errorYou must be logged in to review this story.
What You Should Know
folder
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,580
Reviews:
3
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
BtVS AU/AR › Het - Male/Female › Buffy/Spike(William)
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,580
Reviews:
3
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.
What You Should Know
What You Should Know
By: Lara Foster (Liberty)
Pairing: Buffy & Spike
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What Buffy did know and what Buffy should know were not always the same thing. Set during Season 6.
This rating is for explicit m/f sex. HET.
DISCLAIMER
None of these characters or settings are mine. I am borrowing them from Joss, and I promise I'll put them back where I found them.
********
Spike was very tired suddenly.
Not physically -- he'd been doing very little but sleeping and fucking these past days. He hadn't failed to notice that as soon as their new relationship had developed, Buffy had been carefully keeping him away from the Scoobies. As though he would trade their precarious friendship for whatever it was they had now. Or as though he'd, what, fucking tell them? He didn't tell Glory about the Key through all the tortures she could devise, but he'd tell the Scoobies about their sex life? As though Buffy didn't know that Spike would protect her secrets with his very unlife, for as long as she allowed him to.
And that, it seemed, was the root of the problem. The things that Buffy should know but didn't. Spike sometimes wondered if the dumb blond act was really an act at all. Of course, other times she was so astute that it was frightening. Those were the times when Spike wondered if the problem lay in the things he should know. But didn't.
What he did know was that hanging around the Doublemeat Palace was making him feel pathetic in a way that hanging around Buffy's house all night never had. Maybe it was the fried food smell, or maybe it was how far from his fantasies he'd actually fallen. In his head, he'd always made love to Buffy in her house, in her bed, actually invited and wanted. They would be very quiet, because of Dawn, and they'd fall asleep together. In reality, sex with Buffy was always harsh and full of groans and breaking things. After which she'd rest a moment and disappear, leaving his shattered belongings as the only sign that she'd been there at all.
Spike wondered what would happen if he stopped picking up the broken things. Would Buffy do it? Unlikely. More likely she would pick her way delicately around the broken glass, then throw him down onto it and grind his back into it while she rode him. She might not even realize that Spike was being hurt.
Was he still being hurt, or was he becoming the unfeeling monster she expected him to be? He knew this empty, meaningless thing with Buffy should be hurting him. And he was suddenly too tired to care.
The sound of the crypt door opening registered distantly, followed by the sound of Buffy’s light breathing, louder than her footsteps. That was Spike’s cue to climb up the ladder, meet her with a kiss and give her what she was there for. Instead he slumped further into the darkness, reaching for his cigarettes, a helpful distraction. Not this time, he thought grimly. She’s going to have to fucking come find me.
Something must have gone wrong with the plan, because the next thing he knew he was upstairs, cigarette discarded. He only had half a moment to curse his disobedient body before he was catching her as she launched into his arms, bright, sunlit and scorching.
“Buffy,” he gasped, because it was always a surprise – this part when he could pretend that she wanted him. Her response was merely to look around and grimace at the state of the floor.
“Downstairs,” she ordered, and even if she hadn’t grasped his arm he would have had no choice but to follow.
One rough push sent Spike to the floor, but he was tired of playing passive and dragged Buffy down with him. She didn’t even pause when they hit the cement, just grabbed his head for another kiss and then sat back to remove her jacket. Spike watched her warily until her hands were at his belt, and then he buried his face in her neck and latched on with his lips. He didn’t want to watch her eyes go distant, the visual proof that he might as well have been someone else, or no one at all, for all the attention she gave him. For him it was exactly the opposite. Even when she’d been invisible, it had been the knowledge that it was Buffy – her scent, her skin, and her voice – that had the most effect on him.
She didn’t even undress him, just dragged his pants down to his knees and pushed his shirt up around his ribcage. She perched on his thighs and wrapped a deceptively delicate hand around his erection. He couldn’t contain his sigh, didn’t try to stop his head as it fell back to smack against the floor. And he knew this routine, too – no more kissing, no foreplay. She stroked perfunctorily before rising up and lowering herself back down onto his cock much faster than he would have liked. But she always felt so hotwettightgood that it was impossible for him to protest. He started up the chant that always accompanied these moments, Buffy Buffy Buffy Buffy, and her name fell from his lips with his unneeded breath, until it became just another meaningless sound. He didn’t have to look up at her to know that her eyes were closed.
