Patrolling-Schmatrolling
Parts 5 & 6
Written by: Ten
Author's Website
Summary: Buffy gets distracted while patrolling, mostly PWP. Spoilers: Early Season 6,
before the musical.
Disclaimer: All characters are the property of the god which is Joss Whedon (all hail and
bow low before him), and WB, UPN, Mutant Enemy and probably some other people. I
just enjoy playing with them.
Acknowledgements: Thank you Ditto & PK, my fellow Spikettes, for your
encouragement and efforts to turn me into a bona fide fanfic addict and, now,
writer. It's ALL YOUR FAULT!
Feedback: is joyously welcomed! teneniel@flashmail.com
CHAPTER 5
Buffy awoke from her brief respite with a start, jerking
almost entirely off the ground. Spike placed a kiss into her hair, cooing softly
to her until he felt her relax into him again.
Buffy stirred a little,
urging her mouth up to his for a quick kiss and then whisping across to his ear.
"I'm hungry," she whispered.
"Well, luv, it's too early for coffee, but I
might be able to ..."
"Not that kind of hungry," she said with a smirk
and began licking his chest in long, slow strokes. Spike purred, the sensation
was so delicious, and he gave himself over to her, letting her touch and taste
him at her whim with no guidance or urging from him. She was incredible at this,
adventurous, eager, passionate, pushing the envelope of "acceptable" into a
divine mixture of pleasure and pain. She nibbled at him, even bit him a few
times, as if she were trying to devour him all at once.
Buffy continued
exploring him, massaging him, gently turning him over so that she could find
more delightfully sensitive areas. She nibbled at his thighs, tickled the backs
of his knees and slowly worked her way up to his buttocks where she sunk her
teeth in with a playful hunger that sent a wave of passion through him. God, he
loved this girl. She straddled his backside and began tracing tiny circles with
her tongue up his spine, stopping now and then to scrape her teeth along his
shoulder blade. He moaned in approval. The slippery wetness between her thighs
began to bathe him, moistening the backs of his legs as she slid her body around
him. The scent of her arousal permeated the air like the enticement of fresh
blood seducing him to feed. She was wonderful.
Her breath on the back of
his neck heralded other delights, her nipples, hard and aching pressed against
him, tiny darts of sharpened flesh teasing the muscles of his back with what he
could have if he could reach them. She knew what she was doing, he could feel
her amusement and excitement at his reaction to her tiny, but powerful,
movements. She began to rub his back, without using her hands but damned near
every other part of her body. Her soft flesh, warm and supple and wanting on
him. She reached for his wrists and pushed his arms up over his head, opening up
his sides where she places whisper soft kisses and tickles of eyelashes until he
writhed beneath her. She caressed him with the backs of her nails, softly at
first, then turning her hands over and scratched his pale skin with sharper
edges, leaving pathways of tiny welts. It was an incredible mix of feather
softness and unexpected pain, neither intense, but an almost impossible
contrast. Hardened nails were followed by her hungry tongue, lapping the flesh
of his sides, tracing each rib.
His erection throbbed against the
ground, urgent and unyielding and pulsing with each new dance step her body
carried out. He didn't know if he wanted her to stop or never to stop, his mind
void of thought when his body was so aroused. He wanted her so badly, had to
have her, had no idea it could really be like this ... especially with her. This
was so free of banter and animosity and ambivalence. It was Buffy, tenderly and
lovingly doing these things to him ... and allowing him to do them back.
When he could take no more, he tried to turn over, quieting urging her
to let him face her, but she wasn't having it. She enjoyed the torture. She
enjoyed the power it gave her over him. So did he. She turned around, perched on
his buttocks, her soft arse rubbing against his and grinding his groin into the
ground as she ran her fingertips down the backs of his thighs, followed by her
chest, letting her nipples tickle the back of his knees. Finally, she grasped
his feet and pulled them toward her, sitting on his lower back once again. She
rubbed the souls of his feet, pressing deepling into the arch. Tugging at his
toes, she popped the joints, then massaged them one at a time. She started on
his ankles kissing them, gnawing a little at the ankle joints and licking into
the soft area just behind them.
Spike decided it was already a good thing he
was dead because if he weren't already, he certainly would be now. What she was
doing was exquisite and the titilation of it was even more erotic by the
constant presence of her wet sex pressing relentlessly into his
back.
