NOTE: This is... not precisely a sequel to TheSigyn's Leftovers, but you can definitely read it as such if you wish. It was greatly influenced by conversations in chat about Pangs and its many, many issues, and somewhere along the line it occurred to us that the two stories could easily mesh together, and so they... kind of do, though obviously our approaches to the Pangs Problems are quite different. If you want a little more plot/character leading into this smutty story, Leftovers will give you that, and conversely if you feel the need for something fluffy and sweet after Sigyn's gutted you like a turkey, this might make a tasty aperitif. Bon appetit!
“What now? Are we off to see the wizard?”
“Shut up, Spike.” Buffy stomped down the street ahead of him, swinging the six-foot chain attached to his manacles. “We’re going to my house.”
He grinned at her stiff back. “Lovely! Joyce always has marshmallows in the pantry.”
She cast him a poisonous look over her shoulder. “Mom’s not there.”
The streets were empty – Spike gauged it was after midnight – and they walked in silence for some time before he sighed and gave in. “And why are we going to your house? Do tell.”
“Because the butcher closed at three.”
“Well, that’s not cryptic at all.”
The slayer sighed and stopped in her tracks, turning to look at him again, and now… she didn’t look angry. She looked tired. Which he supposed was to be expected when one had cooked up a holiday feast for one’s mates, and fended off a bloody bear besides.
“You’re my prisoner. And even though I hate you and will most likely kill you in the morning, in the meantime I may as well feed you.” She turned and started to walk again. “There’s blood at my house.”
Now that was interesting. “This some new fad diet?”
She shrugged as if it was of no moment. “I keep a few pints in the freezer, just in case.” And then she gave his chain an angry swing. “But I don’t think I need it anymore.”
Ah. There it was. It would be kind to let that sleeping hangdog lie, but bugger kindness. “Saving it for when Angel came to call, were we?”
Her whole body quivered with outrage, but she stomped onwards in silence.
Spike grinned, sauntering in her wake. Might not be able to bite, but was good to know he could still draw blood.
Buffy stood in front of the microwave, watching the Tupperware of pig’s blood spinning around and around, fuming.
Angel had come to town. He had come to town, and he had stalked her, and he had gotten her friends to go behind her back and lie to cover him, and then… he had left. What was his problem? Was he allergic to greetings? I’m not going to say goodbye , she grumbled to herself. No, I’m just going to make sure you see my dramatic exit, so it hurts even worse than saying goodbye, and then come butt into your life every chance I get, except from the stupid shadows because I’m a stupid in-the-shadows-drama-guy who can’t be bothered to say hi to the supposed love of my life .
God, she was just so angry . She wanted to yell and scream and hit something, but instead… Well, instead she was getting her petty revenge by giving the blood she’d saved for Angel – just in case he showed up unannounced – to the vampire she suspected Angel despised the most in the whole wide world.
It wasn’t enough.
She was still muttering under her breath when the blood was finally thawed, if not actually warm; she grumbled her way down the basement stairs to where she’d padlocked Spike’s chains to a convenient pipe. There had been an old cot folded away under the stairs that she had grudgingly unfolded and laid some sheets on for her prisoner – not that he deserved them, but her mom would blow a gasket if she found out there had been a guest under her roof that hadn’t been offered clean linens, evil or not – and he was lounging on it, looking as if the heavy chains were a fashion accessory.
“Got it warm enough?” He glared at her as if she were an overworked and underpaid diner waitress. Which she actually had been once, so she really knew the look.
“It’s liquid,” she retorted. “That’s warm enough.” She tucked the bendy straw between his pale lips.
He took a sip and grimaced. “Slayer, there are some things best served cold. Blood is not one of them.”
“Want me to dump it out?”
“Sod off.” He sucked furiously at the straw, watching her as if she were a live grenade.
She felt kind of like a live grenade, actually. Like someone had pulled her pin and any second now she was going to go off, and when Spike had slurped up the last dregs of blood, she did.
“Who does he think he is?” she ranted, setting the empty Tupperware on the floor and starting to pace.
