Summary: B/S AU Season 7 Disclaimer: The show Buffy the Vampire Slayer & all of it's characters belong to Joss,
Mutant Enemy, & Fox Prod. Author's Note: This is a wishful thinking S7. As in I WISH! And big thanks to
Canada for the world’s fastest Beta. Feedback: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
Mintwitch@yahoo.com
Part 1: Coincidence
Dawn found the first one.
Dropping the links onto the kitchen table with
an idle comment, “looks like one of the local dogs has made a break for it,” she
began her daily quest for after-school snackage.
“Huh?” Buffy looked up
from the cutting board absently, her gaze slowly focusing on the pile of chrome.
“What’s that?”
“A choke chain, I think.” The younger woman spoke into the
refrigerator, “I mean, that’s what it looks like.”
Tinglies crawled up
and down Buffy’s spine, Spidey-sense on full alert for no apparent reason. She
probed the feeling like a sore tooth, moving into Inquisition Mode: “Where did
you find it?”
“Back porch. What’s for dinner?” Dawn eyed the confetti of
former vegetables sacrificed to Slayer cooking. “Soup?”
“Ummm…” Buffy
looked guiltily at the carnage. “How ‘bout pizza? Could you call?”
“Sure,
Buffy! What do you want?” Dawn found herself speaking to her sister’s departing
back, chain dangling from Buffy’s fingers, and shrugged, “Super Everything Combo
it is, then.”
The rear porch was empty. How long had this been out here?
Where exactly had Dawn found it? It was daylight, and Dawn only came in the back
door when she stopped at Janice’s first, so it could have been days. She scoped
the porch for anything else unusual and came up empty: no fish-mobiles, scary
pictures, dead flowers, nothing. Nada. Maybe it was just a dog. But… where were
the tags?
*
Buffy sat on her bed playing with the cool length of
chain as she pondered the little mystery. Was she making too much out of this?
Nevertheless, she carried it with her as she made one last check of the house,
making sure all the doors and windows were locked and little sisters safe in
their beds.
Satisfied that the hatches were battened, Buffy retreated to
her room. Time for little Slayers to tuck themselves in, as well. After she
stripped and crawled into her own bed, she realized she was still clutching the
choke chain. The links were warming to skin temperature, and Buffy rolled on her
back to hold the collar up to the light filtering in from the street. When she
slid the larger ring over her thumb, the rest slid down, pooling onto her chest
with a muffled thump.
Smirking at herself, Buffy waved her hand idly, the
links gleaming in the faint illumination. The slight motion caused the end on
her chest to drag itself across a nipple. With a quick gasp, she repeated the
gesture, teasing her eager flesh. The links cooled and coiled, twining
themselves around and between her breasts, across her chest, the bumps playing
pleasurably against her skin.
Bringing her other hand up, Buffy caught
the smaller end-ring on an index finger. She stretched the chain taught and
sawed it back and forth across taut nipples, eyes tightly closed, until her
breath came in pants and her hips rocked in time.
Buffy whimpered and
draped the chain down the length of her torso, hands following to run over her
abdomen and along the outside of her thighs. Her legs were pressed tightly
together. With a tiny screech, she forcibly pushed them apart, baring her sex to
the night.
She held herself open for long minutes as her arousal grew and
pressed outward, demanding satisfaction. Her inner walls throbbed and rippled, a
deep, persistent ache that wouldn't go away. A trickle of her own fluids rolled
downwards, tickling her ass. Buffy fought her own desire, heightening the
tension, torturing herself, until she broke, grabbing the collar to roll it
across her clit.
The sensation shredded the last of her control. She
plunged three fingers into herself, reveling in the heat and moisture. She
fucked herself as hard and deep as a limber body could manage. Her hips thrust
upwards, whimpers and moans forcing past clenched teeth. Twisting the fingers
locked in her cunt, she flailed for the taper decorating her night table. The
sweet smell of beeswax tickled her senses, wrenching her mind into candlelight.
With a deep moan, Buffy lubed the candle in her own slick juices, before
pressing it gently, carefully, into the tight rose of her ass.
