Chapter Text
“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away,” he whispers.
Spike knows it’s risky to say anything (especially words such as these, ones with feelings and deeper meanings attached to them), but he can’t hold them back any longer.
They’re in his bed—for once.
And being in his bed with Buffy is such a change of pace that a part of Spike feels nearly bloody giddy at the thought. But aggravation soon follows because something so innocuous as lying in bed next to his lover (another word he cannot use, though he is unable to think of one that better fits their situation) shouldn’t make him feel over the sodding moon (or perhaps it should in other circumstances), and yet here he is.
His dead heart aches at the sight of Buffy curled on her side, the sheets pulled up to her chin as the occasional soft snore escapes from her lips, providing a relaxing soundtrack to this unique moment.
Spike knows how easy it would be to reach out and brush her recently-styled locks away from her face or trail a teasing finger down an arm and wake her, but the distance between them feels more like leagues than the scant few inches it actually is.
All this (and more, always more when it comes to her) has Spike playing the part of the sentimental fool even more than usual.
It’s not as if lines of poetry wouldn’t be springing to mind if they were huddled underneath the carpets or lying atop the sarcophagus, but something about being in his bed with its silk sheets and mounds of pillows is enough to bring his sappier side to the forefront until the lines spill from his tongue unbidden.
As if that side of him is ever truly far away, but at least Spike typically does a better job of hiding it.
Most of the time.
Spike knows he’s asking for trouble—a punch to the nose, an acidic insult, or some combination of the two—if she catches him quoting ancient love poems while she’s sleeping, but it isn’t enough to stop him.
Besides, when has knowing something will cause him pain ever been enough to prevent him from going through with it?
At least this time he’s sure Buffy is sound asleep, worn out thanks to their last round more than anything else.
Buffy had all but collapsed on top of him after he’d coaxed her through another orgasm. Spike had thought she would gather herself, roll off him, and shimmy back into her clothes to take off into the night like she usually did, but she surprised him by staying.
“Too tired,” she mumbled, sliding off of him and collapsing onto her side. She tugged at the sheets until they covered her shoulders, eyes already fluttering closed. “Just need…then I’ll leave…”
She had slipped into sleep before finishing the thought, and Spike had been too stunned to do anything but gape stupidly at her. He was afraid that if he said anything, Buffy would remember where she was and who she was with and what they had been doing moments before and then she’d disappear yet again.
So instead of opening his mouth and running the risk of ruining the moment, Spike has spent the last hour propped up against the headboard, his half of the sheets pooled around his hips and taking in the rarity that is the picture of Buffy in his bed. The soft candlelight illuminates her hair, making it an almost burnished bronze color, and it’s as gorgeous as it ever was, even if he misses its previous length.
He doesn’t think he will ever tire of looking at her—especially after having lost her once already—but something about seeing Buffy like this, unburdened by the woes of her day-to-day life (temporary though it might be), her seemingly constant worry line smoothed out for once, is different. Seeing her like this is almost enough to bring him to his knees; Spike thinks he’d be in such a position already if he wasn’t so afraid of disturbing her.
“Did you just compare my boobs to some kind of animal?”
The words startle him so badly he nearly falls off the bed. Spike has been so confident in Buffy being solidly asleep that he’s missed the telltale signs of her waking.
“Oh, bugger,” Spike mutters.
There’s not a chance in hell she’s going to stick around now that she’s caught him out. Especially not since he’s been reciting poetry to her while she’s been passed out in his bed of all places. Spike reckons he won’t see her for days after this little slip-up; reminding Buffy of his love for her, even inadvertently, often leads to consequences, and not the fun kind that Spike knows they’d both enjoy if she'd give him half a chance to show her.
Though it’s not as if Buffy’s self-imposed punishments ever seem to work the way she so clearly intends them to.
Every time she attempts to put a stop to their sordid affair, Buffy inevitably comes back to him angrier and hotter than ever, leaving Spike to hold her together the best way he can, which isn’t much considering the limitations she sets on him.
