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 3: Until Sunset
Buffy was amazed at how dedicated Spike was to science.
She’d almost wanted to cry when she’d finally disconnected from Willow, something about the way Spike had looked at her the whole time, like she was terrifying and fascinating and adored, like an Egyptian goddess, but when they’d both come down from the exquisite, ineffable release at the end, he’d lightly nipped at her shoulder.
And since it was going on lunch — Willow’s notes really were very detailed — Buffy decided to order a pizza.
“Surprise me,” she’d said when Spike asked for his orders.
And he had, taking her from behind up against the marble-topped kitchen island, her breasts brushing the cool stone as he drove into her — but not constantly, no. Only when she said a number.
When she said one, he drove into her once, hard and fast, and then stopped, his cock poised at her entrance.
When she said two, twice.
When she said nine…. Well. Suffice it to say that by the time she’d given her phone number, her address, and finally her credit card number to pay for the pizza, Buffy was barely able to speak; she hung up the phone, turned to regard Spike angrily over her shoulder, and bit out the first number that had come to mind.
“Three hundred twenty-seven, dammit.”
He’d started counting and she’d chanted the count along with him, but they’d barely made it into the double digits before the numbers gave way to grunted curses, and Buffy was screaming out her release before they passed a hundred, pressing her overheated face to the cool marble.
“An interesting experiment,” she’d managed to joke afterwards; Spike had snorted out a laugh.
The pizza (anchovies on half, hot wings on the side) was just what Buffy needed after what she had to admit was a hell of a workout, even for her, although Spike had pouted when she’d thrown on a skirt and top to meet the delivery guy. At least until the pizza guy had gone and she’d let him go spelunking under the skirt while she ate, which had been a really, really surreal meal.
She was never going to look at a slice of pepperoni the same way again.
Five phone calls to unsuspecting businesses later, the pizza was a bit cold. They’d let some of the rules slide. Actually, they’d let all of the rules slide, and instead established just one: don’t get caught. The kissed when they wanted — just trying not to slurp too much — and Spike said what he wanted — just quiet enough not to be heard over the phone — and they pretty much started whenever they both felt up to it, with Buffy picking up the phone whenever she took the notion. They’d pretty much determined that it didn’t matter who was on the other end of the phone, the bored operator at information or the telemarketer who’d tried to sell Buffy a time-share condominium in Malta. (She’d almost bought it, heady and slightly insane with orgasmic bliss, but thankfully her wallet had been a good ten feet away from the patch of carpet they’d been merrily defiling. She’d have had a lot of trouble explaining that charge to her mom later! As it was, they were definitely going to need to have the carpet shampooed, and the couch upholstery cleaned, despite the afghan.)
Buffy had to admit it: she really got off on being on the phone while having sex. She had a phone fetish. Phone-o-philia. She had made it all through all the layers of denial, and now she was just going to embrace it.
She might, she feared, also have a bit of Spike-o-philia — the intervals between sex and showers and snacks having been filled with snuggles and confessions and stories — but she was pretty sure she wasn’t able to face that yet; for the moment, she was just going to accept that he was a willing, eager, and inventive partner in her phone-o-philia adventures, and worry about everything else later.
After they’d mostly polished off the cold pizza and hot wings, Spike’d had the notion to slather Buffy’s crotch with the rest of the buffalo sauce — it had tingled a bit, and then his cool tongue had soothed it, which had combined in such a fantastic way that Buffy had considered expanding their scientific inquiry into food science, but when the sauce was gone Spike had muttered something about Buffy tasting better anyhow and had settled in for a feast, eventually sinking to the kitchen floor with Buffy kneeling over him, facing his feet so she could plant her hands on his chest for support, and she’d decided it was time for another phone call.
Xander’s number was the only one she could remember. She dialed it with shaking fingers, dizzily staring at Spike’s cock, which was throbbing and erect, and right there. She’d played with it earlier, with the whipped cream and all, but she hadn’t really looked at it, the tracery of veins, the silk-thin skin, and before she could think better of it she leaned on forward and took the tip in her mouth, sucking gently in rhythm with the ringing phone. Spike laughed into her, muttering something profane and did something himself, something that matched the pace of her sucking, making her feel like they were connected all in a circle, a Moebius strip of sex.
“Hello, Xander’s Lair of Manlitude.”
“Mmmm,” Buffy managed to get out, not wanting to break the circle.