Her hand
returned to her clit, flicking and pulling in time with the fingers working deep
within. It still wasn’t quite enough. She needed more, something, one more
finger. In desperation Buffy wrapped the chain around the hand pinching her
erect nub and pressed against her mons, rocking and rolling her sex against the
cool chrome. The links caught her clit with a sudden hard pinch as her hips
thrust upwards, rocketing her to orgasm with a muffled shriek:
“Spike!”
Panting, Buffy smiled to herself. There was no longer any doubt
in her mind about where the collar had come from: Lassie wants to come home.
With a sated chuckle, the Slayer drifted into sleep. She dreamt of vampires and
the bizarre courtship rituals of the undead, a length of chain clenched between
her thighs.
*
Spike ground out his cigarette as the pants and
muted wails from Buffy’s room faded to soft, girlie sleep noises.
One
question answered. Pulling his next gift from the pocket of his jacket, he
stroked it through his fingers for a moment, before heading around the
back.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Part 2: Happenstance
Buffy woke up at sunrise and rushed downstairs in her pajamas. Flinging open
the back door, she got a painful sting on the thigh for her trouble. The culprit
was a leather traffic lead hanging from the outside knob by the wrist loop. The
chrome spring latch had swung out and smacked her when she yanked open the
door.
Rubbing the sore spot, Buffy unhooked the leash and brought it
inside. The Slayer mused on how extremely kinky this was becoming while she
started coffee and got breakfast ready. One never knew what Spike necessarily
intended, but what she had done probably wasn’t it. Or maybe it was.
She
scooped up the leather and went upstairs to wake Dawn, tossing the leash into
her room on the way.
“Dawnie! Hey, time to get up, breakfast is almost
ready.” Buffy tapped lightly on her sister’s door.
“I’m up, mmmmmph.”
Dawn’s voice was definitely sounding less up and more ‘leave me alone, I’m
sleeping.’ Buffy waited for a moment, listening for getting up sounds, and
tapped again.
“I’m up, I’m up, okaaaaaay?”
“No, you’re not up,
you’re trying to make me go away, which is so not gonna happen.” A muffled groan
reached her through the door, followed a few seconds later by Dawn wrenching
open said door and stomping into the bathroom.
Buffy smiled to herself.
She was getting the hang of this Mom-thing. Cheerfully, she headed back
downstairs to finish breakfast.
*
“What is this?” Dawn was staring
at her breakfast in disgust.
“A protein shake and banana-bran muffins.”
Buffy was obviously pleased with herself: a real, honest to goodness breakfast,
complete with baked goods.
“Ummm, Buffy? What happened to Pop-Tarts? I
like having Pop-Tarts for breakfast.” Dawn turned wounded teenager eyes towards
her older sister. “Tell me we have Pop-Tarts?”
Buffy shook her head.
“Sorry, you ate the last of them yesterday. Besides, they’re not good for you,
they’ll rot your teeth. And they’re expensive.”
Dawn sighed. There was no
fighting the money. Hockey pucks and yellow sludge would be her
fate.
*
Once Dawn was safely off to school, Buffy went upstairs
again, but instead of just grabbing her robe and going into the bathroom for her
shower, she found herself staring at the collar and leash pooled on her
sheets.
The collar could just be a Spike-thing, the sort of item he would
leave as a gift or a threat. But the lead... that was definitely a Buffy -and-
Spike thing. Years of Scooby sarcasm, her own snarky comments, and Spike’s
bitterness about the chip could be read in that piece of hide and metal. And the
sex. She couldn’t ignore the things they said, that they did.
Buffy
reached for the leash, running the supple leather through her fingers. It was
short, less than three feet long. A short leash. Spike had given her a choke
collar and a short leash. Buffy laughed out loud.
She sang in the shower
that morning.
*
As she dressed, her eyes kept returning to the
traffic lead. Unconsciously, she chose a gold silk blouse and rust colored
slacks. Taking a last spin in front of the mirror, Buffy caught sight of the
leash in the mirror. Almost against her will, she paced back to the bed and
picked it up. The leather was remarkably supple, a rich, deep brown with an
oiled gleam. It seemed to caress her hands, touching her back. The color was a
surprise; she would have expected black or even something garish and red. That
would have been more obviously sexual. This was a well constructed tool,
something useful and beautifully utilitarian.