It’s become increasingly obvious to Spike that there is only a short matter of time before this whole bloody thing blows up in their faces, but it’s equally clear that neither of them is capable of ending things.
There are times when Spike doubts Buffy even wants to end things between them, no matter how much she claims otherwise. He’s well aware that whatever it is they have together isn’t healthy (isn’t right, isn’t what he really wants if he had the choice), but it’s all he has. And since their time together is one of the only times Buffy feels alive again, it’s harder for Spike to deny her when she comes to him.
She has already been denied so much, is still picking battles she shouldn’t have to (against her supposed friends, no less), and if fucking him is one way to alleviate the pressure Buffy constantly feels, then Spike will keep their farce of a relationship going for as long as he’s able to.
Buffy stretches, apparently content to wait for Spike to pull his head out of his arse and answer her. But he’s distracted as the sheet covering her falls from around her shoulders to reveal her breasts. She tends to get a bit skittish about nudity—she may have accepted his penchant for it but coming to terms with her own is a different story—but this seems to be a rare moment where those reservations are forgotten.
She rolls over to stare at him, big green eyes wide as she waits for a response, but for once, no words come to mind.
All Spike can think about is how much this moment reminds him of how things were between them only a few short weeks ago; before he sang that bloody awful song, before he kissed her in that fucking alleyway, before everything changed between them.
“Er,” Spike says eventually. It’s the best he can come up with at the moment, and he has to say something otherwise Buffy will think he's lost the plot more than usual.
Buffy’s nose scrunches adorably while she waits for an explanation.
“What kind of animal are you talking about anyway?” She asks when Spike still hasn’t answered. “I thought ‘roe’ was for fish. And last time I checked, fish don’t have breasts.”
“You’re spot on about that part; never seen a fish with tits, but I reckon it’d be quite a sight.” Spike leers at her, trying to get things back to the status quo, but Buffy only rolls her eyes. “But nah, ‘roe’ is another word for a female deer. See it used most often in the Bible.”
“I don’t think my boobs warrant something as grand as a biblical compliment, but thanks. I think.” She grins at him. Spike is helpless to do anything but return it, even though he knows this moment can end at any second. “I’m not really sure how to feel about them being compared to deer, either, though.”
“It’s not as literal a description as it sounds, lamb.”
She frowns, all good humor fleeing from her face.
Spike curses himself for opening his big bloody mouth, even if it was inevitable that he’d do something to muck it up. It doesn’t take much these days to send Buffy scarpering—kissing her for a little too long or a little too sweetly, asking after her friends or Dawn, trying to figure out the specifics of her money situation, to name a few—but he selfishly wants her to stick around.
But Buffy lets his transgression slide. “I don’t get it,” she says instead.
She starts to pout, but it turns into a yawn she’s unable to hold back. It seems like a few more hours of kip would do her well, but he knows the chances of that happening are slim to none.
“It’s from a verse in Song of Solomon.”
There’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes but she accepts his answer without digging for more. She moves under the sheets again—always restless, Buffy is—and Spike thinks that this is it, she’s going to take off now, but she gets the drop on him yet again.
“That’s one of the books in the Bible, right?”
“Yeah,” Spike confirms. He’s not surprised that she knows this, but he is surprised that she’s sticking around to ask more questions. “It’s the one that’s basically an erotic poem.”
The interrupted pout from before returns with a vengeance. If things were like they usually were, Spike would be leaning down to press his lips to hers in an attempt to entice her to stick around by one of the only means that works these days, but they’re not. It’s different now, and he’s not quite sure why but he’s not about to fuck it up if he can help it.
“Wait, so the Bible has books about sex in it? I must have missed those lessons in Sunday School.”
“Thought you weren’t exactly the church-going type.”
“I’m not.” Buffy kicks at him from under the sheets but it’s light, almost playful, and his desperate, pathetic self thrills at her attention. “We went when I was younger; mostly for the holidays and stuff, but Mom pretty much quit taking us after my cousin Celia died. Still, I think I’d remember if any of the sermons talked about that . Probably would’ve stayed awake more if they did.”