Spike gripped the tops of her thighs and allowed himself to be rushed along toward some kind of release, his desperate upward thrusts meeting her violent downward ones. Her fingernails left little furrows in his chest, and he searched her breathing for subtle clues that she might still even remember his name. Of course, maybe that was what she liked about this to begin with – the opportunity to forget his name, and her own.
Somewhere in the midst of staving off his own too-quick orgasm, Spike realized that he was angry. Very angry. His hands shot up to her hips and gripped them hard enough to leave bruises. He pinned her there, stopped her motion until she finally opened her eyes and looked at him in frustration. He flashed her just a tiny bit of yellow eyes before throwing her backwards. By the time he’d pounced and reentered her he was in full game face.
“What are you playing at, Buffy?” he asked her, thrusting hard enough to hurt. “This is dangerous, or did you forget? Do you want to know what I did to the last girl who forgot I was dangerous?” That particular little incident had been something like fifty years ago, but Buffy didn’t need to know that. And she didn’t have need to answer him, either. Her stunned eyes locked on his let him know that she was listening. He put one hand under her jaw, forcing her head back, and when his orgasm hit before hers he didn’t even try to hold it off. He just tilted his head and sank his fangs into her throat.
When she came, she screamed his name.
“Right,” he said. He pulled back to look at her, game face discarded, more than a little scared. He hadn’t actually ever bitten her before, not like this, not during sex and not without asking permission. He didn’t really think she’d stake him, but then one never knew with Buffy.
She just lay there and stared at him wide-eyed, breath coming in shallow pants. Her hand drifted briefly toward her neck but fell tiredly away before reaching the marks. Spike watched her reaction carefully and leaned in to kiss them. She gasped when his lips made contact, and her hand gripped his shoulder but didn’t push him away. He leaned around her and reached for his cigarettes.
When she made a move to leave, Spike put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her firmly back down. “You know,” he said, “you should stick around. I might want to have another go in a minute.” And he fought back his grin when she merely nodded and stayed where she was.
###
By: Lara Foster (Liberty)
Pairing: Buffy & Spike
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What Buffy did know and what Buffy should know were not always the same thing. Set during Season 6.
This rating is for explicit m/f sex. HET.
DISCLAIMER
None of these characters or settings are mine. I am borrowing them from Joss, and I promise I'll put them back where I found them.
********
Spike was very tired suddenly.
Not physically -- he'd been doing very little but sleeping and fucking these past days. He hadn't failed to notice that as soon as their new relationship had developed, Buffy had been carefully keeping him away from the Scoobies. As though he would trade their precarious friendship for whatever it was they had now. Or as though he'd, what, fucking tell them? He didn't tell Glory about the Key through all the tortures she could devise, but he'd tell the Scoobies about their sex life? As though Buffy didn't know that Spike would protect her secrets with his very unlife, for as long as she allowed him to.
And that, it seemed, was the root of the problem. The things that Buffy should know but didn't. Spike sometimes wondered if the dumb blond act was really an act at all. Of course, other times she was so astute that it was frightening. Those were the times when Spike wondered if the problem lay in the things he should know. But didn't.
What he did know was that hanging around the Doublemeat Palace was making him feel pathetic in a way that hanging around Buffy's house all night never had. Maybe it was the fried food smell, or maybe it was how far from his fantasies he'd actually fallen. In his head, he'd always made love to Buffy in her house, in her bed, actually invited and wanted. They would be very quiet, because of Dawn, and they'd fall asleep together. In reality, sex with Buffy was always harsh and full of groans and breaking things. After which she'd rest a moment and disappear, leaving his shattered belongings as the only sign that she'd been there at all.
Spike wondered what would happen if he stopped picking up the broken things. Would Buffy do it? Unlikely. More likely she would pick her way delicately around the broken glass, then throw him down onto it and grind his back into it while she rode him. She might not even realize that Spike was being hurt.
