"The Smell of Her"
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,749
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,749
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
"The Smell of Her"
Title: “The Smell of Her”
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. ME and Joss made Spike and I thank them every time I close my eyes and he is there.
Summary: Season 6. Spike POV. Buffy. Her scent. Her power. How Spike wishes she could admit to her secrets.
Author’s Note: I can’t seem to get out of Season 6 and, er, spread my wings or something. Well, I can with my reading but since I’ve only just started writing Spike/Buffy, I guess it makes sense that I’m working through the place in canon that first fascinated me.
He smoked.
And he watched.
The leafy cover of bushes was enough to obscure him from her view but it didn’t keep him from overseeing her every move. Not that she was paying attention to him anyway – she was completely focused on thoroughly kicking the ass of the poor sod who had been unlucky enough to rise just as she happened to be strolling by all beautiful-deadly in tiny skirt and big boots.
Schmoopy music played in Spike’s head as he took another deep drag off his fag and followed her spins and kicks with greedy eyes. Through his besotted vision she seemed to go in slow motion, accompanied by the sound of rising strings that only he could hear.
Buffy.
She was magnificent in her power, especially at times like now when she seemed to take it for granted, when it just flowed from and through her in a raw frenzy of tanned legs and smirking grimaces.
No quips tonight for his love, just precision and fury. But he could hear her breathing.
And he could see her. Bloody fuck! What in the hell had gotten into his Slayer that she was patrolling without any bleeding knickers on!
When the wind blew and the dust of her kill scattered, he could smell her too. She stood stock still over where her adversary had been just a moment previously and another gust flared her skirt and sent another full strength dose of her scent his way.
Spike almost choked and then he tossed his cigarette away, smashing it under the sole of his boot with undue violence. Slayer musk. ‘Twas a powerful thing, enough to make a man go mad near about. Or this man/vampire/swain at any rate.
She’d pleasured herself recently. No mistake about it. He could make out the residue of her spendings sure as anything. Had she thought about him?
He smirked lasciviously when his mind called up an image of her “little purple friend” – the one that she hid under the bed and probably thought he didn’t know about. But how much didn’t he know about her? Spike had made it his business to be an expert on all things Buffy as best he could. And there was a lot a bloke could learn about someone just by paying mind. So much to be seen and discovered when the girl didn’t realize that anyone else was paying close attention. He knew that she had a system for peeling grapefruits so that the peels came off all in one piece. He knew that she hated doing laundry but loved folding her clothes. He knew the gradations of her smiles and that she had a different one for the Witch and for the Bit and that even Harris got his own special variety of Slayer grin and chuckle.
Not that she’d been doing a whole lot of either lately. She was all hard edges poorly hidden by occasional bouts of false cheer. Would she ever have a smile just for him?
He knew how she liked to be touched. But he also knew that she didn’t want to admit it, that she didn’t want to admit that she wanted him to touch her at all. He wanted to go to her then and encircle her in all the gentle caresses and love he was not allowed to show. But in a brief moment of clarity he knew that she would hate him for having been witness to this display of wantonness and despair. Hate him even more than she usually did just for existing and for seeing her. So he held himself in check. She would come to him at her own whim and he would wait like the git he was for loving her like this without her permission.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He knew that he was Death and that there wasn’t sod all he could do about that, but she wasn’t supposed to try to emulate that. She was supposed to be goodness and soul and bright, sparkling power. Because that was the core of Buffy. But she’d lost sight of that.
Spike lit yet another fag and as the red of the cherry flared up he puffed furiously as he watched her walk away. All the fight and fury that made him so hard for her as he looked on from the shadows had dissipated from the body that he loved like no other.
*****
Later on, in the dank darkness of his crypt, Spike still couldn’t stop chain smoking. He lay idly in bed, half undressed because he couldn’t make his mind up about anything except for her. Long tendrils of smoke curled up towards the ceiling and got caught in the upper regions of air, smooshing together into a grey cloud.