“I imagine they kick you kiddies out before they get to the good stuff nowadays anyway. Not like when I was a lad—no, we had to sit in those bleedin’ uncomfortable pews for hours on end to make sure we heard every last syllable of the sermon,” Spike tells her. “But the Bible is chock full of sex and violence; practically every book has some sort of depravity happenin’ in it.” Spike shrugs. “This is one of the tamer ones, relatively speaking.”
“Guess I’m missing out,” Buffy says.
Spike is struck by just how beautiful she is. Oh, he’s known it since the first time he saw her but didn’t ( couldn’t ) acknowledge it, but now every time he sees her it hits him over the head all over again. He wants to dash away to capture her beauty, write it down in one of his hidden notebooks, but his words are paltry at best and insufferable at worst, and they will never do justice describing how he actually sees her.
“Hardly.” At her look, Spike clarifies, “Too many rules to follow for one, and lots of lists of who begat whom for another. You’d be bored to bloody tears if you sat down and read through the whole damn thing, Slayer.”
“I don’t know,” Buffy says, putting a finger to her chin in mock-thought. “I think I remember a couple of interesting parts. The stories about that guy with the coat and all the parables or whatever they were called weren’t too awful.”
“You might enjoy the Song of Solomon, then. And the other books of wisdom too, come to think of it.”
Spike watches as Buffy chews on this new bit of information. He can’t quite believe she’s still here, underneath the sheets and in his bed, having a conversation with him as if this isn’t just a vivid dream he might be having.
She catches him by surprise and moves a smidgeon closer. Usually Buffy is reluctant to get near him unless they’re about to fuck, but he can’t detect any of the tell-tale signs of arousal on her which means there’s another reason for her movement.
Spike’s about to ask what she’s up to—probably by sticking his foot up his arse in the process—when she looks up at him and asks, “Do you remember how the rest of it goes?”
He’s reluctant to admit it (even to himself, it seems) but he does. Spike has the whole bloody book memorized, though it’s mostly for his own sappy, pathetic reasons and not for any love of religion leftover from his upbringing. Whatever belief he held in a higher power died a slow death as his mother slowly grew sicker and sicker and was snuffed out completely when he woke up in that coffin.
“Bits and pieces,” Spike admits reluctantly. It’s not as if he can lie about it since she’s already caught him reciting verses to her, after all. “It was one of my favorite sections to read when I was young. Always did prefer the books of wisdom over the historical drivel, much to my father’s chagrin.”
“I wanna hear the rest,” Buffy says as if this is a normal request, like it’s something he does for her on a regular basis and this is simply the latest one in a long line of poems he’s recited for her.
When she sees he’s about to vehemently protest such a suggestion, she adds, “We both know you can do it so there’s no use pretending you can’t.”
As always, Spike is helpless to refuse her.
“Where do you want me to start?” he asks. He needs her to tell him otherwise Spike will start spouting off the verses closest to his heart and he cannot afford that, not when she is willing to spend time with him.
“From the beginning,” Buffy says like it should be obvious, and perhaps it is.
Spike tries to gather his thoughts so he doesn’t muck up the words but Buffy’s next words leave his mind blank.
“It was pretty,” she murmurs, the words so quiet he almost doubts he’s caught them at all. Her eyes drop and she looks at the rumpled sheets intently. “And I liked the way your voice sounded.”
Admitting something like this is a big bloody deal for her, Spike knows. If he reacts the wrong way, it might just blow up in his sodding face, so he keeps his expression as blank as he can. He takes a deep, unnecessary breath in, slowly letting it out as he collects himself.
She’s curled up close enough to him that with every inhale, Spike can feel the warmth of her breath blow out across his skin. It’s a heady thing, having her this close, with her warm green eyes peering at him and the toes of one foot just barely pressed against his shin from where she kicked him earlier, but it can’t last forever. He can’t afford it to.
