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Authors Chapter Notes:
This is a present for Shadowsbabe, to thank her for her tireless work as my beta, for challenging me and making sure my writing is the best it can be, and for being oh so very amazing. Right now it's looking to be about five parts, but knowing me, it might be more. I'm verbose. Warnings include: Underage sex (Spike is 16, Buffy is 28), stepmommy/stepson sex, nastybadwrong sex...you know. Kinky things. You have been forewarned. Thank you to dampersandspoons for beta-ing for me!

He kept studying her.

Not just looking. Not just observing. Not just staring, although that was what Liam called it, said with a frown and a promise to talk to Spike about it later. Buffy always told him not to. It wasn’t a problem, she said. The looking didn’t make her uncomfortable, she insisted.

Except it wasn’t just that. It was studying. Like she was a particularly difficult piece of literature, or a work of art, or a map. Something. Something to be examined again and again, like new information would eventually be revealed, like there was always something about her to be explored and interpreted.

His bright blue eyes followed her whenever she was in the vicinity, tracking her every movement. When she spoke, those eyes were fixated on her face, intently, like every syllable she uttered was precious, to be memorized and savored.

When Spike had moved in, Buffy assumed it would be a difficult transition for the both of them. Some of her friends had horror stories about being the stepmothers of teenagers, especially boys, and she had steeled herself for problems. Liam had warned her, too, said his son was a troublemaker, entrenched in his youthful rebellion, determined to fight his parents about anything and everything, no matter how small. At twenty eight, she certainly wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but still she’d read the books on how to be a good stepparent, and swore to Liam she wouldn’t take it personally if he hated her. Which she anticipated. Expected.

But he didn’t. Hate her, that is.

Their first meeting, he’d barely spoken, except to compliment her dress, oddly. Then the next day, when Liam had gone to work, he’d come downstairs and offered, without being asked, to do any chores that needed to be done. And in the six months since then, he’d been nothing but a perfect angel to her.

He was surly with his dad, contrary, difficult. But with her, he was sweet. Accommodating. Even flirtatious when they were alone.

It was subtle. Nothing she could call him out on, nothing she could identify and point to and say “Look! There! Weird!” It was the smirking smile, the raise of his eyebrow, the gentle brush of his hand on her shoulder.

She didn’t shiver. Well, not because of him. It was just…you know, a natural reaction to being touched. It happened when Liam touched her, too, but much more, of course. Because he was her husband, and she loved him. She did.

So then why was it that every time she came with Liam’s cock inside of her, Spike’s face flashed in her mind? Why did she schedule her day around his so they’d be home at the same time, alone? Why did she let him get away with murder when his father was out of town?

Why did she study him, too?

Buffy had three mantras that suppressed the flare of arousal every time Spike was near.

He’s your stepson. He’s your stepson. He’s your stepson.

You love Liam. You love Liam. You love Liam.

He’s sixteen. He’s sixteen. Sixteensixteensixteensixteensixteensixteen.

They worked. They always worked. Usually worked. But whenever it got too bad, whenever she found herself slipping, staring at him too long, thinking too much, she went upstairs to the master bedroom and locked herself away, determined to wring every last spasm of pleasure out of her body with her own hands so she couldn’t even think of sex when she looked at Spike.

That was where she was now, spread out on her bed, knees bent, one hand on her breast as the other rubbed furiously at her swollen clit, juices dripping into the crack of her ass, trying desperately to think of Liam. Or her high school boyfriend Riley. Or Brad Pitt. Anyone, anyone but Spike.

He’d come home from school, ranting about an English test he had on Monday. She’d majored in English at UC Sunnydale, and even though in the six years since she’d graduated she hadn’t used it once, she still had a decent grasp of Shakespeare. So she’d helped him study a bit. It was the motherly thing to do.

Then he’d said he was going to take a swim before dinner. Invited her to join, and of course she’d said no. And she’d stayed away from all the windows, trying her hardest to keep from seeing him in his swim-trunks, always hung impossibly low on his hips, teasing her with an occasional glimpse of dark hair.

But he’d come to find her after he was done, dripping wet and smelling of chlorine, bleached hair messy and curly and a smile on his soft pink lips.

He’d thanked her for her help earlier. And kissed her on the cheek.

Buffy wanted.

She was sick. Sick sick sick dirty bad wrong sick.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t currently coming for the fourth time, face buried in a pillow, limbs stretching and muscles quivering and pussy aching for something inside of it. Her whimpers and cries were swallowed up by the soft pillow, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t stop her mind from flashing to Spike.

She gave in. Imagined those too large for his body hands cupped under her ass, fingers probing between her cheeks. Pictured his cock, likely as big as his father’s, driving slowly in and out of her channel. Thought of his eyes, those eyes, drunk with lust and staring at her like they always did.

No, not staring. Studying.

Her fifth orgasm built quickly, starting in her toes and working its way up. Buffy could almost feel his breath on her cheek, hear his accented words of praise, smell his sweat and taste his come as she imagined taking him in her mouth.

