Title: Round One
Author: Brutti ma buoni
Rating: NC17 – nothing but PWP here
Setting: post-series, quite possibly in the same verse as Doomed
Warnings: could be read as dub con at times. It isn't, but please click with caution.
Prompt: Top or Bottom
It feels more like a fight, some nights. When Buffy won't let Spike lead, but he won't be led, so they tussle. Silent, competitive, challenging.
Flip, she's on top, straddled across his thighs, his hands pinned beside his ears. Spike's the picture of a victim, helpless under the Slayer's hands. If ever there were a position of submission, this is it. She could stake him in a blinking.
But of course, she's open to him too, cunt spread open wide across his half-hard cock, so the smallest movement by either of them is rubbing, frotting, inelegantly getting them off, or closer to off, and getting Spike closer to in as he hardens, dick springing up demanding, pushing blindly against every notch and dimple of her intimate self. But she won't let him inside quite yet. And he's not in the mood, not tonight, for adolescent fumbles and rubbing. So he's got to get back on top.
It isn't a move Spike'd care to make against an armed opponent – bares the belly far too vulnerably - but if he arches upwards hard and fast enough, feet properly braced, he can take Buffy off balance. Ignoring the warm wet smear of her cunt moving across him, slipping up to his belly as her feet fail to find purchase, and she's almost riding his waist now.
Easy thing to do here, which he's done before and with pleasure, is simply to reverse the position, get on top with her underneath, her legs bent right up and his shoulders braced between to splay her as wide as he pleases, so's he can drive in and in and again till they're grunting with equal and opposing forces meeting in a single pistoning point.
And he thinks about it this time too. Of course he does. What kind of fucking fool wouldn't think of that, often, let alone when he has the Slayer here with him and naked and willing? Not this fool, for certain.
But Spike's own momentum has tumbled them sideways a little and in the skew of perspective he can see her neat little arse, cheeks slightly parted by her spread-eagled position, and he remembers that watching that perfect peach split for him is a rich pleasure he's not had in a while. So he goes with the tumble, aside, onto smoother, cooler sheets where they haven't lain lately. And he makes bloody sure she's underneath when they land.
Lays her out as he wants, a firm hand between her shoulder blades keeping her head down against the bedding, while his free hand hefts and arranges her so she's kneeling, widespread. It's a risk, but he takes a moment to breathe her in, truffling his nose down her arsecrack and into her slippery, yielding cunt. A moment to lick, more for his pleasure in the slip and the taste than hitting any of her pleasure spots, but he doesn't have the reach to eat her out fully in this position, not with his one hand still keeping her pinned. Doesn't have time, either, because that hand can feel her back muscles bunching, ready for her next move.
So he doesn't let her make a next move. Moves himself, up smooth and steady, knees slotting between her tautly opened thighs, cock sliding home without a hitch, in the kind of perfect positioning that happens only when you don't try too hard. Spike places his hands on her outer thighs, thumbs digging in to the softer backs of her legs, keeping her still so he can pound into her. Watching her arse bounce and jiggle as his hips slam back and forth. Dominant. On top.
Except where's the fun, after a while? He could come like this – is, in very truth, on the verge, if he'd let himself go. But this fight should have two players.
He's sure enough that Buffy won't try some probably-painful manoeuvre to get herself back on top now. So he looses his tight hold on her thighs, guides her (always-preferred) left hand under her belly so's she can bring herself off, and gives himself permission to enjoy the moment, while he can make it last.
Lazier now, his pelvis moves, circling rather than pumping hard, stimulating resonances in Buffy's hips, which languidly chase his directing cock. Watching that sweet arse shift and flex, Spike remembers the impulse that took them into this position. Wets up one finger with his spit, sucking it in for a pleasurable moment in an echo of the wet heat swallowing his dick down, then opens her up for that one finger to tease at her arse.
Wouldn't think she had any reason to blush at this – not anymore – but she does, reliably. The jump and squeak that she can't quite hold back at the first half-tickling touch are followed by a tide of red up her neck and cheeks as Spike slowly works his finger inside. Just enough to show he means it; not quite enough to stroke his own cock through the membranes of Buffy's body. All about how she looks for him, how she feels to him. Tight and fluttering, setting off undulations in her cunt too, and her left hand is strumming hard now, wet sounds filling the room as she works her clit. Spike continues the slow, circling rhythm inside her. Getting them off, sure as anything.
So he's on top, this time, when they come, Buffy's tightening ripples and breathy grunts freeing Spike to finish off hard and fast once more.
He's merciful, doesn’t keep her all twizzled up for long, instead slipping out to lie against her side as she achingly untwists her legs, and slumps sweaty and slightly breathless onto the pillow. Her arm on top of him, this time. The silent last word on that matter.
She giggles. "Man… we're getting too old for this, aren't we?"
Spike wishes for a cigarette, but he quit way back in ought seven. Two decades haven't stifled the reflex, but he knows better than to mention it these days. "Naww. Keeps you young, Slayer. Can't be middle aged and missionary every night."