Spike slowly sinks from his spot against the headboard until he’s propped up on one of the pillows. Buffy watches him, eyes slightly narrowed as she tries to figure out what he’s up to. He turns to face her, instinctively mimicking her curled-up position as he waits for her inevitable reaction.
Being face-to-face with Buffy never lasts long unless they’re shagging. It’s too intimate of a position for her Spike knows, but he can’t help but revel in the few moments where they’re both seeing each other before she turns over and his gaze is met with the golden skin of her back.
The move works, though, because she doesn’t leave. She only curls into a tighter ball and drags the sheets back up until she’s covered by them once more.
Spike ignores the sting that comes from her actions. He’d known she’d do something like this, had been betting on it, even, but his hurt pride doesn’t matter because Buffy is still here, waiting for him to finish the poem he started in what seems like lifetimes ago now.
“From the beginning then,” he murmurs.
= = = = =
He is almost back to the verse from earlier when Buffy moves, shifting back across the mattress until she’s almost close enough for Spike to touch.
Spike pauses, stuttering over the words before righting himself. The urge to gather her in his arms is strong, but he doesn’t think such actions would be welcome. Buffy did turn away from him a few minutes ago after all, but he also can’t think of another reason why she would seek out his touch, especially now.
Besides the obvious one of course. But a delicate sniff is enough for Spike to tell Buffy isn’t aching for a good seeing to right at the moment, and she is always quick to let him know when she wants something from him.
He’s not sure what to do, so he decides nothing is the safest option. The next section of the verse comes easily enough, though Spike needs to pause momentarily to regain his bearings before he can say it with any confidence.
Buffy sighs and presses even closer to him. Now it would be laughably easy for Spike to move forward until she’s cradled against him but he finds the strength to refrain.
There is nothing else he can do but press on.
“Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins, which feed among the lilies. Until the day break, and the shadows flee away,” he murmurs for the second time tonight.
The words seem to echo around them, a strange emphasis to them now that he’s repeated them, but he can’t bring himself to mind.
There’s a moment where Spike thinks she won’t move any closer, but after a few rapid heartbeats, she’s moving again. Then finally, at long last, Buffy is pressed completely against him. The heat coming from her skin feels like a branding iron, but Spike can’t stop himself from straining towards it, no matter how much it might burn him later.
He moves on to the next verse, unable to stop. “I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense.”
Another sigh slips from her mouth as she relaxes fully against him, sinking somehow deeper into the hard lines of his body, becoming the little spoon to his big one.
Slowly, hesitantly, Spike lifts an arm and drapes it over Buffy’s hip. He doesn’t pull her back or press himself forward (no matter how much he wishes to), he simply holds her. Buffy tenses, which he’s expecting, but does not shove his arm away nor does she return to her previous position.
The silence that falls around them seems almost holy. Spike is reluctant to break it, wishes he didn’t have to, but he knows if he doesn’t, whatever this moment is will end quicker than it’s arrived, and he doesn’t want that.
“Thou art all fair, my love; there is no spot in thee,” he whispers. She’s so close to him now that if he speaks any louder Spike is afraid he’ll startle her.
Buffy stiffens at the mention of love, but Spike is used to such reactions from her, knows how to redirect those feelings. He gently moves his arm from around her hip up until he reaches her shoulder, making sure to trail his cool fingers along her heated skin.
Goosebumps raise from wherever his fingers were moments before, like the wake of a boat. Buffy shivers, inadvertently pushing herself deeper into his arms, but she doesn’t pull away once she realizes what she’s done.
“Thou hast ravished my heart,” he breathes. And though the words aren’t his own (it’s better that way, all things considered), they’re true enough. Spike hasn’t been the same since he left Sunnydale the first fucking time four years ago and it’s all because of the woman cradled in his arms.
The next verse is cut off by Buffy abruptly turning to face him, green eyes blazing with all sorts of emotions Spike can’t decipher in his shock at her sudden closeness.
“Wha—”
Whatever he was going to say is made irrelevant because she’s grabbing at the back of his neck with all her glorious strength pulling him down toward her lips for a ferocious kiss.