He closed his eyes and flashed back to the smell of her, to the flashes of luscious Slayer pussy he had seen whirling about as she fought earlier. His cock was already hard at the very thought of her but then his fantasy view moved into another scenario - one which he had not been privy to - and as he imagined her touching herself, fucking herself off, his cock went even more rigid. His non-smoking hand moved slowly towards the zipper of his jeans…
…and she came crashing in through the door of the crypt.
“Oi!” Spike exclaimed with alarm that really wasn’t warranted considering the girl never would, never could, learn to knock. He sat up quickly on the bed and considered her with a tilt of the head.
“Well, hello then, love. What can I do for you at this late hour? Fancy a refreshment? Something to drink perhaps?” As soon as he spoke he put on the swagger and smirk that she expected from him – the attitude that she claimed to hate but really was all she would allow him to be. And it’s not that it wasn’t the truth of him; it was just that it wasn’t the full truth of him.
She rushed across the room and placed her mighty, little hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Spike. I don’t want a glass of lemonade. I want you to fuck me. Now!”
He gulped. His blue eyes followed her as she moved away from him and wandered coolly around the crypt.
“Right, then. Of course. How’s it to be then? Me on top? You? Standing up? Be more specific, Pet.”
But she had already bent herself over one of the various tombs and was twisted around and staring at him, pretty arse up and hardly covered by the little skirt. The smell was almost more than he could bear.
So he went to her and stood behind her and lifted her wee skirt with trembling hands. Found her pussy drenched and welcoming. When his cock slammed into her he cried out and so did she and they fused together as he thrust forward and she pushed back into him with a fraction of her might that still left him choking and shaking and weak - weak with lust even as his body rammed into her without any outward sign of debility.
“Fuck me, Spike. Just fuck me,” she cried out like an order or a plea, he wasn’t sure which.
But he did. He gave her what she wanted.
But he also knew that she wanted him (or someone, herself?) to punish her for real not just in play and it made him so sad he wished he had florid prose at his fingertips to describe it. Punish her? For what? For being alive? All he wanted was for her to be as alive as that smell between her legs.
Because Spike liked a big, fat slice of Kink with Love al a mode or perhaps Love with Kink and a cherry on top. But this wasn’t just a pretty, sexy game to her. Although it could be. But she wouldn’t admit that either.
Sometimes he could see glimpses of fun and play in their "play."
When she handcuffed him to the bed and then tickled him.
When he fucked her from behind and slapped her ass and told her she was a magnificent jewel of pussy, splendid in her filthiness. When she breathed harder and bucked into him then, he knew that she liked it and that in her own way she was proud.
That was the magic time, just as she was getting close to getting off. For a few moments she was radiant in her pure, seething sexuality and she didn’t hate him or herself for it. Sometimes, just for a second a flash in her eyes would almost accept his love, accept that this WAS love – that love wasn’t always hearts and flowers and gentle, missionary position shagging. That sometimes love was hard and unbound – a bumping together of strength and desire. That what was “ugly” and uncontrolled and flowing with fluids and and unbridled aromas could be Beauty.
She was close. She writhed below him and stroked her hands over her own body as he pushed into her cunt with everything that he had to give. He balanced the ferocity of the way that his cock was ramming into her with a whisper-soft touch of his fingertips to the skin of her back, her splendid arse, her pretty shoulder blades like wings.
She was his lovely, kinky angel and he told her so as he shot off into her, just after her Slayer muscles threatened to cut off his lack of circulation with the intensity of her superhero orgasm.
Just for the teensiest of moments when she was brushing herself off and getting ready to go, he saw the look in her eyes that he watched for so vigilantly. The flash in her eyes that said, “I am alive. I am the Slayer and fucking you makes me feel alive.”
And then it was gone. Her eyes went back to being secretive in their greenness and she stomped off.
He fell back onto the bed and lit another fag and smiled. Because this time she had stomped off instead of limping or running, and this time he had seen that flash of recognition when he wasn’t even inside of her.
