Title: “Black Friday”
era/season/setting: s4 post-Pangs
Rating NC-17 NOTHING BUT SMUT HERE
Summary: Let’s heat those leftovers up a bit, shall we?
Sequel to “Served Cold.” Basically just smut and silliness and more smut.
Author’s note: This fic is completely self-indulgent, just a smutty release valve for all the UST I’ve been writing and all the crappy life I’ve been living lately. I can’t say there’s no nutritional content, but it’s kind of like calling pumpkin pie a vegetable, or pretending Häagen-Dazs is a meaningful dairy serving. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Thanks to the_moonmoth & Sigyn for betaing at various points, as well as fraggleshrew, trilliumjente, zabjade, and everyone else on Chatzy who read bits and offered words of support.
Seasonal Spuffy notes: I originally wrote this with the intent of posting to EF/AO3 on Black Friday, but since SS has a free-for-all day on Thanksgiving y’all get a sneak peek! Hoping to have a beginning on another fic by the end of the round.
CHAPTER 1: The Black of Night
Spike glared at the door that Buffy had just disappeared through, brows knit, in the blackest of black moods. Black as night, black as pitch, black as his soul would be if he had one — which he most assuredly didn’t, so he supposed it wasn’t actually a very good simile, but in any case the point was, he was bloody well pissed off.
It wasn’t enough that he’d had to throw himself on the mercy of the slayer and her band of goody-two-shoes…es, get shot full of holes, and nearly eaten by a bear, oh no! No, the bloody slayer had to actually agree when he’d suggested they shag, bloody confusing bint, and then fuck him into the bloody ground like bloody Boadicea, and then, then! She had the gall to actually walk away when he was already primed for another go, and when the devil was she going to get her sweet arse back here so he could fuck her again? She’d been gone at least two minutes now.
He hated her. Everything about her, from her too-perfect golden hair down to the chunky-heeled boots she liked to plant in his chest. The way she rolled her eyes, her smart-ass mouth, the curve of her stomach, the taste of her sweat, that hitch she got in her breath when she was close to coming, the heat of her, god! She’d been so hot and wet, hatefully perfect, and the scent of her, and the flavour, she tasted of power and the elements and something else, something uniquely Buffy, and the way her thighs had quivered under his fingers when she exploded against his tongue….
God, he hated her.
When was she coming back?
He was about to stand up and start pacing the limits of his chain, just to have something to do, when the door at the top of the stairs suddenly swung open and… there she was, still naked, her hair lit from behind by the kitchen lights, like the halo of a saint in a Renaissance painting, except instead of holding symbolic greenery or regalia, in one hand she held a Tupperware of warmed-up blood — actually warm, from the looks of things — and in the other, she held a can of whipped cream.
The look on her face was anything but saintly.
He stretched slowly as she descended the stairs, watching her through his eyelashes. Her skin was still glistening and dewy, her nipples tight and hard, her cheeks flushed; he could hear her heart racing and her quickened breath, and for a moment he felt sick, because it was all so human, so wrong. So not what he should be desiring. But god, he wanted her despite his better judgment; his cock had been hard as marble the moment she appeared in the doorway, and every step she took was like a drum in his ears, the drums of war; he lazily stroked himself as he watched her, until she was standing right beside him.
“I brought you more blood,” she said softly.
And she handed him the Tupperware of blood and sat down beside him, on the bit of thin cot mattress that he wasn’t on, legs tipped demurely to one side.
He glared at her sidelong, taking a huge swig of the blood — tasted a shade better not through a straw, but still bland and not as good as the real thing. As he watched, she upended the canister of whipped cream and squirted a glob into her mouth, humming with approval, which was such a letdown after the anticipation of her grand entrance that he growled.
“Something wrong with your din-din?” Buffy asked sweetly. “Not warm enough?”
It was actually the perfect temperature, which only pissed him off more. “Something wrong with your heart?” he sniped. “Not cold enough?”
“God, you’re annoying,” Buffy muttered, taking another mouthful of whipped cream. She arched her back, stretching.
Spike took another sullen drink, eyes riveted on her tits. God, they were glorious, pink and perky. He wondered how dead she would make him if he just reached out and– Bugger it. He did it, his free hand cupping that sweet curve, thumb roughly brushing her hard nipple.
She leaned into his touch — still unbelievable, that she was allowing any of this — tilting her head back for more whipped cream, and Spike could take a bloody hint; he set his blood aside, sitting up to fondle her other breast too, dragging the chain still attached to his wrist across his thighs, setting his mouth to the exposed curve of her throat. He heard the hiss of the whipped cream as she squirted more into her mouth; her throat fluttered under his lips as she swallowed, and he groaned, running blunt teeth along her skin.