And oh , he can certainly smell her desire now, was simply too caught up in reciting the verses perfectly to notice before, and isn’t that interesting?
Spike doesn’t have any time to contemplate this new development before Buffy leans over and starts pushing at him until he’s flat on his back. He pulls at her leg until she gets the hint, flinging it over his hips so she’s straddling him, her cunt wet and damn near soaking his sheet-clad thigh as she grinds against him.
He’s able to keep himself from saying something that would call this whole thing off, but it’s a near thing. There’s no time for words right now, clearly.
Or so he believes until Buffy pulls away, gasping for breath.
“Keep going,” she demands, practically panting the words into Spike’s open mouth and driving him up the fucking wall in the meantime.
“Bit difficult to oblige when you’re maulin’ me like that, sweetling,” he teases, because Spike has to say something or he’ll explode.
Buffy slides the hand currently wrapped around his neck back, tangling it in his hair. She grabs a handful of his locks and tugs hard.
Spike gets the message.
“Thou hast ravished my heart,” he pants, needing to start again, needing Buffy to truly hear the words he’s saying.
Satisfied, Buffy starts peppering him with kisses, avoiding his lips and moving to his neck, which is distracting enough on a good day but now, with her infuriating self adding licks and nibbles to his sensitive skin, is damn near driving him mad.
“Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck.”
Buffy takes the words seriously and does her level best to create Spike a necklace of her own making. She sucks hard on the skin—right where his silver chains usually rest—until his pale skin reddens and blooms into a lovebite. Once she’s satisfied, she moves to the next patch of unblemished skin, slowly grinding her cunt against his thigh all the while.
Spike is a heaving, panting mess by the time she finishes.
His cock throbs in time to her rapid heartbeat and he knows Buffy can see just how red it is through the thin sheet, but she makes no move to relieve him. And as desperate as he is, Spike knows better than to try anything lest she leave them both wanting.
“I know there’s more,” Buffy says as she pulls back to contemplate her creation. “And I don’t remember saying you could stop.”
He swallows.
Buffy leans over him, her hardened nipples almost within reach but she keeps moving, not giving him the chance to suck one into his waiting and desperate mouth.
A choked almost pained moan slips from his lips. Her cunt is pressed right against his cock now, the soaked sheet doing nothing to temper how hot she is. Buffy looks at him, eyes dark as she decides what to do next.
She lifts her hips, depriving him of the sweet heat of her cunt, and Spike nearly sobs at the loss.
He’s moments away from going around the bloody bend and throwing her onto the mattress and fucking her until neither of them can see straight when she abruptly pulls at the sheet until it comes to rest somewhere ‘round his ankles.
Spike is confused, but the feeling vanishes when Buffy reaches down and grabs his cock, grip firm and hard just like he prefers.
“Christ,” Spike moans.
Buffy pumps her hand down his shaft once, twice. Spike bucks upward, desperate for more of her touch. His cock is weeping streams of slick precome and it would only take a few squeezes or a couple of thrusts to bring about an orgasm, but he manages to hold himself back.
“I may not have read the Bible much, but I’m pretty sure those aren’t the next words,” she says, voice even.
She squeezes him again, harder this time and Spike whimpers.
Then she’s moving again in a blink, and the next thing he knows, the head of his cock is pressed against her cunt.
All Spike has to do is tilt his hips and he’d be inside her, but he somehow finds the strength to resist.
His patience is rewarded as Buffy sinks down on him, but only enough so the head of his cock is inside before she stops and looks at him, obviously waiting for him to continue. His mind races as he tries to recall the next sodding verse.
“T-thy lips,” Spike pauses. He decides to skip over the next words, not wanting to risk ending things; besides, it’s not as if Buffy will know, anyway. “Thy lips drop as the honeycomb.”
The words seem to be enough because Buffy slides down the length of his cock until he’s completely inside her, encased in every bit of her delicious warmth.
Spike claws uselessly at the mattress, trying to sink his nails into the fabric so he doesn’t grab Buffy’s hips and slam into her again and again and again.