She reluctantly released Spike’s cock from her lips, though she kept a firm grip on it, sliding her hand up and down, fascinated by the way his foreskin bunched and slid. “Oh, uh, sorry, Xander. I was just, um, eating pizza.” This was not, technically, a lie, as she had been just eating it within the past hour.
“A fine pastime,” Xander said affably, and oh god she was coming already, barely thirty seconds into the call. She took Spike in her mouth again to muffle what promised to be a mighty yell of completion, channeling her ecstasy into sucking hard. Probably too hard, but Spike didn’t seem to mind, from the appreciation he was showing her crotch. Definite advantage to a vampire lover.
Xander seemed unperturbed, which she supposed was unsurprising, as if any human being could get orgasmic over pizza, it would be Xander. “So, what can I do for you?” he asked.
“Mmmm–” Buffy sat up again, vaguely noting that words were probably required here. “Oh. Um. Well, this is just… really good pizza.” She dove in again.
“Is it, now?”
“Mmmmm-hmm.” Even without whipped cream, this was not a lie; she didn’t understand why the musky, coppery taste of Spike — overlaid with just a hint of the soap they’d scrubbed off with at some point — tasted so damn good, but she really wanted to keep going. Somehow the physical taste of him was overlaid with shades of power and conquest. Was power a flavor?
“Well, that’s good to know,” Xander said. “Pizza Hut?”
“Mmmmmmama Fratelli’s.” God, the way Spike responded to her mouth was like a drug. Or like she expected drugs would be, if she ever tried drugs, which she hadn’t, and all of that was just her brain wandering off on a tangent while her lips and her mouth started to pleasure Spike in earnest, remembering the way he’d felt when he’d come in her mouth before, wanting it desperately, wanting to make him damn well scream.
“Ah, yes. They do have the best sauce.”
“So, um. Was there anything else you…?” Xander seemed a little confused now, which Buffy supposed was understandable; she herself had only a vague recollection of what they’d been saying, and she couldn’t tell Xander, “I just called you so Spike could get me off harder, thanks!”
She reluctantly sat back up, grinding her crotch into Spike’s mouth. “Um, no. I, um, just wanted you to know. How good this pizza is.”
“It’s just really, really good.” She arched back, eyes closed, every part of her focused on what Spike’s tongue was doing. Thank god he didn’t need to breathe.
“Well, maybe you can save me a slice.”
Buffy looked at Spike’s cock, still bobbing there like an invitation. “I don’t think you want this pizza.” Oh, what the hell; she leaned forward and took it in her mouth again. It was only fair. Also, she really, really wanted to.
“What, did you get pineapple?”
That didn’t even deserve a real answer. “Mmmmm.”
“We’ve discussed this, Buffy. Pineapple on pizza is an abomination.”
“MmmMMMmmm.” Oh god oh god….
“I mean, I try to be a pretty open-minded guy, but if you’ve gone over to the dark side–”
Buffy nearly choked. “No! Um, no, I didn’t get pineapple on my pizza.” There, that was settled; she licked along the top of Spike’s cock and started sucking again.
“So. Was there… anything else?”
“Oh. Oh, no,” Buffy said breathlessly, trailing little kisses up the side of Spike’s cock while she caught up on oxygen. Which she herself did need. “Just… pizza good.”
“Yes. Yes, pizza good.”
“Glad we agree.”
“I– oh god– I gotta go.” That was it. No more words.
“Uh, okay. Bye?”
Buffy didn’t even wait to hang up the phone before Spike’s cock was in her mouth yet again. “Mmmm,” she managed as a farewell before decidedly clicking the disconnect button, because she was by god going to make Spike come, she wanted to taste him in her mouth again, and so she sucked and sucked, toyed and played, vaguely aware that her face and her hands were wet with spit, and oh god oh god she was coming again, her legs spasmed as she fractured, the aftershocks heading straight to her lips and she sucked and pumped and sucked until he yelled, pulsing under her lips, the taste of him salty and almost-sweet at the back of her throat, and as she sleepily licked away the last bits of it, she wondered if Spike had been eating pineapple, because she’d read in Cosmo that it was a way to make it taste sweet, but she supposed it might be different for vampires, and in any case she supposed it didn’t matter because Spike tasted like Spike and she probably tasted like Buffy and Spike wasn’t complaining and neither was she.
She eventually got enough muscle coordination together to turn around so she could snuggle into Spike’s shoulder again. He kissed her.
“Is that what I taste like?” It wasn’t bad, just odd. She was actually starting to get used to it, to Spike tasting like her.