Buffy began to draw invisible tattoos on his calves with her
tongue, tugging at the tiny hairs with her teeth while her hands, seemingly
independent of the rest of her, began running up the outsides of his thighs. She
squeezed and kneaded the muscles there, then slid around him so that her hands
were now on the tops of his thighs with their combined body weight pressing down
on them. Curling her fingers, her nails bit into his legs. He cringed but
followed that with a sigh of pleasure as he felt tiny drops of blood begin to
run down her fingers into her palms. The smell of it startled Buffy but aroused
her even more and she ground her pelvis further into his back, her warm, wet
juices coating him, the scent of them both mingling and complimenting each other
in the air like fine wine and cheese.
Spike couldn't take any more. He
straightened his legs and parted them, smiling when he felt Buffy fall between
them having lost her center of balance. He rolled over and sat up, grabbing her
by the shoulders and dragging her between his legs across his now painful
erection and into his arms. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing her
roughly to his chest and holding her there with one arm while he wrapped her
legs around his waist with the other. She struggled just a little, but the
moment his hard prick pressed against the surging heat between her legs, she
surrendered completely and instead wriggled around in an effort to get him
inside her. He wouldn't allow it, staying just out to the side, making her
whimper and beg for it.
"Spike ..... please ...... please, please,
please, please, please......" she mewed at him with a pitiful, little girl
voice.
"Naughty girl, you have to wait for it now. I'd like to paint a
bit first." His eyes flashed as his clipped, British accent cut straight through
to her heart like a stake. She even felt herself crumbling to dust around it,
and she succumbed to his seduction with hardly a fight. She lowered her chin and
looked into him, softening, showing the surrender in her eyes. Rather than
speak, and break the still ringing sound of his voice in the air, she kissed him
deeply, swirling her tongue inside his mouth first and then drawing his into
hers. He released her when they were both ready yet he continued to hold her
lower lip between his as he pulled away, stretching it, holding onto it as long
as he could before releasing her mouth completely. She shivered.
"That's
right, pet," and he began his artistry on her body. Dipping his fingertips into
the blood on his thighs, he began to draw on her, eloquent patterns interwoven
like Celtic symbols across her chest and over onto both her shoulders. Up her
throat her placed interspersed dots and lines in a detailed pattern that seems
to grow from the Celtic ones below it. He used her forehead for a bloody sun
which rays beamed down onto her cheeks, at the edges of her eyes and vanished
into nothing at her jaw line. Just above her breasts he painted a red sea, which
undulated and moved as she breathed. Her arms were covered with more Celtic
symbols and when he had finished she looked like a warrior, painted to go into
battle. The blood, which was already dark, dried quickly, leaving dark patterns
on her skin, and the scent of his blood on her skin nearly drove him to madness.
He had kept tight control while he worked, but now, admiring her, it was all he
could not to engulf her entire body at once and swallow her whole.
He
started at her breasts, which were noticeably pale and white, which few traces
of the blood paint on them. He licked them hungrily, taunting her nipples and
sucking on her skin as if there were something on it. He worked his way up her
chest to her shoulders, swathing a pathway through the symbols to her throat.
That in itself was artistry, removing the blood in specific trails which left
patterns within the patterns. He lingered at the hollow in her throat and she
felt an involuntary gutteral moan seep through her body as she let her head drop
back. She wasn't sure if it had come from her or him, and at this point didn't
really care. He licked a particular area of her neck completely clean and left
the puncture scar from Angel and Dracula covered with his blood. He took the
blood sun rays one by one with long strokes of his tongue from chin to forehead.
Whenever he passed her lips, he would pause and reward her for being his canvas
with deep, probing kisses which made his still hard cock twitch against her,
thrilling them both. He left the detailed drawings on her arms and chest and the
scarred part of her neck for her to see later. An odd remembrance of their first
time together, a picture she wanted to see in the mirror when she got home. His
heart cringed at the thought. The last thing he wanted to think about now was
this ending. Ever.
His hands began to explore her body again, touching
and caressing the spots he had already marked as her favorites. He learned
quickly. Decades of experience. He shifted her up slightly and took her nipple
into his mouth, sucking on it almost savagely until she cried out and then
bringing her down onto him, filling her to the core with his cold, hard shaft.