Buffy leans forward, moving until she’s nearly nose-to-nose with him. The angle change has Spike moaning low in his throat.
“More,” she whispers against Spike’s lips.
“Honey and milk are under thy tongue.” He breathes the words back into her, hoping against hope that they’ll stick. Maybe she’ll remember them in the days to come so they can haunt her as she haunts him. “And the smell of thy garments is like the smell of Lebanon.”
As each word reverberates around the room, Buffy lifts up before slowly dropping down once more, adding swivels or taking the time to grind against him, using those beautiful muscles of hers to tighten around his cock.
He can’t be fucked to remember the order of the verses, not now when she is so wet and willing and warm around him, so Spike babbles them out as they come to him and hopes that nothing he says will anger her enough to stop.
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart,” Spike pants. The mattress will be torn to shreds if he keeps his death grip on it, but his bloody headboard is made of fucking fabric and he’ll find no purchase there; the posts are too bloody far away for him to reach comfortably, and he has no intention of interrupting Buffy’s stride.
His mind flashes to his trunk of goodies. If things had happened differently, he knows there’s a solid pair of handcuffs (along with chains and arm bars and so much more) stashed inside for Buffy to put to use, but there’ll be time for that later.
Hopefully. It depends on whether or not Spike combusts from what’s happening now.
Which is looking less bloody likely than ever because Buffy—bless her damned infuriating self—grabs his grasping hands and places them decisively on her hips, adding a delightful swivel for good measure.
It’s all Spike can do to keep from spilling inside her, but he is unable to resist bucking into her, knowing the move will drive her just as wild as him.
Buffy lets out a breathy moan. Her hips stutter and she temporarily loses the rhythm of her bounces. Spike can’t quite call it a victory because she gets right back to her previous punishing pace with a determined grunt, clenching tighter around his cock in retaliation.
“As a seal upon thine arm,” he gasps, needing to get the words out before his brain bloody melts.
Spike trails one hand down her flank until he’s cupping an arsecheek. Using all his strength, he squeezes it in time to the beat of her movements. He pulls her down to meet the tilting of his hips at an angle, causing her clit to grind against his pubic bone perfectly, and Buffy shudders as her orgasm flows through her body.
They both know they’re only getting started, though, so once Buffy pulls herself together, never once having stopped her movements as she continues to slide up and down his cock, she glares determinedly at Spike.
A shiver winds its way down his spine. He knows that look; can hardly bear to wait for what’s to come.
“Again,” she demands imperiously.
Spike isn’t sure if she means give her another orgasm or repeat the verse, but he intends on doing both.
Apparently he takes too long to comply because she stops moving. She’s panting heavily and Spike swears he can feel every twitch around his cock. As good as this feels, he wants to finish as she rides him at a bloody gallop, so he steels himself and thinks frantically back to the verse he uttered only moments ago.
“Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm,” he finally manages to get out. Buffy starts moving again, though it’s slower, more controlled. These are deliberate movements meant to drive him over the edge. He responds in kind, never one to leave his partner to do all the work.
He reluctantly loosens his grip on her arsecheek, bringing it back to her hips so he has somewhat of a chance at holding on when she really starts to gear up again. Her hips will have bruises imprinted on her golden skin by the time the night is through, his grip is so firm, but Spike knows she likes them despite her priests otherwise.
For love is strong as death—”
Something like a sob bursts from her lips.
Spike panics. He’s never heard a sound like that from Buffy before, or at least he hasn’t heard it when it comes to how they shag. This sob is one that’s too close to crying in sadness and not one full of ecstasy to be comfortable. He stops thrusting, loosens his hold on her hips, and is about to pull her off of him when Buffy composes herself.
“Don’t stop.”
Her body says one thing while her eyes, so green and bright and wild, say another and Spike is caught like a bloody deer in the headlight, unable to choose an option.
“Buf—” He cuts himself off, shakes his head. “Slayer—”
Buffy doesn’t let him get further than that.
