Buffy had a problem. She wanted Spike. Not like that was anything new, mind you, but seeing as she’d sworn off naked-Spike-fun-time, craving said naked-Spike-fun-time could get a little…distracting. Especially when she was busy trying to turn a bunch of little girls into an incorporeal-ancient-evil-fighting army. That took all your concentration.
She knew she shouldn’t be having these thoughts at all. She and Spike were over. With a capital “O” over. She said it enough; it had to be true. So thoughts of the naughty and sexy variety? Bad. Wrong. Badwrong, even. Especially when she had them at really, really inappropriate times.
Like when Andrew had shown up and Spike had been all crazy-feral because of the First and his Evil Folk Song of Doom. Spike had been dangerous, nothing more than a predator, and it had made her nearly out of her mind with lusty feelings. Tying him to a chair, watching him feed… She’d wanted to be that damn blood bag…
She’d had to fight to keep her hand from trembling as she’d watched him, full vamp face, making completely too-sexy-for-her-own-good noises as he sucked back blood. The very, very wrong thoughts had rushed forward again, and all she could picture was him breaking free of those ropes and grabbing her, tossing her down on the nearby bed.
Buffy knew exactly how he’d look at her, the untempered lust that would be in his yellow eyes as he stared down at her. Never, ever, ever would she have actually put her thoughts on the subject into words, but nothing got her hotter faster than Spike in full demon mode. The growlier he got, the wetter she got. Every. Damn. Time.
And god, if he were over her like that now… Naked. Yeah, naked… Because nothing in the world was better than demony, naked Spike. She was completely, one-hundred-percent positive of that.
Except maybe demony, naked Spike currently shagging her into next week. Oh, yeah, that was the very best…
And in her mind, he was. She was clinging to him, because that was all she could do, holding on desperately while he fucked her hard, making her scream until she was hoarse. Even with the months that had passed since the last time she’d actually let him do such a thing, she could still remember exactly what it felt like, the sense-memory burned onto her skin forever. She could envision every wet slide of flesh, every desperate moan that would fall from his lips. She knew what he’d feel like beneath her fingertips and when she raked his skin with her fingernails. She knew how the muscles in her thighs would tighten as she clenched them around his back, wanting to pull him closer, impossibly deeper.
Safe in her fantasy, she let things go further, to a place she’d never let them go when it had been real. She watched behind closed eyelids as fantasy!Buffy tilted her neck, whispering a desperate plea for Spike to take what he’d always wanted, to give her what they both wanted.
She could imagine what it would feel like to have his fangs slide into her flesh. She remembered the exquisite mix of pain and pleasure she’d felt with Angel, only this time – with this man – it was more, better. With his fangs in her neck and his cock buried deep in her body, Buffy would burst into ecstasy, losing herself in…
Her eyes had snapped open then and she’d pushed that fantasy back to the very, very far recesses of her mind. Because a Slayer fantasizing about a full-on demon vampire doing the bitey-fuck thing? A level of wrong so wrong that there wasn’t even a name for it. And surely forbidden in that ever-elusive Slayer Handbook.
When Spike had gone all sleeper-agent and attacked Andrew shortly after that particular little daydreaming session, Buffy had sworn off all naked-vampire fantasies right then and there. They were distracting, and confusing, and had she mentioned the wrong? She was not going to have anymore of them, nosiree.
But resolution or not, they just kept coming. Like when she’d saved Spike from the First, bringing his battered, broken body back to her house. She wasn’t supposed to be having dirty thoughts about Spike in the first place, but when he looked like he’d been used as the personal punching bag of the First’s pet ubervamp? That was even more wrong than her usual very, very wrong thoughts.
But he’d been such a mess when she’d gotten him out of there that he’d had to be cleaned off. He needed rest, and no one could get decent rest when they were covered in their own dried blood. It had to be all sticky and itchy – not to mention he smelled more than a little ripe. She’d stripped Spike naked, put him in the bathtub, and proceeded to run a washcloth all over that pale, chiseled body of his because she had to. It was a chore, really. Like taking out the garbage. If the garbage suddenly became incredibly sexy.
She’d really just wanted to help. After treating Spike so badly in the past and being the cause of his injuries more times than she liked to admit, Buffy had wanted to go all Florence Nightingale for him for once. And the fact that he didn’t even make a single inappropriate comment when she told him she was going to give him a bath told her just how much pain he was in. She should be concerned for his well-being, not wishing she was in the bathtub with him…
She’d tried to fight it, screwing her eyes shut for a moment as she tried to get herself together. But that hadn’t helped at all, because behind her eyelids all she’d seen was Spike, still in the bathtub, only this time he wasn’t broken and bloodied. But he was chained… A small smile crossed her lips. Spike chained in the bathtub had always been one of her favorite fantasies, ever since they’d first found him with the chip. One of her deepest, most denied fantasies, sure – but still a favorite.