Buffy turned back to the
mirror and wrapped the glossy length of the lead around her hips. She fastened
the spring clasp through the wrist loop; the leash draped languidly over her
hips, looking for all the world like a trim, chic belt. Buffy spun before the
mirror again, a tingle prickling through her groin. There was a hidden
naughtiness to this. The idea of wearing it all day, at work, on errands,
colored her cheeks a deep pink and brought a sparkle to her eyes.
Buffy
stared at herself for a long moment. She should be angry, repulsed, or
disgusted. Instead she just felt charmed. It had been a long summer, a summer of
playing Mommy to a teenager, working a Mommy job, and Slaying. She hadn’t felt
like a woman, well, ever. Spike, intentionally or not, was giving her a taste of
that richness. Her hand stroked lightly up her side, outlining the still young
breast of the woman in the mirror.
Buffy jerked away from her image and
grabbed her jacket. Today would be another long day, but for some reason she
wasn’t minding so much anymore.
Her hips switched wickedly as she trotted
down the stairs and out of the house.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Part 3: Enemy Action
He’s sitting on the back porch when she and Dawn get home from early patrol.
Their eyes lock for an instant before he looks down, clasping his hands together
between his knees.
Dawn shivers beside her, the force of the younger
woman’s fury strong enough to blow her apart. Dawn’s pain and rage cut through
the sudden silence like a scalpel, a gasp that slices the skin and draws
unexpected blood, “_Spike._” Her young body prepares to launch itself at him, to
kick and punch and punish the once beloved for his betrayal. Her fire still
burns close to the surface.
Buffy lays her hand on Dawn’s shoulder.
“Dawn. No.” Her grip is not as relaxed as it looks, and she’s not as calm as she
sounds; tonight, at least, her body won’t betray her.
“Buffy?” Dawn’s
eyes are huge and conflicted. The words ‘friend’ and ‘enemy’ have lost meaning
over the last year. All that remains is ‘those who hurt us and those who don’t.’
And even that definition ebbs and flows, the line in the sand evaporating and
re-forming in a new place with each day. Where does Spike fall
now?
“Dawn, go inside, please.” Now Buffy is the betrayer, and Dawn
rebels.
“No Buffy, no protecting me, you promised...” She did, she
promised not to do this anymore. They are sisters: they protect each other now,
take care of each other, because no one else can be counted on.
The elder
Summers looks straight into Dawn’s eyes. “Not this time, Dawnie. This is
personal. Okay?” Dawn searches Buffy’s face for the truth and nods. They’ve
learned to communicate this way over the summer, capturing an entire
conversation in a look, a touch, and a few words. Dawn capitulates, for the time
being. She has scores of her own to settle, but Buffy just called dibs, and they
are fair with each other now. Dawn will get her turn, and then Buffy will be the
one to go inside.
Dawn walks up the path, her stride firm and steady. At
the stairs she veers as far away from Spike as possible, edging around him to
the door, avoiding his gaze. When she is almost inside, he speaks to her. “I’m
sorry, ‘Bit.”
She doesn’t turn around, but she stops for a second,
hesitating with the need to lash out. She chooses her weapon carefully, for
maximum impact. Buffy didn’t need to teach her this, both the girls learned this
part on their own, the hard way. Still looking into the kitchen, she strikes:
“You don’t get to call me that anymore.” The door closes on Spike’s hiss of
pain.
“Well, I deserved that, I guess.”
“You guess?” Buffy’s voice
floats ironically on the night breeze. She’s still standing on the end of the
path, looking at her former lover. What is he now?
“No.” He’s looking at
his hands again, fidgeting with something small and shiny. His face works like
he’s either trying to say something or about to throw up. “Buffy, I... I
just...” He runs his hands through his hair and surges to his feet, flinging his
arms wide.
“Bloody Hell, Buffy, just stake me already! I’m sorry, damn
you! I’m so _fucking_ sorry, I can’t stand it!” He tilts his face to the sky,
ready to martyr himself in the most melodramatic way possible, sacrifice himself
on her splintery altar.
She can’t help it, it just happens. It has
something to do with his own maniacal demand, the impossibility of him ever
doing anything like a normal person or vampire. He’s always like this. He
couldn’t just stalk her, leave presents on the doorstep, lurk in the bushes, and
grovel at appropriate intervals, not him. And she knows, she just _knows_ that
was his plan. But he got impatient. And now he’s begging her to put him out of
his misery. Again.