“Finish it,” she insists, her words almost sounding like a snarl. She grabs at his hands, tugging them up until he’s cupping her breasts in his palms, and it’s second nature for Spike to begin pulling and plucking at her nipples, using a mix of harsh pinches and gentle, more tender caresses.
He is still uncertain about whether this is the right course of action, but as ever, he is helpless to deny her anything, even if it means things will be rapidly different when this is all said and done.
“For love is strong as death; jealousy as cruel as the grave,” Spike murmurs. He slides his hands back down to her hips, squeezing until Buffy comes to a hesitant stop. “The coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.”
If he’s going to go through with this (as if he ever had any choice in the matter) he’s going to do it his way.
Spike shifts until he’s half sitting up, using his sheet-covered feet to push himself back until he’s resting against the headboard. Her tits are right in his face now, and he takes the opportunity to dip his head down to capture a nipple in his waiting mouth, swirling his tongue around it in the way he knows she enjoys.
Buffy moans again, but this one is high and loud—a surefire sign that she’s rapidly approaching her peak. Which is good, because Spike isn’t sure how much more of this he (either of them, really) can take.
He keeps a firm grip on her left hip with one hand and trails the other across her skin until it rests between her legs.
“The joints of thy thighs are like jewels.”
His fingers find her clit easily enough, and Spike starts circling it with slow, tender motions. When Buffy’s like this—so hot under the collar and with nowhere to put it—he’s found it’s better to coax her into an orgasm gradually, building it up so much her only option is falling over in euphoria.
Spike releases her nipple but keeps his face pressed close to her chest. If he mouths the next verses into her skin, perhaps they’ll be muffled enough to where she doesn’t hear them.
“Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, fair as the moon, clear as the sun, and terrible as an army with banners?” Spike asks, mouthing her name again and again onto her skin in answer.
Buffy gasps, hips rolling forward to meet his every thrust and he can feel the delicious sweat dripping down her body, can feel how soaked her cunt is from his words and his cock and can tell just how close she is to tumbling over the edge.
He is way out of order now; has been since she sank fully onto his cock a lifetime ago, but there is no stopping him. The verses that fall from his mouth are impossible to hold back any longer.
“Let my beloved come into my garden and eat my pleasant fruits,” he pants, bending down to capture a breast in his mouth again. An image of Spike’s head between Buffy’s thighs as recites this particular verse into her sweet cunt comes to mind, but he’ll have to remember it for another time.
He bites down on her nipple, soothes the sting with his tongue.
“Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice, for sweet is thy voice and thy countenance is lovely.”
Buffy rewards his words with a choked moan, and it’s one of the sweetest things Spike has ever heard. One of her hands finds its way into his hair and pulls him ever closer to her breast, demanding more of his touch, his attention.
Spike aims to give it to her, and more besides.
He begins to make tighter, more solid strokes against her clit. Buffy’s hips buck up, chasing his fingers when they dare to move away from where she’s desperate for them the most. A high keening sound is coming from her now, and Spike’s words have been lost to guttural moans as they dance closer toward the edge.
“M-more,” Buffy moans, still able to demand things of him even when she’s like this.
“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine,” Spike murmurs.
Instead of Buffy coming to a halt like he’s half expecting her to do, she becomes more frantic, almost wild in her movements. The hand in his hair pulls hard enough he thinks she’s going to rip some out and she practically slams her cunt down on his cock with her next bounce.
It’s all Spike can do to keep up. He matches her thrust for thrust, using all the strength he has so she can truly feel it. They’re both careening, closer and closer to tipping over, but it’s Buffy’s next words that push Spike ever closer.
“Again,” she demands.
He will carve the words into his skin, he will utter them as a prayer to her every night, he’ll even bloody sing them to her if it means she truly wants him to say them to her. Spike knows the words are only true on his part, is well aware that although Buffy feels something for him (no matter how much she denies it), it isn’t love ( not yet , the hopeful part of his brain whispers) but for her to accept it—even if only for the moment—is enough.