And because everything was saturated with the smell of her.
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Buffy/Spike
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. ME and Joss made Spike and I thank them every time I close my eyes and he is there.
Summary: Season 6. Spike POV. Buffy. Her scent. Her power. How Spike wishes she could admit to her secrets.
Author’s Note: I can’t seem to get out of Season 6 and, er, spread my wings or something. Well, I can with my reading but since I’ve only just started writing Spike/Buffy, I guess it makes sense that I’m working through the place in canon that first fascinated me.
He smoked.
And he watched.
The leafy cover of bushes was enough to obscure him from her view but it didn’t keep him from overseeing her every move. Not that she was paying attention to him anyway – she was completely focused on thoroughly kicking the ass of the poor sod who had been unlucky enough to rise just as she happened to be strolling by all beautiful-deadly in tiny skirt and big boots.
Schmoopy music played in Spike’s head as he took another deep drag off his fag and followed her spins and kicks with greedy eyes. Through his besotted vision she seemed to go in slow motion, accompanied by the sound of rising strings that only he could hear.
Buffy.
She was magnificent in her power, especially at times like now when she seemed to take it for granted, when it just flowed from and through her in a raw frenzy of tanned legs and smirking grimaces.
No quips tonight for his love, just precision and fury. But he could hear her breathing.
And he could see her. Bloody fuck! What in the hell had gotten into his Slayer that she was patrolling without any bleeding knickers on!
When the wind blew and the dust of her kill scattered, he could smell her too. She stood stock still over where her adversary had been just a moment previously and another gust flared her skirt and sent another full strength dose of her scent his way.
Spike almost choked and then he tossed his cigarette away, smashing it under the sole of his boot with undue violence. Slayer musk. ‘Twas a powerful thing, enough to make a man go mad near about. Or this man/vampire/swain at any rate.
She’d pleasured herself recently. No mistake about it. He could make out the residue of her spendings sure as anything. Had she thought about him?
He smirked lasciviously when his mind called up an image of her “little purple friend” – the one that she hid under the bed and probably thought he didn’t know about. But how much didn’t he know about her? Spike had made it his business to be an expert on all things Buffy as best he could. And there was a lot a bloke could learn about someone just by paying mind. So much to be seen and discovered when the girl didn’t realize that anyone else was paying close attention. He knew that she had a system for peeling grapefruits so that the peels came off all in one piece. He knew that she hated doing laundry but loved folding her clothes. He knew the gradations of her smiles and that she had a different one for the Witch and for the Bit and that even Harris got his own special variety of Slayer grin and chuckle.
Not that she’d been doing a whole lot of either lately. She was all hard edges poorly hidden by occasional bouts of false cheer. Would she ever have a smile just for him?
He knew how she liked to be touched. But he also knew that she didn’t want to admit it, that she didn’t want to admit that she wanted him to touch her at all. He wanted to go to her then and encircle her in all the gentle caresses and love he was not allowed to show. But in a brief moment of clarity he knew that she would hate him for having been witness to this display of wantonness and despair. Hate him even more than she usually did just for existing and for seeing her. So he held himself in check. She would come to him at her own whim and he would wait like the git he was for loving her like this without her permission.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He knew that he was Death and that there wasn’t sod all he could do about that, but she wasn’t supposed to try to emulate that. She was supposed to be goodness and soul and bright, sparkling power. Because that was the core of Buffy. But she’d lost sight of that.
Spike lit yet another fag and as the red of the cherry flared up he puffed furiously as he watched her walk away. All the fight and fury that made him so hard for her as he looked on from the shadows had dissipated from the body that he loved like no other.
*****
Later on, in the dank darkness of his crypt, Spike still couldn’t stop chain smoking. He lay idly in bed, half undressed because he couldn’t make his mind up about anything except for her. Long tendrils of smoke curled up towards the ceiling and got caught in the upper regions of air, smooshing together into a grey cloud.