He held tight control over both of them as he pushed into her fiercely then
withdrew slowly, achingly until she whimpered when he would plunge in again. He
suckled her, biting her lightly, suckled more until she was screaming for
release. He moved to her neck, the clean spot, far away from other bite marks,
this was his spot, when she was ready, this would be just for him. But she would
have to ask him for it, beg him for it. When she was ready.
As he drew
her flesh into his mouth once more she bucked against him, heaving and desperate
to finish, to peak and rush all over him, to feel him filling her and devouring
her at the same time. Once more. Twice more, and they came togehter in a fierce
tumble of uncontrolled passion. He claimed her mouth as he spilled into her, her
cream mixing with his as they convulsed in a tangle of limbs and lips and
collapsed intertwined together on the leaf-strewn floor of the woods, all but
unconscious.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER 6
Spike awoke to the sound of birds. This was something he
hadn't experienced in probably several years, possibly decades. You can't hear
morning birds underground as a rule, and ... his eyes flew open.
"Bloody
Hell!"
The sun was almost up, he probably had 5 minutes at the most. The
feel of it was singing it's warning on every inch of his skin. He tried to roust
the slumbering Slayer next to him.
"Slayer," he was soft at first, then
more urgent, "Slayer!" He slipped from her grasp and gathered his clothes, which
were impressively scattered about rather than in the neat little pile he thought
he had left. They must have thrashed over them several times during the night.
He couldn't help but smile at that a little. He tried one more time to wake
Buffy, but she was sleeping so prettily he really hated to. Her expression was
one of calm and fulfillment such as he had never seen on her face. He hadn't the
heart to force her to wake up just so he could get his own arse to safety,
though at this particular moment it might have been worth bursting into flames
to hold her naked against him for just awhile longer.
He dressed quickly,
then gathered her clothes as well, nudging them up against her body and then
covered her with his duster, tucking it in tightly around her. She stirred a
little, murmuring, "... don't ... go ..."
"I have to, luv." He bent down
and kissed her softly on the forehead, whispering across her ear, "Come to me
when you wake up." With that he broke into a dead run back to his crypt, making
the entrance just as the first rays of morning sunlight hit his
doorway.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Buffy dragged in just in time to get
Dawn off to school with a breakfast of cold cereal and juice. She was still
wearing Spike's duster. She could pretend it was because it was a chilly
morning, but in actuality she enjoyed having it wrapped around her. It smelled
of cigarettes and leather and Spike. It was comforting, a cozy reminder of their
night together.
"Rough night?" her little sister asked.
"Sorta.
Why?" replied Buffy, trying to hide any hint of defensiveness.
Dawn was
matter-of-fact, "You have grass and pine needles in your hair. I'm going to the
Magic Shop after school to help Tara with a project, then we're going out for
pizza. Is that okay?" Buffy nodded, she liked that Dawn still spent time with
Tara. "See ya after then." She grabbed her book bag and was off.
Buffy
went upstairs to change and shower. She could feel him all over her, every inch
of her skin, her hair, the intimate parts of her which had been touched and
fondled and licked by him throughout the night. She was a little reluctant to
shower him off of her, as if doing so would take away the memory of what had
happened. She had no idea how she was going to "deal" with this, or even if she
was. It had happened. There was no real reason for it other than she needed to
feel, needed to be touched, and he had been there. "It could just as easily have
been someone else," she thought to herself, and even as she thought it she knew
it was a lie. He was exactly what she had wanted.
She'd spent these
months, and many months before her death, belittling Spike's professed feelings
for her. She couldn't bring herself to believe he could be capable of anything
more than entirely self-centered interests. But since she came back, she had
noticed the little things. She never commented about them, but she noticed them.
He never hesitated to watch over Dawn when she asked him to. She knew he had
been her almost constant companion and protector over the summer, but he had
also been her friend, and that almost meant more to Buffy than his determination
to keep her safe. Dawn had lost so much last year, it had to be a burden on
Spike to spend so much time with her, yet apparently he never complained and was
always there when he was needed.