Was he still being hurt, or was he becoming the unfeeling monster she expected him to be? He knew this empty, meaningless thing with Buffy should be hurting him. And he was suddenly too tired to care.
The sound of the crypt door opening registered distantly, followed by the sound of Buffy’s light breathing, louder than her footsteps. That was Spike’s cue to climb up the ladder, meet her with a kiss and give her what she was there for. Instead he slumped further into the darkness, reaching for his cigarettes, a helpful distraction. Not this time, he thought grimly. She’s going to have to fucking come find me.
Something must have gone wrong with the plan, because the next thing he knew he was upstairs, cigarette discarded. He only had half a moment to curse his disobedient body before he was catching her as she launched into his arms, bright, sunlit and scorching.
“Buffy,” he gasped, because it was always a surprise – this part when he could pretend that she wanted him. Her response was merely to look around and grimace at the state of the floor.
“Downstairs,” she ordered, and even if she hadn’t grasped his arm he would have had no choice but to follow.
One rough push sent Spike to the floor, but he was tired of playing passive and dragged Buffy down with him. She didn’t even pause when they hit the cement, just grabbed his head for another kiss and then sat back to remove her jacket. Spike watched her warily until her hands were at his belt, and then he buried his face in her neck and latched on with his lips. He didn’t want to watch her eyes go distant, the visual proof that he might as well have been someone else, or no one at all, for all the attention she gave him. For him it was exactly the opposite. Even when she’d been invisible, it had been the knowledge that it was Buffy – her scent, her skin, and her voice – that had the most effect on him.
She didn’t even undress him, just dragged his pants down to his knees and pushed his shirt up around his ribcage. She perched on his thighs and wrapped a deceptively delicate hand around his erection. He couldn’t contain his sigh, didn’t try to stop his head as it fell back to smack against the floor. And he knew this routine, too – no more kissing, no foreplay. She stroked perfunctorily before rising up and lowering herself back down onto his cock much faster than he would have liked. But she always felt so hotwettightgood that it was impossible for him to protest. He started up the chant that always accompanied these moments, Buffy Buffy Buffy Buffy, and her name fell from his lips with his unneeded breath, until it became just another meaningless sound. He didn’t have to look up at her to know that her eyes were closed.
Spike gripped the tops of her thighs and allowed himself to be rushed along toward some kind of release, his desperate upward thrusts meeting her violent downward ones. Her fingernails left little furrows in his chest, and he searched her breathing for subtle clues that she might still even remember his name. Of course, maybe that was what she liked about this to begin with – the opportunity to forget his name, and her own.
Somewhere in the midst of staving off his own too-quick orgasm, Spike realized that he was angry. Very angry. His hands shot up to her hips and gripped them hard enough to leave bruises. He pinned her there, stopped her motion until she finally opened her eyes and looked at him in frustration. He flashed her just a tiny bit of yellow eyes before throwing her backwards. By the time he’d pounced and reentered her he was in full game face.
“What are you playing at, Buffy?” he asked her, thrusting hard enough to hurt. “This is dangerous, or did you forget? Do you want to know what I did to the last girl who forgot I was dangerous?” That particular little incident had been something like fifty years ago, but Buffy didn’t need to know that. And she didn’t have need to answer him, either. Her stunned eyes locked on his let him know that she was listening. He put one hand under her jaw, forcing her head back, and when his orgasm hit before hers he didn’t even try to hold it off. He just tilted his head and sank his fangs into her throat.
When she came, she screamed his name.
“Right,” he said. He pulled back to look at her, game face discarded, more than a little scared. He hadn’t actually ever bitten her before, not like this, not during sex and not without asking permission. He didn’t really think she’d stake him, but then one never knew with Buffy.
She just lay there and stared at him wide-eyed, breath coming in shallow pants. Her hand drifted briefly toward her neck but fell tiredly away before reaching the marks. Spike watched her reaction carefully and leaned in to kiss them. She gasped when his lips made contact, and her hand gripped his shoulder but didn’t push him away. He leaned around her and reached for his cigarettes.
When she made a move to leave, Spike put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her firmly back down. “You know,” he said, “you should stick around. I might want to have another go in a minute.” And he fought back his grin when she merely nodded and stayed where she was.
###