He could kill her right now, he realized. Her throat was bared to him, and whatever was going on in his noggin, he didn’t think it could stop him if he vamped out right into her jugular, beating fast and strong under his tongue. It would hurt, most likely, but the slayer, the bane of his existence, would still be dead. He could do it.
Instead he kissed her butterfly pulse, feeling her gasp and shudder. He could kill her later. Right now, he had more important things to do.
He was trailing kisses along her collarbone, hands still reveling in the weight of her delicious breasts, when she set her hands to his shoulders and pushed him away.
“Your dinner’s getting cold,” she murmured.
“Sod my dinner,” he growled, but she was stronger than him, and also had a hungry light in her eyes that made him shiver, and so he lay back and picked up his cooling blood and watched her warily as she shook her can of Reddi-Whip.
“If you don’t finish your dinner, you can’t have any dessert,” she said, her voice rough, and then she reached out and squirted a tiny dollop of cool whipped cream right in the hollow of his throat. She leaned down and nipped it up, dipping her tongue in to catch up the last foamy bits, then tilted up to kiss his chin before sitting up and shaking her can again.
“You’re a bloody menace,” Spike gasped, but he rushed to take another huge gulp of his blood, because he by god wanted in on this game, and Buffy had laid down the rules plain enough. He had to finish his dinner. While he was quaffing it down, Buffy neatly placed a swirl of cream on each of his nipples, leaning in to the closest and licking it up with her hot tongue. He swore.
She lingered, laughing softly, tongue and teeth sending quivers of sensation radiating out, and then her tongue trailed a long stripe to his other nipple and she lapped the cool whipped cream off and replaced it with the wet heat of her mouth, sucking hard, and he arched into it and swore again, draining his Tupperware and casting it off to the side.
Buffy lifted her eyes to his, a wicked smile teasing at her lips, and he ducked in to kiss her, tenderly at first, brushing his lips across hers, and then harder, kissing her backwards until they were both sitting up.
“Want some?” she murmured against his lips, and he groaned in response, nodding. She leaned back on her elbow, arching her back and squirting sweet cream onto her pink nipple — she let out a tiny gasp at the contact that made him shake — and the heat of her started to melt it immediately, and he bent down and took it all into his mouth, cream and nipple together, and he swirled his tongue around as he sucked, savoring the sweetness and the salt of her skin and the breathless song of her pleasure.
He lifted his head and her wide eyes locked with his, her breath hot on his lips as she shook the can and anointed her other breast, and he kept his eyes on hers as he bent to worship, daring her to look away — but he should have known she wouldn’t, not when it came down to the wire; she watched him in fascination and he made a show of it, flicking his tongue showily across her nipple and lifting his eyebrows as he sucked half her breast into his mouth, grazing her nipple with his teeth, and then she squirted some on her collarbone, a long lash of his tongue, and then her shoulder, tender kisses following the trickle down her bicep, and then the inside of her elbow, a single open-mouthed kiss, and then down the curve of her belly to her navel, a dip of his tongue, and she hesitated, quivering under his lips, and he took her hips in his hands and pulled her up and over, falling back until she was kneeling, thighs splayed wide on either side of his shoulders.
He looked hotly up her body and her hesitation melted into a challenging smile and she took the can and covered her glorious quim all with cream, shuddering at the cold, and he tugged her forward and buried his face in her, licking and sucking and nibbling until the sweet drippings were all gone and it was just her, all savory and hot, undulating and moaning above him.
He surrendered to it, his whole world narrowing down to the intoxicating flavour of her, the feel of her clit hard under his tongue; her body filled his vision like a fantastical landscape, her gasps and cries a symphony, building to a crescendo, and when she came it was like an earthquake, her low guttural cry the sound of thunder, the apocalypse come after all. He tasted her tremors, bathing her with reassuring strokes of his tongue as the deluge of her ecstasy receded, and he tipped his head to kiss her strong thighs.
She sat back on his chest, panting and glaring at him, and he cocked a smug eyebrow at her, smirking, and her eyes narrowed with determination, and before he knew it she had scrambled down to kneel by his hips, shaking the can once again. God, whatever the bloody hell was in the bloody canister to make that rattling sound, Spike’s cock was apparently already associating it with sex because he was suddenly so hard it was almost painful.