She wondered if anyone had done that to him before. Wondered if he’d ever felt a women’s touch, ever slid inside a warm and willing body. Thought that maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t. Hoped.

It would have been so much easier if she could believe what she told Liam. That Spike just needed a mother figure, since his was such a shitty example. That he just wanted approval but was too insecure to seek it from his father. That she wanted to help him, get him back on the right track, make them a family.

She didn’t believe any of that.

Because when Spike studied her, she knew. She could feel it.

He wanted her, too.

As she came for the last time, pinching hard at her nipple and biting down on her lip, she heard a noise from outside her door. She was too far gone to stop, and too far gone to realize that when she lifted her head and arched her back, the pillow fell away from her face.

Buffy moaned, loudly, waves of sensation creeping over her flesh and rendering her drunk with passion.

There was another noise from the other side of the door. A gasp.

She lay on the bed holding her breath, body quivering in the aftermath, frozen as she listened closer. There was nothing for a moment. Silence.

Then the sound of footsteps walking away.


Spike appreciated beauty in all its many forms.

Music. Art. Scenery.

And women. Of course, women.

What teenage boy didn’t appreciate a beautiful woman? Well, gay ones, Spike supposed, but they probably just appreciated beautiful men. And with all those hormones raging, it was natural to stare at the opposite sex. Or whatever sex you were interested in.

It was hard to ignore beauty.

And Buffy was beautiful.

Tan, soft skin just aching to be touched. Curly blonde hair that smelled like lilacs. Small, round breasts with nipples constantly poking out of her shirt.

It’s not like he planned it. It’s not like, as part of his “youthful rebellion” as his father called it, he’d planned to fall in love with his stepmother. In fact, he’d sort of planned to hate her, on principle.

You were supposed to hate the woman your father married after leaving your mother. It was just basic human nature.

But he didn’t. You couldn’t hate a woman who had a laugh like bells, who smiled at you like you were special, who listened to you when you talked as if what you said mattered to her. Couldn’t hate a woman who was intelligent, and witty, and just so damn beautiful.

Who masturbated all the bloody time.

Hormones, remember? And curiosity. It wasn’t his fault he was curious!

The first time had been a total accident. He’d wanted to ask Buffy if she was making something or if they could order Chinese since Dad was out of town, and so he’d gone upstairs to knock on her door.

And then he’d heard it. A high, breathy sigh, followed by a chanting of, “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God…”

His stepmother was not a religious person. So that left only one explanation and that explanation tented his trousers to the point of pain.

He hadn’t tossed off right there. Back then, a whole four months ago, he at least had a little shame. Sure that Buffy would be mortified if she knew he’d heard her, he’d crept away quietly, tried for a few minutes to get his hard on to go down, then gave in and grasped it tightly, needing only a few tugs before he’d erupted, coming harder than he ever had, though the pleasure was tainted with humiliation.

But then he’d started to notice things. The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. How she talked to him differently when they were alone. How he could make her blush with a casual innuendo.

It took a few months to really believe it. To really believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as perverted as he thought.

But now, he knew. Knew what he could to do to get her all wound up, and then he’d listen outside her door for the sweet, muffled sounds of her pleasure, with his hand down his pants furiously stroking his cock.

She was in there for ages this time, coming again and again, and he’d already lost control and stained his swim trunks. But he still stood and listened, eyes closed and forehead resting on the door, fingers stroking slowly at the wood as he imagined being in there with her. Licking the column of her neck, biting that enticing bit of skin that always peeked out over her jeans, sucking on her tits, fucking her…

When the room went suddenly silent, Spike crept away, mind stuck on that last thought as his dick began to harden again in his wet shorts.

What would it be like to have sex with someone? To have a woman’s mouth or pussy or hell, even just hands, wrapped around him? To have Buffy beneath him, begging for his cock, spread open and wet and needy…

Spike stripped off his shorts and stepped into the shower, once again suffering from a painful erection. He turned the water on hot, and stood with his face against the stream as his hand returned to his cock and he began to pump it slowly. Wanting to savor it this time.

Though his reputation at his new high school would suggest otherwise, Spike didn’t actually have a lot of experience with women.

When he was twelve, he’d had the biggest crush on Cecily, a girl who was a year ahead of him in school and way too cool for him. At a birthday party, he’d summoned up the courage to confess his feelings. It hadn’t exactly gone as planned, and he’d sort of stayed away from girls for a few years after that.

When he was fourteen, he’d had his first kiss with his mate’s cousin, Drusilla, who was only in town for a few weeks. She was seventeen and had taken a shine to him. Adopted him as her pet project, dyed his hair, taken him shopping. The kiss had just been a goodbye sort of thing. A quick peck on the lips, hardly anything to jump for joy over. A few weeks after she’d left was when his parents announced their divorce, and he was far more interested in blowing off steam with his friends than he was with dating. Since, clearly, romance was a crock of shit.

Then there was Harmony, a cheerleader. She’d asked him out the first day he’d arrived in Sunnydale and like an idiot, he’d said yes. It had taken a month to break up with her once he realized how bloody annoying she was. But at least he’d gotten some good snogging experience in. Anything beyond that was out of bounds, though, since Harmony was the local pastor’s daughter and was waiting for marriage or something bloody ridiculous like that.