Buffy laughs. Buffy laughs and laughs, laughter
bubbling up from the place where she once kept a healthy sense of the absurd.
She laughs and heals and laughs some more, her stomach cramping and tears
running down her face. Oh, god, it feels so good.
Spike looks more and
more offended. “Hello! Begging for death here? Slayer, don’t you have a sacred
calling or something?”
She wipes at her face, and smiles at him, the kind
of smile he saw at the wedding. It’s that smile he wanted to die for, to live
for, to go on ridiculous quests for. But first he needs to convince her to stake
him, before he makes an utter poof of himself.
“Why should I stake you,
Spike? Don’t tell me, wait, let me guess: you got the chip out and now you’re
going to murder us all in our beds?” Buffy quirks an eyebrow at her once and
former mortal enemy, and crosses her arms.
“Well, yeah, now that you
mention it... how’d you know? Wait... Clem told you didn’t he?! Can't even trust
a fellow demon with a secret no more, can you? And now you won’t stake me just
‘cause of the bloody soul.” Slumping back onto the steps in defeat, Spike
mutters obscenities to himself, completely oblivious to the danger stalking up
the path.
“You what?!” He looks up just in time to catch her right jab in
the nose. Buffy lifts him up by his jacket, ignoring the blood running over
Spike’s lip. “What did you do, Spike?” She pins him against the siding with one
hand and produces a stake in the other, poised and ready to dust him.
“I
got a bleedin’ soul for you. Happy fucking Birthday, Buffy. Sorry it’s a bit
late.” His blues eyes look everywhere but at her, as she slowly lowers the
stake.
“How did you get a soul, Spike?” The Slayer’s voice is soft and
dangerous.
“Found it in a box of Cracker Jacks, if you must know. No
worries though, it’s a newer model than Angelus’...” Spike’s voice trails away
as Buffy’s forehead hits his chest. “Slayer? Slayer, you okay?”
“No, I’m
not okay.” His shirt muffles her reply. “You were supposed to stay gone. I
understand gone. Gone is pretty much the standard in Buffy-ville. Now you’re
back. What am I supposed to do with back?” Her head rears up and cracks him on
the chin. She grabs his lapels again and glares intently, “You’re married aren’t
you? That’s why you’re back?”
“Christ, you’ve got issues, Slayer! No, I’m
not married. I’m back...” his voice goes fast and snide, “...I’m back because
I’m completely whipped, and want to spend the rest of my immortal life begging
forgiveness and being a complete punter, loving you from afar. Or a-near. Or
whatever you bloody well want, woman.”
“Promise?” Her voice is
hopeful.
“What?” His is confused.
“Promise you’re not married, and
you really are whipped?” Definitely hopeful.
“I promise.” Tentatively,
Spike slides his arms around Buffy’s back, stroking slowly along her sides to
twine his fingers together in the dip of her spine. She presses more firmly
against his chest, burrowing her cheek against cotton and muscle. “I got another
present for you, you know.”
“I know. You’re still not forgiven, you know
that?”
“Neither are you, luv.”
“Okay.”
They stand there for
a long moment. “So what now, p-- er, Slayer?” He always has to push, make noise
against the silence. Buffy ignores him, inhaling the strange new smells imbedded
in his clothes. He smells of grass and night air, and patchouli of all things.
And something else underneath, an odor that is sweet, heavy and drugged. She
shakes off her reverie, stepping away from him, and he lets her go. Hurdles
number one and two cleared.
“Now we go inside and you spill your guts.
How’s that sound?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, just goes into the house
assuming he will follow. Of course he’ll follow, he’s her bloody slave, isn’t
he?
*
“So that’s everything? What Spike did on his summer
vacation?” Buffy’s been shoveling leftover Mac’n’Cheese, muffins, and now apples
into her mouth for over an hour, just letting Spike talk. He had a lot to talk
about, apparently. Some of it was interesting, but mostly she was just listening
to the rhythm of his words. His voice coiled through the room, marking it with
his presence like a kitten rubbing against the cabinets.
Dawn had
gradually eased herself into the room, holding herself aloof, but paying
attention to everything. She had made a point of not saying anything, even when
Buffy asked her to nuke Spike some blood; task accomplished, she had handed the
mug to Buffy and Buffy had passed it to Spike. His quiet thanks had been regally
ignored.
