Rating: R
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Summary: Tabula Rasa ended, my imagination kept going.
Archive: My site, otherwise ask.
Warning: Feistiness, kind of a PWP, though not as pornographic as I’d like. I wanted to write something with, you know, an actual plotline, but all Buffy and Spike wanted to do was make out. Can’t blame them, really.
He feels it, fever bright and hot. Alive, for these few seconds, like nothing else. Not like before, when it was hesitant and sweet, but with a taste of resignation and a new sort of knowledge. Sensory overload, with glaring lights and hesitant shadows, a whispery pop rock ingénue emoting over the conversation in the crowd, and Buffy’s lips catching and tasting his. Kissing Buffy feels like rolling skating through a minefield, holding a lit firecracker; it seems pure chance that the kiss had lasted this long already.
Dangerous as a broken rollercoaster still in operation, and fuck all if it isn’t worth the risk.
Spike’s tasted the blood of a slayer, felt it run down his fingers as it cooled in the midnight air. He thought that nothing was sweeter than that complete overdose of sensation, but Jesus. Pressing Buffy against a pillar, feeling the leather of her jacket and the satin of her top, the heat of her skin through her jeans, one leg thrust between his as her hands clutched at his jacket…this is everything he hadn’t known he existed for. This is. Everything.
Feeling her pull away slightly, resting her forehead against his. She’s breathing heavy, her skin so overheated that Spike can feel his body instinctively drawing toward it. A gasp, a sigh, and her fingers are at the back of his neck, dipping down beneath his collar. Fingertips idly running over his spine, stroking his neck until his skin burns like hers. He shivers from the feel of it, fucking *shivers*, and if she doesn’t stop he’ll take her right there, up against the wall like he’s dreamed.
Her fingers draw back swiftly like she’s heard his thoughts, but only to join her other hand as it slides inside his jacket. Warm, small hands roaming over his back, scratching roughly and he knows she could tear through the fabric if she wanted to. The thought only spurs his lust further, but he doesn’t dare to reciprocate, too aware of the tightrope he’s walking just by letting his hands linger on her hips. Broken rollercoaster, yeah, but then she grips a handful of his t shirt tightly and jerks, rending the fabric with a wet-sounding rip.
There’s only so much a man can take.
He steps forward, driving her hips into the pillar, pressing her breasts into his chest and letting her *feel* the effects of her destructive lips and hands. Squeezes his hands up her sides, pressing harder and she gasps. They could be the only two people in the club for all Spike cares and if the fingernails digging into his skin are any indication, the same goes for Buffy. All he hears is static and the world is concentrated in the three foot square amount of space that they collectively take up.
She’s kissing his neck, soft and fast, hands darting up beneath his torn shirt to drag over his bare skin, hotter than anything he ever remembers feeling. A scrape of teeth on his pulse point is a twisted sort of turn-on.
Then. She bites.
Hard enough for him to feel her teeth pierce his skin, hard enough to leave a truly impressive mark as she sucks at the flesh there. Hard enough to nearly make him come right there like some high school kid, making out in the local night club with his former mortal enemy who from the feel of it just gave him one hell of a hickey. All sorts of innuendos are running through his head now, mostly involving stakes and impaling, but what comes out of his mouth is a long, hissed out “Slayer…”
The sudden absence of her touch is the greatest disease he’s ever felt, stinging him from the outside in, and back out again. Her mouth is gone from his neck, her hands no longer running over his back. There’s just her, eyes wide, looking up at him like some sort of victim that got off on the touch of the criminal.
It’s right there in his mind, the smoothly worded invitation to come back to his crypt, the desperate hope that she’ll invite him home, the lingering thought of fucking her right there in the Bronze. All lost as he exhales and steps back. Lets her go.
He can feel it now, racing through his blood. She’s in him and he knows that he’s in her. She might not know it yet, might not have admitted yet, but he’s there. He feeds her addiction to darkness, and god knows he doesn’t mind being her perfect drug. So. There it is. He’ll have to go home now, back to his crypt, where there’s only alcohol to keep him warm. But that’s okay. He’s knows it won’t be tonight, and he can wait. He’s sure now.
She’ll be back.
The End
1-6-2001