“Yeah,” Spike rumbled. “That all mixed in with power and glory.”
“Oh.” She curled into his chest, sleepy. “You taste like that too.”
“Mmm,” he mumbled into her hair.
“Also like pineapple.” She propped herself up in her arm, looking seriously into his eyes. “Do you eat pineapple?”
“Not on pizza,” Spike grinned. “I’m not a monster.”
“That’s all right, then.”
“Sun’s going to set soon,” Spike said conversationally, munching on the last slice of anchovy pizza.
Buffy glanced at the light slanting in the kitchen window, picking a slice of pepperoni off her own pizza and staring at it. “I guess so.”
They were cuddled up in the patch of shadow they’d chosen for their restorative snack (well, restorative for Buffy; Spike didn’t technically need it, but he fucking loved anchovies) after yet another shower. Loved to shower, his girl, loved getting all clean and then loved getting dirty again, and he loved the clean and the dirty and he was flat out buggered.
“Expect the watcher will be calling again?” Spike pressed.
“I was trying not to think that far ahead,” Buffy admitted, sighing. “But yeah, he probably will.”
They snuggled in silence for a while.
“What are we going to do, love?” Spike finally said, kissing the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.
“I don’t know.” Buffy wrapped her arms a little tighter. “I mean, we don’t even know what’s going on with you, with the pain and the…. Giles can help with that, and Willow. We can figure out what the commandos did. So, um, I guess we should go back to Giles’s place. You can tell us what you know.”
“Well, I want to figure out what these guys are doing here. They’re messing around in my town, and I don’t like it. I need to–”
“Not talking about the bloody commandos,” Spike interrupted.
Buffy sighed again. “I know you’re not.”
They fell silent again, stroking each other soothingly.
“Look,” Spike said at last. “I know this is wrong, for both of us. You can’t be snogging a creature of the night, and no self-respecting creature of the night should be lo– lusting after the slayer. I know this is just an… an interlude. It’s got to end.”
“It has to end,” Buffy agreed, sounding miserable. “We can’t be… We just can’t.”
“Right. We’re not fools, not either of us.” Though that was a debatable point right there, because he was already thinking how he could make it be, what he could possibly do to make it not end, to keep this glory even an hour longer. That’s the kind of fool for love he was.
Buffy nodded, scrubbing her cheeks against his shoulder.
“So when the sun sets, we’ll go see the watcher.” Spike made his voice bracing.
“And it will be like none of this ever happened.”
Buffy looked at him then. “But it did.”
“It did,” he agreed, and he kissed her, and she kissed him back, and they wrapped themselves around each other in their little pool of shadow.
“We have until sunset,” Buffy said softly. “Right?”
They kissed again, lazily, like they had all the time in the world, and Spike sank into the kiss like it was a quagmire, thinking that he’d not mind if they kept on kissing like that until sunset, or beyond, until the sun itself died at the world’s end.
It did end, though, before the sun did, Buffy burying her face in his shoulder, and Spike wrapped his arms around her and stroked her hair and cursed the universe’s bloody sense of irony.
Buffy pushed away after a bit, face determined. “Spike, I–”
The phone rang then, and Buffy looked at it like she’d never seen a telephone before, like it was some strange alien device dropped into her world from on high.
“One for the road?” Spike said, forcing a grin. Whatever she’d been about to say, it can’t have been good.
She smiled back, gently. “One for the road.”
Spike vowed to make it one to remember.
Buffy let Spike lead her into the dining room, the only room they hadn’t yet made use of in their… interlude, and managed a grin when he lifted her up to sit on the table, like this was all still just a game, like she wasn’t already torn apart.
Not that she knew why she was torn apart, but somehow she was.
Still, the phone was ringing, and Spike was smiling — a different smile than she’d ever seen before, soft and sad somehow — and she wanted to just not think of sunset right now, she wanted more interlude, and so she lay back on the table, hand tangling in Spike’s hair as he knelt, and she answered the phone.
“Hello?” Spike’s tongue was on her before the word was out of her mouth, lapping tenderly, and she bit her lip, hoping whoever was on the other end of the line was up for a long, long conversation. Past sunset, even. That would be all right, wouldn’t it? Going just a bit over?
It took her a moment to register just whose voice it was, because they’d never really been much for the phone, and she’d never expected him to call her, not ever, not after she’d given away his emergency blood, and also Spike was doing something indescribable with his tongue, almost artistic, and when the caller’s identity finally sliced through her brain, she half sat up just from the shock.