Spike lolled back on the cot, licking his lips. “Wanker,” he said agreeably.
“Coming up here and being all tortured-hero about his stupid destiny!”
“Too right. Bloody tosser.”
Buffy glared suspiciously at Spike. “Why are you agreeing with me?”
He shrugged. “Always game for ragging on Angel. He’s a ruddy bore.”
“He is not!” Buffy said hotly, then scowled. “He’s just a big jerky… jerkface.”
Spike nodded encouragingly, and… what the hell, ranting was better with an audience. She started pacing again, back and forth in front of the cot.
“Can you believe he just came up and convinced all my friends to lie to me just so he didn’t have to face me himself?”
“And then! Then! Willow said he was acting all jealous, just because he saw me talking to Riley! Who I’m not even dating. Not yet, anyways, and maybe not ever! I haven’t even decided yet! She said it like it was supposed to make me feel better or something, but seriously?”
“I mean, he’s the one who’s all you deserve someone normal and this is a freakshow you superfreak , and then he gets all Tarzan-chest-beaty when I actually meet someone normal? What gives him the right?”
“You know what I should do? I should give him something to be jealous about.” She folded her arms, glaring in the general direction of Los Angeles. “It would serve him right if I went and had sex with Riley right now.”
“You go do that, Slayer,” Spike said approvingly, clapping his manacled hands. “Happy to be your cameraman, send proof to the plonker.”
Buffy was halfway to the stairs on her vengeful mission when she stopped in her tracks. “No, wait, I can’t.” She stamped her foot in frustration. “Stupid Riley’s in stupid Iowa right now with his stupid family.”
Spike glanced at the floor under her feet. “Have to say, Slayer, that might be better for his health,” he said drily.
She looked down, belatedly noticing the cracks in the concrete radiating out from her boot heel. “Whoops.” Those had been there before, right? She was almost sure of it.
Anyhow, she resumed pacing. “I just need to do something. Anything. I don’t need him, and after today I’m not even sure I want him anymore, and…” Dammit, she was starting to cry, and she needed to hit something, but the only thing in the basement that she could hit was Spike, and he was all chained up and letting her talk, like she used to talk to Willow, except of course she had never chained Willow up, even when she had been an evil vampire.
She couldn’t hit him when they were having girl-talk.
God, this was bloody brilliant.
Now that he’d got some blood in him, could feel it healing his cracked lips and arrow wounds, Spike was finding the sight of the slayer on a rampage more entertaining than the telly. He’d not had the opportunity to observe her all hot and bothered before – not outside of the heat of battle – and she was truly an inspiring sight, all flashing eyes and swirling hair, just radiating glorious fury. Didn’t hurt that she had her knickers twisted about bloody Angel and his delusions of relevance; a more deserving target of scorn Spike had never known. Perhaps he could goad her into staking the sod. That would almost make his inability to bite without excruciating pain worth it.
“You could go find another bloke to shag,” he suggested helpfully, when she seemed to have run out of steam.
She sank down onto the steps. “No. No, that’s not going to work.” She wrapped her arms around herself, looking lost. “I’m not… I’m not any good at that. Finding guys.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Seem to recall you made a good show of it, not so long ago.”
“What, Parker?” She laughed shortly. “Yeah, that worked out real well.”
God, she must really be low, not to have punched him in the nose for that reminder. “Universities are bloody infested with dodgy fellows looking for a tumble,” he pointed out.
“And yet, somehow they all manage to resist my feminine wiles,” she muttered testily.
“I’d do you,” he said without thinking, then stiffened, anticipating the beatdown of the century. Pity that, he’d been looking forward to Y2K.
But she just looked at him, face blank. “You’d what?” she said finally, voice dripping disbelief.
What the hell, might as well be hanged for a bloody sheep. “I’d shag you.”
She stood and walked over to him, staring down at him with guarded eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”
He grinned up at his death. “Not a whit. You want to fuck someone, prove you’re not Angel’s plaything?” He stretched sinuously, watching her eyes track the ripple down his body. “Could be convinced.”