It’s a crumb, though it seems more like an entire bloody cake from where Spike’s at.
“I am my beloved’s and my beloved is mine.”
The words are enough. Buffy moans high and loud, grinding her hips against his for all she’s worth. Spike circles her clit intently with the pads of his fingers before pinching it right on the downstroke, and she’s off, squeezing his cock so tight he sees bloody stars and moons and entire galaxies. Spike only lasts one more thrust before he follows after her and then there’s nothing but the sounds of their panting filling the previously hushed air of his crypt.
= = = = =
There is no falling asleep in Spike’s bed after they’ve collected themselves this time.
He is used to this, has expected it even, but how he wishes things could be different. Falling asleep next to him, having her ask for his words (though they are not truly his), and curling into him as he recited them to her was a heady, wonderful thing, but Spike wants more. It’s never enough when it comes to Buffy.
There is no sleeping in his bed, but neither is Buffy sprinting off into the night, either. Spike isn’t entirely sure this whole thing hasn’t been an intense dream, but the necklace of lovebites, the scratches on the back of his neck, and the smell of their combined spendings feels to real for it to be in his imagination.
She’s slipped her clothes on already, making a face as she pulled her panties over her hips and they settled over the still-sensitive skin.
Usually Spike offers to clean her up after they’ve finished—both as an excuse to keep her with him longer and because he can never get enough of how she tastes—but he makes no move to do so now.
It’s obvious to the both of them that this—whatever this was—will be easier for the both of them if they let it end sooner.
Spike busies himself with fixing up a stiff drink to mix with his blood for after she’s gone. But Buffy is completely dressed and just standing there beneath his ladder, making no move to climb up. Usually she can’t get away from him fast enough.
He’s already decided he’s not going to say anything (can’t be trusted to, who knows what incriminating verse might spill from his lips this time). but Spike desperately wants to. He takes a swig of whiskey straight from the bottle to stave off the urge.
“I’m hitting up Sunnydale Memorial tomorrow,” Buffy says. The words are barely audible, and she looks unsure as to why she’s said them in the first place, but it’s too late for her to take them back.
Spike swallows, lets the whiskey burn its way down his suddenly dry throat.
“That so?” Short, simple sentences seem the best course of action at the moment.
“Yeah. Willy mentioned there’s something causing all sorts of a ruckus around the area the other night. Probably just a nest of vamps, but I said I’d check it out just in case.” Buffy shrugs awkwardly, eyes flicking to the ladder and the bed; everywhere but Spike. “I wanna get it taken care of quickly so I can go back to figuring out what those three freaks are trying to accomplish besides being a huge pain in my ass.”
“Understandable,” Spike says. He’d also like to know what those three tossers are up to, but he knows better than to dig too deeply into her affairs, especially after what they’ve just been through.
“Thought I’d let you know, just in case.”
He knows he can push her buttons here, get Buffy to admit she wants his company (his fighting abilities, at least, though they both know she can take care of whatever nasty creature stumbles across her way), but Spike keeps his mouth shut.
“I’ll keep an ear out,” he says at last. “Might even swing by, dependin’ on if there’s nothing good on the telly.”
Buffy rolls her eyes and just like that, everything is back to as it was.
“Don’t put yourself out or anything. I can handle it myself—”
“Well aware of that, Slayer.”
She gives him a terse nod. Spike takes another sip, from the glass this time. Buffy fidgets, clearly unsure how to leave for once, and he decides to make it easier on her.
“Be seein’ you, then.”
Her eyes harden at his dismissal, but Spike thinks he catches a hint of gratefulness hidden in their depths.
She turns and climbs up the ladder without another word. He waits for her to slam the crypt doors shut behind her before he shuffles out from around the shelf that holds his liquor and over to the mattress. He makes himself comfortable there, surrounded by the smells and the new memories he has of them together.
“Stay me with flagons,” Spike recites, lifting his glass. Cider would have worked better, but whiskey will have to suffice. “Comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.”
The crypt is silent, but Spike doesn't mind. It knows as well as he does that the words are a lie.