Spike muttered something unintelligible into her crotch and doubled down, god, she didn’t know what he was doing, just that it was more, more of everything, and what the hell, if she could handle everything else they had done today, she could handle this. It wasn’t like she and Angel were anything to each other any more.
He was just another voice on the phone.
She lay back on the table, consciously relaxing, and licked her dry lips. “Wh– Why are you calling me?”
“I– Buffy, something’s happened to me. Something wonderful.”
Something about the tone of his voice filled her with rage, and she suddenly remembered just how all of this had started, the sex and the game and that look in Spike’s eyes that made her want to cry. “Really,” she said sharply. “Was this before or after yesterday?” She reached down her hand, grasping, and Spike caught it in his own, hand snaked under her thigh. She wove her fingers through his like she was hanging on for dear life, and he muttered something into her, she couldn’t understand it but it sounded encouraging.
“Um, it was today?” Angel seemed genuinely taken aback.
“So, after you came up here. Stalked me. Went behind my back.” She moved her fingers into Spike’s hair, urging him on, the feel of his tongue somehow giving her focus, setting her free to say what she was really thinking.
“Oh. Um. You weren’t supposed to–”
“I wasn’t supposed to know?”
“Because you know better than me about these things?” She could feel her breath starting to catch but she didn’t bother turning the phone away from her mouth, not this time. Let Angel hear.
“Uh, yeah, I–”
“Nice to know you think so highly of me.”
“Buffy, I need to tell you–”
“Not to mention my gifts.” Spike muttered something into her that sounded like too right; she thumped at his back with her heels, reminding him of the rules, even though they’d broken all the rules. This was still her conversation, not Spike’s.
“I don’t know what you’re–”
“The Gem of Amara, Angel. I sent it to you. You smashed it.”
There was a long pause, the only sounds the faint hiss of static and her own breath loud in Buffy’s ears and the faint wet sound of Spike’s tongue. Maybe it was her imagination, but it felt somehow approving?
“How do you know that?” Angel finally said, voice hard.
“Little bird told me,” she replied, just as hard.
“Spike!” Angel spit out. “Is he back in town?”
“None of your business.”
“Buffy, he’s dangerous.”
Buffy lifted her head just enough to meet Spike’s eyes across the quivering terrain of her body. “I can handle Spike.” He lifted his eyebrows, but didn’t stop what he was doing, which was– god. God, god, god, what was he doing? Whatever it was, he needed to never, ever stop. Not at sunset, not at sunrise, not even when the sun exploded.
“I’m the Chosen One, not you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He sighed. “Look, Doyle had a vision–”
Buffy laughed at that. She knew visions. “Of Hus? Angel, I handle problems like Hus on a daily basis.”
“He said you were in danger.”
“I’m always in danger!” Oh god, she was close now; she caught at Spike’s hand again, clinging like a lifeline, their clasped hands pressed to the wood behind her thigh.
“No buts!” she gasped, feeling it rise in her, the rage and the passion and the frustration and the weirdly bubbling joy of the moment, the joy of finally saying what needed to be said, all curling and twisting into spiraling ecstasy. “You’re the one who decided to leave,” she said clearly. “You don’t get to keep poking your nose back into my life, like I can’t make my own decisions. I’m the slayer. I am smart, and I am strong, and I am–” Her release crashed over her like a volcano erupting, and she shouted out her ecstasy in words. “I am fucking glorious!”
Spike pressed his forehead to her thigh, laughing incredulously.
Angel was silent, and as the silence stretched on, Buffy looked up at the ceiling, awash in sudden clarity.
“Angel, why didn’t you ever go down on me?”
“Buffy, what?” Angel sounded scandalized.
“Just answer the question. Why didn’t you ever do anything like that? Use your mouth, or your hands to–?” She broke off, suddenly wanting to cry.
His voice dripped disapproval. “We couldn’t take the risk–”
“You couldn’t take the risk,” she said. “You’re the one with the happiness issue. But there’s all sorts of… all sorts of things that you could have done for me. That we could have done.”
Spike rose to his feet then, looking down at her with a dark, unreadable expression. Yes, she thought desperately. Yes, now. I need you now. But instead of thrusting into her, carrying on the game, he scooped her up and sank into one of the dining room chairs, cradling her in his lap, and okay, that was better, that was how she needed him now. She curled into him, the phone tight to her ear.
“It was too dangerous,” Angel said patronizingly.
“There’s that word again.” Spike’s dangerous hand stroked her hair soothingly.