Her eyes snapped back to his face and narrowed suspiciously. “What’s in this for you?”
Bloody hell, did she actually think so little of her own attraction? Shagging her would be reward enough. He’d bet a dozen kittens she was a screamer. “Blood,” he said instead. “You said you had a few pints. Warm me up another one.”
She glared down at him. “You hate Angel.”
“That I do,” he agreed. “And he hates me.” He lowered his voice to the silky rumble he used to convince women to come into the darkness. “He’d go mad at the thought of me laying my hands on you, making you sigh and tremble and come apart. Sullying your precious purity with my dark passion.”
Her nostrils flared. “I hate you, too.”
“All the better,” Spike purred. “No need to pretend this is about anything more than revenge.”
She turned abruptly and walked away, and Spike heaved a sigh, resigning himself to continued celibacy and starvation, but then Buffy picked something up off the laundry machine and turned back to him, face set and determined.
It was the key.
Holy crap, she was insane .
Looking at Spike lounging across the cot, his face all sexied-up like he was some sort of Bondage Chippendale, she couldn’t even describe how she felt; her insides were all a surreal mish-mash of fury and disgust and disbelief, all knotted up with a shocking amount of actual arousal tingling crazily through her belly.
Because she was by god going to do it. She was going to have sex with Spike, right now.
She just had to figure out how.
Spike must have sensed her hesitation, because he held out his manacled wrists to her with what was probably supposed to be a winning smile. “Do much better with these off.”
“I can’t just unchain you all the way,” she sighed, biting her lower lip. “You might run away.”
He rolled his eyes. “Just threw myself on your mercy,” he pointed out.
“For food. Which I gave you already.”
He shrugged. “Fair cop, I suppose.” He gave a sensual wriggle. “Could work around them.”
Finally, Buffy settled for fastening one wrist to the long chain, releasing his ankles and other wrist; he rubbed his freed wrist briefly, face settling into lines of satisfaction, and that threw her misgivings back into play, because a satisfied Spike could not possibly be a good thing.
“What the hell am I doing?”
Spike looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Are we skipping the shagging and going straight to the tears and recriminations, then?”
“Yes…. No…. Dammit, Spike!”
He stood up. “Thought you wanted to teach bloody Angel a lesson.”
“I do!” God, even hearing his name made her mad all over again.
“Want to drive him ‘round the bloody bend, yeah?” He started to pace to the limits of his chain, like he was a football coach giving a motivational speech.
“He thinks he can prance on off to Los Angeles, play the field with bloody supermodels and actresses, and you’re supposed to just wait for him in your ivory tower, locked away until he can claim you as his prize.”
Whoa, wait. “He’s been playing the field?”
Spike seemed to be building up a good head of steam himself. “Rescues a new chippy every night, from what I saw. And when you send him a prezzie, what does he do with it? Destroys it, that’s what he does! When there’s any number of blokes who’d’ve been happy to take it off his hands.”
“…He destroyed the Gem of Amara?” Ah, yes, there it was. Pure cold rage, like a lump of ice in her chest. She was shaking now.
“Bloody right he did!” Spike growled. “And after I drove all the way—“
“Shut up , Spike!” Buffy snarled, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and slamming her lips onto his.
Spike heard his shirt tearing in the slayer’s fists, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when she was kissing him like that, demanding and furious and hot as the sun. Bloody thing had a half dozen holes in it any road, not like he was going to mend it. In the meantime, he had his own revenge to get.
Angel wanted the slayer to find someone bloody normal ? Fine.
Spike might not be able to hurt the slayer, not right this moment, but he was sure as hell going to ruin her for normal men .
He suspected the slayer had no idea how exhaustively Angel had detailed their soul-stealing sexual encounter, back in the day; Spike had heard it more times than he could count, Angel deriding her sighs and whimpers and girlish shyness, laughing at her naiveté, mimicking her wide-eyed wonder. At the time it had been infuriating – bullying, even, since Spike had been paralyzed and forced into the role of spectator to Angel and Drusilla’s near-constant shagging – but he blessed the memory now, because if he was going to keep Buffy from once again succumbing to her better judgment, a little inside information would surely be handy.