He closed his eyes and flashed back to the smell of her, to the flashes of luscious Slayer pussy he had seen whirling about as she fought earlier. His cock was already hard at the very thought of her but then his fantasy view moved into another scenario - one which he had not been privy to - and as he imagined her touching herself, fucking herself off, his cock went even more rigid. His non-smoking hand moved slowly towards the zipper of his jeans…
…and she came crashing in through the door of the crypt.
“Oi!” Spike exclaimed with alarm that really wasn’t warranted considering the girl never would, never could, learn to knock. He sat up quickly on the bed and considered her with a tilt of the head.
“Well, hello then, love. What can I do for you at this late hour? Fancy a refreshment? Something to drink perhaps?” As soon as he spoke he put on the swagger and smirk that she expected from him – the attitude that she claimed to hate but really was all she would allow him to be. And it’s not that it wasn’t the truth of him; it was just that it wasn’t the full truth of him.
She rushed across the room and placed her mighty, little hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Spike. I don’t want a glass of lemonade. I want you to fuck me. Now!”
He gulped. His blue eyes followed her as she moved away from him and wandered coolly around the crypt.
“Right, then. Of course. How’s it to be then? Me on top? You? Standing up? Be more specific, Pet.”
But she had already bent herself over one of the various tombs and was twisted around and staring at him, pretty arse up and hardly covered by the little skirt. The smell was almost more than he could bear.
So he went to her and stood behind her and lifted her wee skirt with trembling hands. Found her pussy drenched and welcoming. When his cock slammed into her he cried out and so did she and they fused together as he thrust forward and she pushed back into him with a fraction of her might that still left him choking and shaking and weak - weak with lust even as his body rammed into her without any outward sign of debility.
“Fuck me, Spike. Just fuck me,” she cried out like an order or a plea, he wasn’t sure which.
But he did. He gave her what she wanted.
But he also knew that she wanted him (or someone, herself?) to punish her for real not just in play and it made him so sad he wished he had florid prose at his fingertips to describe it. Punish her? For what? For being alive? All he wanted was for her to be as alive as that smell between her legs.
Because Spike liked a big, fat slice of Kink with Love al a mode or perhaps Love with Kink and a cherry on top. But this wasn’t just a pretty, sexy game to her. Although it could be. But she wouldn’t admit that either.
Sometimes he could see glimpses of fun and play in their "play."
When she handcuffed him to the bed and then tickled him.
When he fucked her from behind and slapped her ass and told her she was a magnificent jewel of pussy, splendid in her filthiness. When she breathed harder and bucked into him then, he knew that she liked it and that in her own way she was proud.
That was the magic time, just as she was getting close to getting off. For a few moments she was radiant in her pure, seething sexuality and she didn’t hate him or herself for it. Sometimes, just for a second a flash in her eyes would almost accept his love, accept that this WAS love – that love wasn’t always hearts and flowers and gentle, missionary position shagging. That sometimes love was hard and unbound – a bumping together of strength and desire. That what was “ugly” and uncontrolled and flowing with fluids and and unbridled aromas could be Beauty.
She was close. She writhed below him and stroked her hands over her own body as he pushed into her cunt with everything that he had to give. He balanced the ferocity of the way that his cock was ramming into her with a whisper-soft touch of his fingertips to the skin of her back, her splendid arse, her pretty shoulder blades like wings.
She was his lovely, kinky angel and he told her so as he shot off into her, just after her Slayer muscles threatened to cut off his lack of circulation with the intensity of her superhero orgasm.
Just for the teensiest of moments when she was brushing herself off and getting ready to go, he saw the look in her eyes that he watched for so vigilantly. The flash in her eyes that said, “I am alive. I am the Slayer and fucking you makes me feel alive.”
And then it was gone. Her eyes went back to being secretive in their greenness and she stomped off.
He fell back onto the bed and lit another fag and smiled. Because this time she had stomped off instead of limping or running, and this time he had seen that flash of recognition when he wasn’t even inside of her.
And because everything was saturated with the smell of her.