This is my first Spuffy fic ever, so please go easy on me. It started from a roleplay intro I did one time, actually. I thought it would make a nice fanfiction. There isn't much of a plot, but it is set in the 6th season sometime between Smashed and Wrecked, I would say.
Note: I do not own these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon.
Bleach blond and ravenous, a vampire awoke to face the night. Spike let his eyes adjust to the surroundings. He was expecting her. Every night he waited for her and sometimes, when he was lucky, she showed up. His mind was always filled with the thoughts of golden hair, melancholy eyes, fragrant skin -everything that was Buffy. He loved her, there was no denying that. He loved her and she could never love him.
She is playing one of her games, leading me on until she tires of it and leaves me in this crypt, alone again.
He knew this yet it was impossible for him to break away from her. He spent so long yearning for her to desire him and now that she did he was reluctant to let her go. She made him feel so alive and he knew he served a similar purpose for her.
He used to be feared. "William the Bloody" was the name they had given to him and his appetite fit the title perfectly. With Drusilla by his side, he was invincible, the very picture of raw power. Now, he was a completely different man. The "piece of plastic", as Dru called it, in his head stopped him from killing. He had learned how to help people and it brought him a satisfaction he never knew existed especially when he was doing these things for her.
He hated how much he craved the slayer; He hated himself and his impulses. They weren't so impulsive anymore; They were constant and burning him from the inside out. Buffy never seemed to notice his pain. Is she that far gone? The thought deeply troubled him. He could understand that macho military man now: love was selfish and when one was in love they wanted the full attention and affection of their partner. She refused to give either of them, Riley or Spike, that one request. Spike pushed the thoughts out of his head. He was being ridiculous, of course. She wasn't really his. He understood his job description from the start: Light the Slayer's fire and pretend it never happened.
His hearing picked up the stomping of feet nearby. As a natural response, he tensed. After another second or so he determined the noise was Buffy. A small smile stretched itself across his face and he leaped on to his feet. He swung the door open, disregarding subtlety and gentleness as he always did, and scanned the graveyard until he caught sight of her. He pushed back his long leather jacket and strode toward her with a confident air although he felt no confidence at all.
She was so perfect, beautifully sculpted and impossible strong, and he was so... evil. No, that wasn't the right word for Spike. Rather, he was mislead. His life had taken a number of unexpected twists and turns that hardened him. Spike, William, used to be a poet. Before Drusilla took an interest in him, he was naive and romantic. As an immortal, he was fierce with a bloodlust that rivaled that of even Angel. Now, Spike wasn't sure who he was supposed to be. Should he be the dependant yet hopeless romantic or should he be the big bad that got Buffy's blood flowing? A tangle of confusing thoughts threatened to overwhelm him.
He was close enough to talk to her now. Her form was only a shadow in the night just as she was only a shadow in his presence. "Now love, are you here hunting dangerous beasties or have you come around to play?" he asked seductively with an eyebrow raised and a dark glint in his faded blue eyes.
She rolled her eyes at hi suggestive comment and replied, "I'm patrolling, Spike. It's called my job."
Now it was Spike's turn to roll his eyes. She liked being allowed to hold on to her dignity for a while. He knew how the game was played. He also knew her resolve would disintegrate if he was persistent.
"Now, Slayer, that doesn't explain why you're right outside of my crypt. This is a bit out of the way," he told her.
She tried, and failed, to hold in her laughter. "It's a graveyard. All of it is my patrolling ground. Nothing is out of the way."
Spike sighed, growing bored with her games. "Look, I'm not in the mood to play tug-of-war with you tonight, love. If you decide you want a rough shag, feel free to knock on my door."
He turned on his heel and headed back in the direction of his crypt hoping she would follow him but not actually expecting her to. It took all of his self control to walk away from her. It was always a game of back and forth. He felt he needed a flower to rip off the petals and chant, "she wants you, she doesn't want you, she wants you, she doesn't want you," but he pushed the silly notion out of his head and struck the ground with his boots more forcefully. He wanted nothing more than to push her to the ground and take her right there, out in the open, but that was breaking the rules. The game they played was a hidden one. The Scooby gang wasn't allowed to know about it.
That girl is going to drive me up a wall one day, she is, he thought to himself.
Again he wondered what her precious gang would think of her if they were to see her in the positions that he had. Would they be disgusted? He knew she would be broken if they found out. She wouldn't be able to handle them seeing the truth: The Slayer was just a shell of who she used to be. Spike often thought this way to make himself feel like the one with the power when in reality he knew she was the one that could crush him with a mere glance if she really wanted to.
What have I gotten myself into?
As he started to close the door with his back still turned, he felt a pressure on his back. He turned around to find Buffy with her arm outstretched, palm flat against his leather coat. She didn't say a word. He pulled her close to him and pushed the door shut. Their mouths collided in a frenzy of wild passion and he started maneuvering her toward the bed. On the way, they bumped into a nightstand and knocked over a lamp that crashed to the floor with a loud bang.
Buffy was the one who pushed Spike down on the mattress. He knew she liked to be on top. Although it was a blow to his manhood, he didn't protest, because losing control was better than not having her at all. She grinded her hips against him with a growing need. As he bit down on her lower lip, she let out a moan that caused him to instantly harden. She felt his excitement and smiled.
Their clothes were ripped off in quick, jerky motions. Spike wanted nothing more than to feel Buffy's bare skin on his. When they were both naked, he held her to him and relished the soft skin of her body. She wasn't happy with that and ground her hips more fiercely against his arousal. The need to feel release was too great for him to bear and he let go of her so she could position herself. With a quick hair flip that left Spike gasping at her beauty, Buffy slammed down on Spike's length. His moan echoed off the walls.
The pressure was causing him pain now and he begged her to move. She complied, going excruciatingly slow at first because she knew it would bother him. When he was practically whimpering, she began to move faster. He reached toward her to cup a breast in his nimble hand. She threw her head back and cried out at the pleasure.
She captured his lips in a fierce kiss. Wanting some amount of control, Spike plunged his tongue into the depths of her mouth. He continued to kiss her, moaning into her mouth and occasionally biting her lip or tongue when her thrust was especially strong. The pace was much too fast to be kept up for too long. Soon, Buffy's walls tightened causing Spike to break the kiss and say a throaty, "Buffy," before coming inside her. His climax sent her over the edge and she rode out her orgasm with him.
She collapsed next to him in a panting heap. When he gathered enough strength, he propped himself up on his elbows and said, "That was rather rough, pet."
Buffy looked at him before saying, "It's always rough."
He correctly assumed she was talking about something different than sex. This was against the rules. After sex, they couldn't talk about feelings. Spike never said, "I love you," even though he wanted to, and Buffy never told him her problems like she wanted to. Quickly, he changed the subject. "So, again tomorrow night?"
She chuckled and pushed herself out of his bed. As she began to gather her clothes, she replied, "You wish."
After she was gone, he felt that familiar twitch of sadness creep up on him. He loved the sex. It was what he always wanted. But what he would kill for, what he had killed for, was her heart. Having a small part of her, getting to just taste it, left him with a longing that no amount of sex could cure. He lay on the mattress now covered in fluid and stared at the ceiling. The room held the musky scent of sweat and cum. He breathed it in, savoring her smell. She would be back, that wasn't even a question. He only hoped next time he would be strong enough to send her away, strong enough to say "Game over." But he knew, as long as he was undead, the game would never be over. Once you started playing you couldn't stop. It was an addiction.
Please review and let me know what you think! Should I continue or should I stop it here? If I do continue, what would you want to read about? Things like that would be very helpful.