“One moment of perfect happiness–”
As if she didn’t get that by now. “For you, Angel. For you. Not me. What about me?”
Angel was silent for a long moment. “But what if I couldn’t… hold back?”
Buffy went cold. “What exactly does that mean, Angel?”
“No,” she said sharply, because she’d never thought of it that way, even the time the First had been sending them those dreams, never thought he’d actually– “No, I don’t know. Are you actually saying if we decided ahead of time, hey, no happies for Angel, you’d… not be able to stop?”
“We,” Angel said. “We wouldn’t be able to stop.”
Oh god. “We.”
“I mean, we both know what we wanted.”
“What I wanted….” Buffy closed her eyes. “What I wanted was for you to stay.” Spike was rocking her now, murmuring nonsense into her hair, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was what Spike was good at, soothing the hurts Angel had caused, and what did that say, that Angel left so much pain behind? Did he break everything he touched?
“We’ve been through this,” Angel said, exasperated. “I had to leave.”
“You had to leave because we couldn’t have sex.” She took a deep breath and let it out. “Because you couldn’t fuck me.”
“Buffy, why are you talking like this?”
Buffy laughed, feeling suddenly powerful again. “Don’t like my language?”
“It’s not like you.”
She sat up straight, vaguely aware that Spike was watching her with something like awe on his face. “Not like me,” she repeated. “I can die in the line of duty, but I’m not allowed to say fuck?”
“You certainly thought it was okay for me to do it. But I can’t say it?”
“That was… that was making love.”
That’s what she’d thought, too. Except it hadn’t been, not really. She’d been in love with who she thought he was and he’d… he’d been in love with who he thought she should be. “It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s…. What we had was pure, and sacred.”
That wasn’t even worth arguing. “And, what, now I’m supposed to lock myself up in a cloister? Even though you left?”
“Buffy, I really have to tell you what happ–”
Buffy stood then, because this was something she had to do alone. “No. Whoever you think I am, this pure sacred little girl who can’t be trusted to protect herself? That’s not me. I am a grown woman, and… and a powerful warrior, and I not only say fuck, I do fuck, I fuck as much as I damn well want to, and I deserve orgasms, and oral sex, and someone who’s not going to make all my decisions for me, and I don’t need you!”
And she hung up the phone.
She stood there in her dining room, chest heaving, panting with rage and catharsis, and she turned and looked at Spike, who still sat in his chair watching her, a thousand expressions on his face at once, but chief among them wicked glee, and admiration, and desire, along with something else she knew she should recognize but her brain wasn’t quite latching on to it.
It didn’t matter. She could figure it all out later.
She leaned up against the dining room table, looking regally down her nose, and tossed the phone behind her, hearing it thud into the carpet.
“Spike,” she said firmly. “The sun’s not down yet.”
His face split in a grin. “That it is not.”
“You’re still mine until sunset. Right?”
“I’m yours,” he agreed fervently.
“So. When last we left off, you were about to make love to me on this table.”
“That was the plan, yes.” He stood and started to prowl slowly towards her.
“Well, we can start with that, then.”
“And after that?”
She smiled then, feeling unburdened and free. “Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
He was before her then, filling her vision, eyes wreathed in uncertainty even as he reached for her. “You sure, pet?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” she said simply, and then he was lifting her and filling her all in one motion, and her back was on the wood, and she hooked her ankles around his back and closed her eyes because dear god it was the best yet, even without the phone, just him and her and nothing left between them, their baggage left by the wayside, nothing left to them but their selves, and Buffy felt herself opening and releasing and giving it all, all of her self flowing up into Spike as he pulsed within her, eyes fathomless.
“You’re brilliant,” he said, voice rough.
“I know,” she laughed. “Do you know what else I know?”
He gave a swirl of his hips that made her gasp. “What, love?”
“The sun always rises again. It sets, but it rises.” She reached up and curved her hands around his face, stroking his cheekbones. “So, you know. It never really sets for good.”
“Is that so?” His face had gone back to unreadable.
She nodded, trying to look very serious and academic despite the tingles running through her whole body. “There’s always another sunset.”
“Well then,” he said softly. “You’ll just have to let me know which sunset, then.”
“I will.” She looked into his eyes. “I promise.”
And he leaned down and kissed her, tender and sweet, and then he leaned down further and whispered a suggestion in her ear.
“Yes,” she said. “Let’s do that next.”
When the phone rang again, they let it ring.
Originally posted at https://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/635221.html