She had also noticed how, even when she
was patrolling alone, she wasn't really alone. She could feel him closeby,
watching over to be sure she wasn't outnumbered. Several times he "happened to
be in the neighborhood" at just the right time to bail her out of a marginal
mess. He never mentioned it, never brought it up to her, never considered it a
debt. He kept his feelings for her to himself. He had learned that the more he
spoke of them, the more annoyed she became and the more she denied it. So he had
kept it to himself. She noticed. She appreciated it, too. She had too much to
deal with as it was already to have to contend with a love-sick vampire stalking
her.
Last night changed things. Sure, as much as she hated to admit it,
she had needed a man last night. She had needed big strong arms to hold her,
hands to caress her, lips to kiss away the fears and doubts. It had been so long
and she had felt increasingly vulnerable and alone, but it had been more than
that. At least after the first time. They hadn't just had hours and hours of
mind-blowing sex, there were hours of making love, and not just once
either.
She started the shower warming up and began to undress, noticing
right off and remembering the paintings on her arms and chest. Blood. It was his
blood. The initial thought made her cringe. Blood. But then she looked at her
body in the mirror, the detailed patterns and artistry. He had done this with
blood and his fingers. It was amazing, she couldn't imagine what he could have
done with a brush and real paints. She hated the thought of washing it off.
Somehow it was a way of keeping him with her.
She brushed off some of the
dried flakes and climbed into the shower watching much of it wash away under the
warm water, going down the drain in brown swirls.
She felt his hands
slide around her waist, caressing her stomach, washing her with delicately
scented soap. His hands were gentle and glorious on her, tracing her ribs, her
belly, her hip bones and finally reaching her breasts. Her nipples hardened
immediately from his cool touch, the suds coating her skin and his hands and
making his fingers slide over her softly. She gasped and leaned back into him
... then startled when her back hit the cold tile of the shower wall. Damn.
She washed her hair, rinsed off and got out of the shower. As she dried
off, she noticed a slight residual pattern on her skin from his painting. It was
shadowy and hardly noticeable and would no doubt wash off soon enough. She
wished it wouldn't. She liked that he had made a work of art from her body and
his blood. Something about it made her feel a part of something important, a
part of him. In the meantime, though, it would probably be best not to show it
off too much. She smiled at herself in the mirror and slipped on a long-sleeved
top and decided to wear her hair down to at least partially conceal the patterns
on her neck. She looked closer at it and smiled again. He had included Angel and
Dracula's bite marks into the pattern to the point they were invisible unless
you knew they were there. He had, in this strange way, erased their marks on
her. Her lips spread into a shy, secretive smile.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Spike had found it difficult to sleep when
he got back to his crypt. He had laid down upstairs, downstairs, on the bed, on
the floor, in a chair, anywhere he thought he might be able to get comfortable
enough to sleep for a little while. It wasn't happening. She was haunting him,
the Slayer. He could smell her and feel her everywhere, all over him, all around
him. It was Drusilla's prophesy all over again. "Poor Spike," she had
said.
After awhile, he gave up and pulled out one of his favorite
volumes, settled into the ratty, overstuffed chair next to the bed and began to
read for a spell.
Buffy came in upstairs and announced herself before
climbing down to his bedroom. She usually just barged in, so he noticed and
appreciated the difference. She looked somewhat fresher but not nearly as
contented as she had been when he left her asleep in the woods. His duster was
tossed over her arm. She tried to say something, but it got caught. She rolled
her eyes and cleared her throat, "G'morning. I, um, thought I'd return this."
She placed his coat over a chair and stammered a little more. "Um, thank
you."
"You're welcome, pet." His voice was calm and controlled and silky.
"Did you get some sleep?" She started to bristle. How dare he be so coy about
it. Of course she hadn't slept much, they'd humped liked bunnies all night long,
what on earth made him think she had slept at all, leaving her in the forest
alone like that, naked and abandoned, where anyone or anything could have found
her. She ought to beat him senseless ... except ... right now, she was the one
with no sense.
"A little," her voice was annoyingly soft and peaceful,
she hated it, but it just kept coming out like that, all girlish and happy. "I
woke up when the sun hit me in the face." Okay, so he had a good reason to leave
her there alone. Waking up next to a big pile of dust would have been decidedly
worse than waking up alone. "Um, thanks for leaving your coat." She felt stupid.