“Yup, that’s pretty much it.” His face closes for a second, as
if there were something he wasn’t saying. Buffy doesn’t press him; they aren’t
there yet. Instead, she changes the subject.
“Okay, Dawnie, time for bed.
You still have school tomorrow.” Uncharacteristically, Dawn just nods and leaves
the room. A few seconds later they both hear her bedroom door close and
lock.
Buffy sighs. “That, you are going to have to deal with on your
own.”
Spike nods. “I know. Can’t imagine how pissed she must’ve been when
you told her.”
Buffy looks embarrassed and confesses the worst. “That’s
kinda the problem: Xander told her first.”
“Bloody hell.”
“Um.
Yeah. I tried to... I don’t know. Everything was just so crazy. And she’s
growing up so fast, and...” Buffy sighs again, then straightens. “But anyway,
part of that is my problem, and I’ll deal with it. You and Dawn will have to
work out the rest on your own.” So there, she says to herself
silently.
The vampire just nods again and stares thoughtfully into his
blood. He doesn’t even look up when Buffy slides off her stool and slips
upstairs. Pausing in the door of her own room, she debates for a second, then
moves quietly to tap on her sister’s door. “Dawnie? I just wanted to say
goodnight.”
The lock clicks and the door swings open a crack, one large
eye peeking through, quickly followed by the rest of the girl’s head. “Goodnight
Buffy,” she whispers, darting a quick peck at Buffy’s cheek. “Don’t stay up too
late with the evil dead. And *no* nasty vamp sex!”
“Dawn!”
“Ha! I
mean it, Buffy. Think of this as opportunity to practice acting like a regular
person.” Dawn shuts the door in her sister’s face, smirking.
Buffy stares
at the wood grain for a moment before going into her own room. Easily finding
what she was after, she stops for a second on the top stair to consider whether
she is really ready for this. There are no easy answers, are there Mom? Suddenly
she's missing her mother and her own childhood with a sweet
pain.
*
Spike was rinsing out his mug when she returned to the
kitchen. He looked up at her as she slid back onto her stool. “Well, I’ll be
headin’ back to the crypt, it’s getting late.”
“I thought you said you
had another present for me?” Buffy unhooks the leash from around her waist and
drops it and the choke collar she retrieved from her room on the kitchen island.
Spike swallows audibly, his Adam’s Apple rising and falling.
“Um, yeah,
but it’s...”
“Theme oriented? C’mon Spikey, gimme my prezzie.” Buffy puts
out her hands, and Spike’s lips twitch.
“Close your eyes.” Buffy
obediently squinches her eyes shut, and something small, warm, and metal dropped
into her palms. “Okay, you can open them now.”
Buffy laughs and bounces a
little on her stool, not noticing the bemused stare Spike is aiming at her. “I
knew it! I’m number one! Whoo-hoo! Numba one, numba one!” Beckoning the vampire
over to her, Buffy positions him carefully in front of her and reaches for the
collar. She untangles the smooth links and drapes the length of it around his
neck. Buffy uses her strength to force the smaller end ring open and clasps it
closed around the length of chain. Admiring her work, she tugs gently on the
larger ring, to test that it tightens smoothly but won’t come off. Satisfied,
she threads the coiled ring of her new present onto the larger ring of the
collar. The dog tags hang flat and shiny against his pale chest. Buffy leans
close to read the inscription: “Spike” Property of Buffy Summers 1630 Revello
Drive Sunnydale California
Looking up into Spike’s face, she laughs, and
tugs on it again. The look on his face is agonized and a low rumbling moan makes
his whole body vibrate. But his hands remain at his sides, in defiance of the
bulge in his jeans. Taking a tiny bit of pity on him, she threads her arms
around his neck and places a soft, gentle kiss on his lips. “Thank you, Spike. I
really like my prezzies.”
“Buffy...” Spike’s voice isn’t even audible,
just a strangled breath beyond the edge of hearing.
“What?” Her breath
puffs softly against his cheek.
“I should go.” He sounds as if he were
being tortured, which is merely accurate.
“No.” Buffy leans back, and
pouts at him seriously. “I need to know if I can trust you, soul or no soul.”