There was a long moment where Buffy just sat, looking at his cock like it was a knot she needed to untie, and then she took a deep breath and leaned forward, and Spike barely had time to realize, she’s never done this, before she had painted a long stripe of whipped cream along his hard length, following it with her hot tongue, and oh god, he’d never had this before either, her mouth was hot and wet and his hands clutched at the concrete as his head arched back, eyes wide with revelation.
She toyed with him, sadistic woman, playfully squirting cream here and there, licking and sucking almost randomly until he was nearly mad; blindly he reached out to her, one hand finding her head, brushing hair tenderly away from her sticky cheek, the other landing on her thigh, urging her legs open until he could stroke her, fingers urgent in her wetness. She gasped, hot breath on his cock, and then shifted closer, opening her legs wide, and he drove two fingers into her, thumbing roughly at her clit as she finally, finally took him all the way into her mouth.
She set the pace, pumping her lips up and down on his cock slowly, and for a while he matched her, driving his fingers as deep as they could go, the chain clanking in rhythm with them, but bloody hell, she was starting to shake again, he could feel her right on the edge, and he grinned and pushed her over, thumb and fingers hard and fast and she gasped and gasped around his cock until she convulsed, instinctively sucking harder as she came, taking him deeper, and then they were both through playing, frantic, desperate, her mouth working him as he fucked her faster and harder with his fingers — all four now, driving into her knuckle-deep — and she suddenly laughed around him, giving him a bit of teeth, and god, he came so hard he nearly blacked out, feeling her swallow him down.
He surged up and rolled her over until he was above her, fingers still driving into her, other hand stroking the hair back from her face so he could see every nuance of her expression as he played with her — the way her eyelashes fluttered when he curved his fingers just like that, the luscious curve of her lower lip as she gasped, her wide green eyes fixed on his. They drew him down, those eyes, until his forehead was pressed to hers; he breathed in her breath, brushing his lips against hers, and when she shuddered with completion he kissed her, drinking down her cries of ecstasy.
“There’s my girl,” he crooned, stroking his wet hand up across her belly and shifting them both around until he was lying on the thin mattress again and she was snuggled up into his side.
“I am not your girl,” Buffy murmured, curling possessively against him. “You’re my prisoner.”
“That I am, love,” he agreed magnanimously, settling her more comfortably against him before drifting off into sleep. She was warm and soft and pliant, and smelled like absolute heaven.
God, he hated her.
Buffy awoke suddenly to the realization that she was lying full on top of Spike, her cheek pillowed against his chest and her legs draped on either side of him, which was so unlike any waking-up-situation she’d ever experienced that she’d have thought it was a continuation of the naughty Spike-dream she’d been having, except that the slightly sticky feel of his skin was just too mundanely real a sensation for her subconscious to have conjured up. She could feel him hard against her tummy, and that reminded her just how they’d gotten so sticky, and hadn’t that been a whole book of revelations?
Not that any of it had been technically new information; she’d known about oral sex in theory before Spike had so enthusiastically gone there, she’d just never realized how…. Well, with both her previous partners, all the romantic kissing and fondling had just been appetizers for the main event, whereas Spike had treated her nethers like a full-course meal. They hadn’t even had sex that last time, not sex-sex, but it had still been the most… the most carnal experience of her life.
She wanted a second helping.
It was weird, though, actually waking up with someone. Especially that person being Spike, who she still totally hated, she assured herself, even with all the orgasms and the licking and the laughing and that look in his eyes as he’d done that thing with his hand and…. Okay, she was getting squirmy just thinking about that thing, and the other thing, and the other other thing, and so the real question was, how was one supposed to wake up one’s mortal-enemy-slash-lover when you were in the mood for some mortal-enemy-loving? A kiss seemed kind of not-right for who they were, they didn’t really have the pretense of romance going on between them, but she was also pretty sure just jumping his bones while he was still asleep was rude in some way. Maybe she could just… wriggle a bit? But then again, what if he woke up evil? More evil, she corrected. He was already totally….
Her ruminations came to a screeching halt when she heard the clank of his chains; a moment later his hand sank into her hair and she felt his lips on the crown of her head.
“Morning, sunshine,” he murmured into her hair.
“It’s still night,” she said, feeling lame.
“We’re both up,” he pointed out, and then reinforced the innuendo by pressing his cock into her belly. “Very, very awake,” he purred, and she wasn’t sure which of them did the moving, but his hands were on her elbows and hers planted on his sticky chest, and she was sitting up right on his cock, and god, even as she thought what a colossally bad idea it was, how bad it all had been, she couldn’t help but grind into it a little.