And by then he was in love with Buffy.

Buffy. Beautiful and sexual and older and married to his father.

Liam didn’t deserve her. All things considered, he wasn’t necessarily a bad bloke, aside from the whole cheating on his mum thing. Although, he’d finally started to realize maybe it wasn’t just Liam who’d been cheating. Any affection he once had for his mother was slowly dying as more time passed that he hadn’t heard from her.

No, Liam wasn’t a bad guy. Just boring as hell. Buffy needed someone passionate, someone to challenge her, someone who wouldn’t let her sit around and be a housewife all day. Someone who wanted the best for her.

Someone like him.

Spike leaned forward and rested one hand on the tile wall, as the other started to move faster over his dick.

One of his current favorite fantasies began to play in his mind.

It’s late. One, two in the morning, maybe. Liam is asleep upstairs after a long day doing whatever it is he does. Corporate shit.

Spike is downstairs, drinking a beer, watching TV. Sometimes football on one of the satellite channels, sometimes porn, depending on what he wants the mood to be. Right now, he wants it hard and fast, so he’s watching one of the locked channels. Like he couldn’t guess the code. Parents are so dense sometimes.

He has his cock out, which, he has to admit, is pretty damn impressive for a sixteen year old. He’s stroking it, leisurely, not in a hurry to get off, just enjoying the sensation as he watches three guys fucking a skinny little brunette on a pool table, one in each hole. She’s loving it, and the erotic sounds from the TV fill the den.

But over the moans and curses, he hears a noise from his left, and turns his head to see Buffy hovering in the doorway. She’s dressed in those pink satin PJs he loves so much. No, not tonight, tonight she’s wearing a negligee…yeah, that’s it, red lace, almost sheer.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry!” She gasps, hand flying up to cover her mouth. But not her eyes. And she doesn’t leave.

“It’s okay, Buffy,” he says casually, not ceasing the movement of his hand. Her gaze is drawn to it, and she moans quietly. “Like what you see?” He purrs, reaching his free hand up to hook behind his head, displaying his body for her viewing pleasure. Because he’s now naked, apparently.

“It’s…wow. You’re so much bigger than your Dad.”

Okay, she probably doesn’t say that.

“I…God, I should go,” Buffy stammers, backing out of the room.

Spike jumps up and catches up to her in three steps, then reaches out and lightly grasps her shoulders. She shudders under his hands. “I don’t want you to go,” he says.

“But…Spike, we can’t!”


“Because it’s wrong!”

Or some other sort of token protest. He usually skips over this part, because even in his wildest fantasies he really can’t figure out how he could ever seduce a woman like Buffy.

But she finally gives in, and he wraps her in his arms and lowers his mouth to hers. She tastes like chocolate, dark chocolate, which she hides around the house even though she always claims to be on a diet. Not that she needs to be, she’s fucking perfect.

“I want you,” she sighs breathlessly when they part, and he grabs her and carries her to the couch, laying her down on her back.

Sometimes he imagines her riding him, taking control, using his body for her pleasure. But not right now. Right now he wants to take what he wants for a change instead of having to wait for someone to give it to him.

“You want my cock, baby?” He asks as he tears her clothing in two, baring her breasts and naked, shaved pussy to his hungry gaze. “Want me to fuck you?”

“Yeah…” She sighs, reaching out and grasping his cock with firm, confident hands, stroking him quickly, just like he likes. “Need you so bad.”

Spike groaned, the sound echoing in the bathroom, his orgasm approaching faster than he would have liked. So he sped up the fantasy, skipping over all the foreplay and imagined himself already inside of her.

”God, yes!” She screams, loudly. Because his dad sleeps like the dead, or it just doesn’t matter, in his fantasy it’s okay to make as much noise as they want.

“Take it, Buffy,” he groans, pumping his hips furiously, savoring the impossible wetness that coats his raging erection. “God, you’re so hot. You love it, don’t you? Love getting fucked by me.”

“Oh, Spike, yeah! Fuck me!”

“You wanted me, didn’t you Buffy?”

“Yes, wanted you…always want you, Spike.”

“And you love me?”

“Yes, I love you…Love you, Spike. Fuck me harder! Love your cock inside of me! Fuck me! Yes!”

Spike wasn’t very creative with the imaginary dirty talk when he was so close to coming.

He pistons in and out of her, lips fastened on her throat or her tits or her mouth, making her come long and hard, making her scream his name.

“I love you, Buffy,” he moans, and then he shoots his load inside of her, fills her up and claims her as his. She begs for more and more and he keeps coming, and so does she.

Spike choked down a moaning of her name as he came, spraying his semen on the wall as his body shuddered and threatened to collapse. He kept pumping his cock until it started to almost hurt, an image of Buffy’s beautiful face, contorted in ecstasy, so vivid in his mind it was like it was real.

God, he wanted it to be real.

Chapter End Notes:
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