands, trying to pull her up for another kiss.
She firmly refused his request, though. “Here,” she said, taking his hands and guiding them to the headboard above him. “Hold on tight, lover…”
He did as she asked and gasped and hissed as she lowered her mouth to his stomach, flicking the sharpened point of her tongue in and out of his navel a few times, making love to it.
He nearly lost it when she reached his swollen erection.
She patted it lovely through his jeans a few times before nuzzling her cheek up against the strained denim.
He bucked violently against her, but she didn’t take the hint, instead moving further down his body, caressing all the way until she reached his feet.
She took each foot into her lap in turn, removing his boots as she did so. Then she slid up his body, her weight gliding against him, her fingers trailing up the outsides of his thighs to his stomach, his chest…
They finally came to rest on his shoulders, and she leaned in to give him another of those long, languid kisses. When they finally broke apart, he was breathless. He lay there panting beneath her while she licked and sucked at his throat, finding all those sensitive little spots that drove vampires wild.
“Buffy,” he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut tight. “My love…”
They opened again when she stopped, however. For one horrified moment, he thought he’d said the wrong thing, but then he found her staring down at him, smiling like a minx.
“I can tell just by looking into your eyes,” she began in a sultry whisper, “that you’re the kind of guy that likes gentle, slow lovemaking…”
“Yes, Buffy,” he gasped, all intelligent words escaping him.
“Well, tonight,” she informed him, “is the night all your dreams come true…”
She pressed her hips down onto his throbbing erection slowly.
“You know,” she commented, off-handed, to herself, “I wish Rhitias would’ve told me how romantic you were…and how handsome…”
And then her tongue was on his throat again.
He moaned…and then frowned. What was he trying to do again? Oh yeah, think. What was he trying to think?
He pushed her back gently, just for a second. “Who’s Rhitias, pet?” he asked curiously.
Buffy frowned for a minute before she nodded in understanding. “OK, baby,” she agreed, “you’re right. Rhitias doesn’t even exist.” She went back to kissing him.
The feeling that something was seriously wrong grew to hideous proportions, and he pushed her back again. “Buffy, what’s going on here?” he demanded. “Why are you doing this?”
“Doesn’t it feel good, baby?” she asked worriedly. “Amn’t I giving you pleasure?” She caught his earlobe between her teeth and gave it a playful twist.
“Oh god, yes!” he cried in delight. And then he remembered what he’d been trying to discuss with her. “What on earth is—?”
He never got to finish his question, though, because right then the door opened. A Cheseh Demon stood on the other side – snout, bat ears, and all.
He and Spike stared dumbly at each other for a few seconds, while Buffy continued her attentions to Spike’s ear, seemingly oblivious to all else around them.
“Hey!” the Cheseh Demon growled in fury, having broken out of its stunned state first. “I bought first dibs on her, fair and square!”
“What?!” Spike exclaimed in confusion and disbelief.
Buffy paid attention to their exchange for the first time, looking back and forth between the two of them with sudden realization. “You’re not—!” she began accusingly, pointing at Spike.
“Get out!” the Cheseh Demon demanded.
Spike sat up to growl at him, turning his back on Buffy.
The Cheseh Demon backed up a step, obviously realizing ‘Master Vampire’ for the first time…
And then Spike felt something hard hit him in the head, and the world went black.
“We’d better call Rhitias,” Buffy said, bat still in hand, biting her lower lip. “He’ll know what to do…”