They had never turned off the light, and so Buffy could clearly see the wreckage of the cot, droplets of dried blood from his discarded Tupperware, splatters of cream, the empty Reddi-Whip canister rolled off to the side, and in the middle of it all, Spike, the biggest disaster of them all, looking up at her in smug, sleepy awe and she saw it all so clearly, all the bad, but oh god, she still wanted him; even now her little inevitable grind had turned into long purposeful glides, and he was moving with her, and oh, that look in his eyes, half-satisfaction, half-amazement. She found herself running her hands up his arms until she could clasp his hands, fingers winding together, and she pressed them down next to his shoulders, bending down to brush her lips against his.
“This is so wrong,” she whispered, voice breaking.
“Yeah,” Spike growled back. “That’s what makes it fun.”
She gasped out a laugh, still moving against him. “What are we doing?”
“Right now, you’re driving me round the bloody bend,” he laughed back, brokenly. “You planning on torturing me all night, or fucking me?”
She shivered, but summoned a grin. “I’m thinking torture. Seeing as you’re still my prisoner.”
He groaned dramatically, eyes lit with mirth. “You’re a cruel woman, you are. Bloody well outlawed by the Geneva Conventions.” He shifted beneath her, and oh, she didn’t know how he was doing it, no hands and all, but he was rubbing her in all the right places; she rubbed right back, the intensity making her dizzy.
“What can I say?” she managed. “You have — oh! — information. I — oh god, right there! — I have a need — yes, there — to know.”
“Tell you anything,” he whispered fervently. “Everything. Just, god, Buffy, fuck me already.”
“You don’t deserve to have me — god! — to have me do you.”
“Don’t I?” He looked up at her with eyes like coals. “But what do you want?”
“This.” She slid against him faster. “More.”
His hands tightened on hers. “Do you want to fuck me? Say it.”
“I–” She swallowed, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, like it was a secret, like they could be overheard. “I want to fuck you.”
He sighed as if in relief, and as if that was a signal she released one of his hands, reaching down, and he reached with her, and together they fit his cock to her and she tilted her hips to his thrust. He drove deep, eyes fixed on hers the whole time, just inches away now, and their hands found each other again, and he let out a shudder of surrender as she pressed their hands down by his shoulders again, as if being in her power was all he’d ever dreamed of. He pumped into her in long, luxurious strokes that seemed to drive straight through to her soul; she matched him, slick and open, feeling his every contour.
Under the harsh lighting, Buffy was incredibly aware of what was going on, every twitch of Spike’s expressive face written plain, nothing hidden in the shadows; it was so the opposite of what she had thought sex should be — soft focus, dim romantic lighting, everything couched in sweet nothings — and yet it was somehow honest in a way she hadn’t expected, neither of them pretending, bare to each other beyond their bodies. It wasn’t romantic, but it was real, and shockingly intimate. Like her field of vision had been opened wide.
And she couldn’t look away from his eyes.
She moved with him, slow and deep like the sea, not wanting to break the silence with words; instead, she fluttered light kisses along his jaw and throat and shoulders, and his fingertips entwined with hers. The gasp that wrung from him was so delicious that she sat up, taking one of his hands up to her mouth and sucking on each finger in turn as she rolled her hips into his thrusts. His freed hand thumbed roughly at her breasts, and then stroked her cheek, and when she turned her head into the caress, catching his thumb in her teeth, he took the hand she’d been loving, still wet from her kisses, and tucked it in to rub at her clit as she rode him, and her orgasm caught her by surprise; she sucked hard on his thumb, whimpering as pleasure jolted through her, and he swore under his breath and surged up, his hands on her hips helping her balance until he was sitting cross-legged, chest to chest with her, urging her up and down, and oh, it was still slow and deep but something had changed, she wound her arms around his neck and gazed into his eyes, and fuck me, Buffy, he whispered, and she did, oh god, just thinking the words I am fucking Spike, almost feeling them on her lips again, made her feel wild and desperate, she tossed her head back and let loose, thighs burning as she rose and fell, harder and faster and oh god oh god his eyes, they shattered her like glass, spiderweb cracks of pure sensation spreading up her belly and all the way out to her fingertips and she screamed, and she wasn’t sure what happened next except when she came back to herself she was curled into his chest, still rocking lazily against him, and he was stroking her hair, and okay, maybe it was a little romantic.
Not that she liked him, or anything.