Thank you for the coat? She wanted to say, "Thank you for the incredible night,
for your tenderness, your depth, your touch, your sensitivity to every breath I
take, for every part of you that touched every part of me ....," but all she had
come up with was, "Thanks for leaving your coat."
Spike nodded. He wasn't
really sure what to say to her. He was trying to let her set the pace, it was
just safer that way. He wanted to ravage her right there ... throw her over that
chair and continue where they left off last night, discovering any parts of her
he might have missed and any other lovely ways he could find to make her come
over and over again for only him. But ... she was playing it cool, so he did,
too. As much as it pained him. She looked and smelled good enough to eat, not in
that way, well, yes, in that way, but not in a grrrr-argh kind of feeding way.
Bollocks, how could he be babbling in his mind?
"You looked so peaceful,
I didn't want you to get cold," he said. Inside, he taunted himself, "Way to go,
Spike, could you be any more lame?"
An awkward silence hung in the air.
She looked at him, then when he looked at her, she'd look away, and vice versa
until Buffy finally started shuffling toward the trap door up to the main crypt.
"Um, I guess I should be coming, er, going," she stammerd, then screamed
inside her head, "Please, God, tell me I didn't just say that!"
Spike
stiffled a smirk, it wasn't easy. It was, however, very easy to see where
Buffy's head was this morning. He stood and approached her, standing just a
little too close, pitching his voice a little low but not really seductive. He
still had this ingrown fear that she would kick his arse if he tried to seduce
her. Again.
"Thanks for returning my coat, pet," he said. "You didn't
have to, I could have gotten it later." The hidden meaning was there, she didn't
have to bring it back, but she had, and in so doing had managed to see him again
only a few hours after they were soundly sleeping naked in the forest. It was
almost amusing how neither of them were saying anything about it, this vain
attempt to pretend it didn't happen.
She could smell him
"Oh,
well, um, it was no bother. Um, thanks." She started to leave.
"Buffy
...." Spike started to say something.
She stopped and turned back toward
him finding herself in his arms. Her breathing became shallow and her heart
quickened. Spike could hear it and feel it and it made her that much more
enticing to him. His eyes closed involuntary as he let the delicious scent of
her surround him, then he pressed his lips to hers, just to taste her again,
just a little.
"Spike ..." she murmured his name into his mouth, "We
can't. We ...," she gasped, "... shouldn't."
"As you wish, luv," he
pulled back and looked into those hazel eyes. "You say 'can't' or 'shouldn't',
but Buffy," he used her name again, rather than spitting out 'Slayer' as he had
a million times before, "what do you want?"
Looking up into the sky that
seemed to live in his eyes, she didn't know how to respond. She wanted to say
she wanted him, that she wanted things to be less complicated, that she wanted
to spend more time like they did last night, touching each other in such a way
that connected them more than just sexually. She kept searching his eyes and
finally just replied honestly, "I don't know ... that's why we
shouldn't"
"I can accept that, luv," he said with a playful smile. It
wasn't a rejection, she wasn't kicking his arse, it was a very murky "maybe" she
was giving him. He could wait.
As she turned to go up the ladder, he
followed her up. He didn't want to press things, he didn't want to make her
think about it too much. He knew she'd start talking herself into believing this
was wrong somehow, that it was really empty and just interlocking bodies filling
a need. He knew better. She did, too. He'd give her space and let her come to
him when the time was right. He had all he time in the world to wait for
her.
He watched her walk toward the heavy wooden door, the heels of her
boots clacking against the stone floor. If she turned back toward him, he'd say
goodbye or smile at her or some other appropriate pleasantry ... even though he
still really just wanted to ravage her for several hours and then sleep tangled
up in her hair and limbs for about forever.
As she opened the door, she
turned back toward him, a tiny smile playing on her lips. "Spike?"
"Yes,
pet?" He met her eyes.
"Patrol with me tonight?" She was shameless. She
could have meant really patrol with her, for him to be her back up, or she could
have meant he should back her up into the nearest tree and revisit last night.
It was noncommittal and safe and in the hours ahead she could make it mean
whatever she wanted it to.
Spike nodded at her, pushing back the smirk
that was trying to force it's way onto his face. He could be noncommittal, too,
dammit.
"Oh, and Spike?"
"Mmm?"
She smiled at him with a
mixture of vixen and coyness. "Bring your coat."
The End ..... or is it?
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