She leans close and whispers in his ear, “I want to. Can I?”
Spike cants
his own head to the ceiling and closes his eyes. “I don’t know, Buffy. How would
I know?” Tilting his head down, he looks at her, searching for the
answer.
“You try. You try and try and try, and you never stop
trying.”
“How Buffy? Tell me how.” The pain in his whisper is wretched,
and she breaks a little. Her newfound joy is fragile, her pleasure tentative. He
could destroy this tender peace if he wanted to. But he doesn’t. “Teach me to be
good for you. I thought the soul would do it, but…”
She answers for him,
“People with souls kill and maim, rape, and hurt each other all the time. I
know. God, how I know.” Buffy places her lips against his cheekbone and
withdraws. “Hang out with me tonight, Spike. We’ll watch a movie, make out on
the sofa, and get all hot and bothered. You’ll stop when I say ‘no’ and I won’t
hit you tomorrow.” She looks at him earnestly. “Be my boyfriend, Spike, and I’ll
be your girl.”
“Yes, Slayer. I want to be your boyfriend.” He grins at
her and they kiss breathlessly.
*
“Oh god, Spike, stop…” He
snatches his hand back so fast it should break the sound barrier, and Buffy
giggles. The movie has rewound itself once already, and they are still groping
and mashing together. The long, cool length of him presses her into the sofa,
their mutual desire grinding through jeans, slacks, and panties. She’s so wet it
requires all of her self-control not to shred his clothes and scream for him to
fuck her. But Dawn set the boundaries for the evening, and she’s right: they
need this first.
Spike peppers soft kisses the length of her neck, hand
resolutely returned to her waist. In this, at least, he has been better than she
has. Buffy can’t keep her hands off of her vampire; his shirt is on the floor
and her fingers play an endless fugue along his ribs, tinkling arpeggios the
length of his spine. Then again, Spike never says ‘no’ or ‘stop’. Spike is
wallowing in every caress, body humming with pleasured frustration.
“Hold
on,” she whispers to him, and struggles to sit up. Reaching behind her, she
unclasps her bra and works one arm out of the strap, beneath her blouse. The
other strap pulls easily through the opposite sleeve, the flimsy lingerie
flicking onto the floor with his shirt. Spike looks on, enthralled and panting
his desire.
With a shy smile, the Slayer grasps the offending hand and
places it purposefully back on her breast, the erect nipple pressing into her
lover’s palm through the gold silk. Spike moans and captures her sore mouth
again, licking and biting her swollen lips in time with the plucking of his
fingers on her crinkled aureole.
They arch against each other, female
opposing male . Her gasps cycle into moans when he lowers his head to the front
of her blouse, nipping at her through the slick fabric. She rubs her mons
against the evidence of his arousal, her body aching from his kiss, his touch,
the play-by-play of juvenile frottage she never experienced in her teens. The
tender misery of it drives her to the edge, and she’s close, so
close.
With a savage growl, Buffy reaches down Spike’s jeans, grabbing at
his ass and shoving him harder against her. Spike growls in turn and returns his
hands to her hips, tilting her pelvis up, still suckling and biting her breasts.
So close… Her other hand crawls up his body to his neck, and a finger slips
through the large ring dangling from his collar. Quick and sharp, she pulls on
it. Spike rocks hard against her mound and yowls, teeth tearing through silk,
hips pistoning. The sharp pain in her breast shoots through Buffy’s body,
sending her over the threshold of her desire.
She’s falling now, more
surely than she fell from Glory’s tower. Sparks snap behind her eyes, and Buffy
shudders, riding out her first non-solo orgasm in four months. Spike is shaking
and moaning against her, hands still firmly grasping her clothed
hips.
“Bloody hell, woman, you just made me come in my pants.” His voice
is quietly awed.
Buffy smiles. “Me too, babe, me too.”
A long
pause. “God, how I love you, Slayer.”
Me too, babe, me
too.
*
Dawn is not pleased. Not only is she late for school, but
breakfast is stale hockey pucks, and she has a chemistry test today: so not of
the good. She slams out of the kitchen and into the living room, eyes alighting
on the couple entwined on the couch. At least they are mostly decent; Spike
probably won’t even miss the ten bucks she liberated for lunch money.