He gently knuckled her head up for a kiss. “Tired?” He was still pulsing slowly inside her, and she realized he was still urgently hard.
She trailed a hand across his chest. “A little.”
“Never,” she whispered shyly.
“That’s my girl.” He ground up purposefully into her, forestalling her token protest at the possessive. “How does this feel?”
“Oh, god,” she gasped, unable to respond anything but honestly. “Good.” Two could play that game; she gave her hips a little swirl. “How about this?”
“Bloody hell. Do it again.”
And she swirled her hips again, and then he thrust into her hard from an entirely different angle, and she tried clenching around him, and they traded blows back and forth until Buffy was as breathless as he, both of them quivering with passion.
Buffy surrendered softly when Spike pressed her back into the thin mattress, sucking on her own fingertips and watching him as he held her thighs wide, pistoning slowly, finding just the stroke that made her gasp the loudest and then ramping up the pace until she was nearly howling. When she came, she laughed in surprise, and then conquered him right back, riding him purposefully until he convulsed with his own orgasm. She collapsed atop him and dozed for a bit, still joined, until he kissed her back to wakefulness and urged her to sit back on his hardening cock; he begged her to touch herself, and under his hungry eyes she stroked her own breasts and strummed on her clit until she was gasping and shaking, and when she shuddered with completion he tugged her down and kissed her tenderly and then rolled her over onto her back, tugging her legs up around his waist, and slid into her in long, deliberate strokes, kissing her throat and chest, until she was nearly weeping from the sweetness of it, and then somehow the sweet turned to fire and they rolled until she was kneeling, and Spike was there, groaning as he cupped her breasts and pumped into her from behind, catching up one of her hands and bringing it with his to where they were joined, both their fingers rubbing her hard clit as he pounded into her, and she came again, hard and sharp, and he grunted a bit later as he spilled inside her, and they both fell forward into a damp, sticky heap, pressing fevered kisses wherever they could reach, and as Buffy drifted off into sleep again, nestled in Spike’s embrace, she wondered hazily what time it was.
The next time Buffy woke it was to the sound of Spike’s chain clanking, and she sleepily opened her eyes and watched him walking naked around the basement. He rummaged in the basket of clean laundry, at the very limits of his chain’s reach, and as she watched he selected a fluffy towel and a washcloth, stretching out his arm to turn on the hot water in the utility sink. He drenched the washcloth, wringing it out with one hand, flicked off the water, and turned to her.
“Do I look that bad?”
“Look bloody amazing,” he muttered, looking embarrassed. “Just starting to fuse together.”
She smiled unwillingly. “Very diplomatic.”
That earned her an eyeroll. “Don’t worry, Slayer. When you look a fright, I’ll be sure to tell you. Don’t do ruddy diplomacy.”
Buffy lay on her back and let him minister to her, long wet strokes of the warm washcloth, followed by a brisk towelling that spoke to long practice. When she was clean and dry, he took the cooled cloth, scrubbed and dried himself off perfunctorily, and then flopped down next to Buffy again with a sigh, propped on his elbow and looking down at her, for all the world like a puppy.
She reached up and tousled his hair a bit more — she hadn’t expected curls under the gel, they softened his face immeasurably. Which she supposed was why he did the gel in the first place. He turned his head to kiss her palm.
“I should have known,” he murmured. “The way you fight — I should have known you’d be like this.” He brushed a knuckle against her cheek, her shoulder, her breast.
“Like what?” Buffy whispered, feeling suddenly vulnerable.
He was silent for a while, regarding her with something like disbelief, and she braced herself for something cutting or cruel, but instead he laughed shortly, looking away almost abashed — one of many expressions she’d never expected to see on Spike’s face — and then he looked back at her, and she didn’t even know what that expression was, except it was strangely soft and open.
“Like touching the bloody sun,” he said softly.
“Sounds painful,” she replied lightly, shivering at the look in his eyes.
“Yeah.” He shrugged, just as lightly, except that it wasn’t light at all, the air seemed as thick as honey, and then he leaned down to kiss her, or maybe she sat up, they met in the middle, and that was like honey, too, the sweet, lazy slide of lips and tongues, flowing right into luxurious glides of body against body, and she opened to his delicious strokes like a flower, murmuring encouragements to him between low moans of satisfaction, his voice rough in her ear, endearments and imprecations and naughty words that made her quiver, and they continued to flow in and out of sleep and sex and conversation and exhausted snuggles, until Buffy finally opened her eyes and realized the high window was glowing with the light of early day.
It was Friday morning.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/634653.html