Especially now that she knew exactly what Spike looked like in chains. And that smirk he always got on his face – the one that was both infuriating and ridiculously sexy, but not at all submissive like people were supposed to be when they were in chains, dammit. Only Spike was never really submissive, even when he was pretending to be, and one more thing for her to add to the list of things she’d never admit aloud was how much she liked that. Every time she chained him up, tied him down, he always looked like he was merely humoring her, like at any moment he could break free and show her just what sort of fire she was playing with, and knowing that made it all the hotter.
But he’d give her the illusion of control, let her climb into his lap, straddle him, water rippling around them and warming his usually-cool skin. She could see his strong, masculine hands flexing in the chains, craving the feel of her hips, her breasts, her ass, her flesh beneath his finger tips, cupped in his palms. And she could feel the ghosts of them on her skin, echoes of the past lingering, reminding of her exactly what she’d given up.
She’d start out slow, little movements to caress his cock, but not quite enough to give them what they both really needed. He’d moan, but he wouldn’t ask for more because as much as she loved it when he pretended she was in control, he loved it when she tried to be.
She’d keep teasing him with her gentle rocking, her hands moving all over her body, his body, everywhere all at once until she drove them both out of their minds and she had to speed up, had to give in to the desperate passion she’d only truly known with him. The water would splash around them, his chains would creak and rattle, and she’d come with a scream of his name that echoed against tile walls.
Trembling as she washed the blood off his face, Buffy was glad he was too out of it to notice her scent. Because if she’d watched his eyes darken and his nostrils flare that way they did when he knew she wanted him, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to control herself.
But the absolute worst times came when Spike wasn’t there at all. The worst was when she was alone and she was bombarded not with fantasies, but with memories. Memories of what had been, what she’d turned away from. The times when their trysts hadn’t been violent and anger-fueled. When he really had made her feel something, and for one brief moment in time, she’d let it happen without a struggle.
She remembered the night he’d found her at the Magic Box, smirking as he’d watched her taking out her frustrations on the poor, defenseless punching bag. He’d smirked, that charming twinkle in his eye and his tongue tucked in his teeth as he’d teased her.
Wishing that was me, Slayer?
Truth was, she did. But not because she felt the need to beat Spike into oblivion, but because she was thinking about the old days, when they’d been equals, when they’d both lusted for the fight. When their battles had been epically explosive.
We’re equals again now, he’d reminded her, and this time, it hadn’t made her lash out. It hadn’t made her angry. When she’d thrown that punch, it hadn’t been about punishment. And when he’d caught her fist and then kicked her legs out from under her, it had made her hotter than hell.
They’d traded barbs, jabs, and kicks, and for one bright shining moment, it had been like the old days, the simpler days, when they’d both known exactly where they stood with each other.
Only better, because that time, they could give into the desire that had always there, too. Spike had hauled her up by her arms and kissed her roughly, capturing her moans as she shoved her fingers roughly in his hair. Lips still firm against hers, he’d brought her to the pommel horse, carrying her with her feet only inches from the ground. He’d bent her backwards over the pommel horse, and she’d reached out to take both bars, the tape still wrapped around her hands from her work out allowing her to hold on tight.
He’d unzipped his jeans, brought down her sweats until they were dangling off one leg. It wasn’t the most comfortable of positions, even for a Slayer, but when he grabbed hold of her thighs and drove inside of her, she decided any possible strange pains and/or pulled muscles resulting from the act would be completely and totally worth it. He snarled and twisted his hips just right.
Oh yeah…definitely worth it.
She didn’t know if he looked back on that night the way she did, if any of their times together meant more to him than others. But the memories and the fantasies danced in her mind constantly, haunting her, until finally, she had to admit the truth.
They weren’t over. For them, there was no over. They were more than that, more than some finite stretch starting at point A, ending at point B, and that was that. They were winding, weaving passion, exploding, crashing, rushing in and out like the tide, but never over.
They just weren’t for now. There was too much at stake and no room for distraction. She had to be the Slayer, had to be the general, had to save the world – again.
But someday, when this was over, they’d fall together again.
Someday, they’d be more than a fantasy.