He put some of that inside information to good use, sliding his free hand up to the sensitive nape of her neck, drinking in her gasp at the cool sensation.
“Rip it off,” he murmured against her lips.
“What?” she said, lolling her head back into his grasp as he nibbled at her jaw.
“My shirt. Tear the bloody thing.”
She took a step back, jaw jutting out angrily – god, she was glorious! – and took the neck of his shirt in her fists, rending it halfway down in one yank.
Bugger. “More,” he hissed.
She ripped and shredded the black cotton until it was tatters, barely hanging off his arms, and then she took the remnants and pulled hard, tossing the former shirt behind her.
He took her shoulders in his hands, as hard as he dared, and kissed her again, thrusting his tongue deep in her mouth, and bloody hell, Angel hadn’t said anything about that, the way she sucked him in, her own tongue clashing with his so deliciously, and then it occurred to him that he’d probably never had this, the fury and the challenge. Angel had taken an innocent girl, sweet and pure and tender.
Spike was going to fuck a brilliant, passionate, demanding woman.
He groaned and gave himself over to it.
Maybe it was ripping off the shirt, or maybe it was the clinking of the chains, or maybe it was just everything about the situation, rage and determination and adrenaline and just a hint of despair, but Buffy was feeling wild and reckless, like when she’d been Cave-Buffy except without the drop in her IQ, and she didn’t hesitate before shoving Spike back down onto the cot – not even bothering to be gentle, and from the way his eyes flared that was how he’d wanted it.
She whipped her flimsy tan shirt off over her head and followed him down.
He didn’t waste any time filling his hands with her breasts, grinning cheekily, and oh, his fingers were cool and firm and demanding, just right for the mood she was in; she tossed her hair and arched into his touch.
“How many?” he growled, licking a long stripe up the center of her chest.
What the hell? “Two is the usual number of breasts, Spikey.”
“Bloody hell.” He squeezed hard, eyes furious. “How many times, slayer?”
She flushed, but something about being topless made her feel honest. “Two.” God, that sounded pathetic.
He lifted his eyebrows. “Angel made you come twice? Must be a new record for him.” He leaned in and swirled his tongue around her nipple and she clutched at his head, gasping despite herself.
“No! God! I… I’ve had sex two times.” Her fingers tightened in his hair. “Laugh and I’ll stake you right now.”
In reply Spike shifted around so she was laying back on the cot, hands going to the fastening of her slacks. “Right,” he muttered into her nipple, doing something unspeakably evil with his teeth. “Now, what’s the answer to my actual question?”
There had been an actual question? Oh. “I don’t know. I… I wasn’t counting. Do people keep track?”
He knelt back, tugging her boots off her feet. “As I expected. Not even one.”
“There was so one!” She struggled up on her elbows, glaring at him. “It was a very nice… one.” She was pretty sure that bit at the end had been it, right?
“Oh yes, very nice,” he muttered sarcastically, then glared right back, jaw set. “Slayer, if you ever describe the way I fuck you as nice you may as well just put a stake in a me.”
“Like I’m going to tell anyone about this,” she scoffed. “And… and it’s not all about orgasms.”
He shrugged and resumed stripping her pants off. “You’re right there. It’s not.” He lunged forward then, planting his hands on either side of her waist, his face right in hers. “It’s about pleasure, love. And see, I’ve known your broody ex a fair sight longer than you have. All full of his own importance, not the type to see to his lady’s needs, soul or not.”
Buffy opened her mouth to protest, then shut it with a snap. “I suppose you could do better?” she challenged.
He grinned then, and there was something in his eyes that caught Buffy’s attention – something soft and unexpected, like actual mirth. “Just watch me,” he whispered, and then he started to kiss down her belly.
“What are you – that isn’t – oh god,” Buffy moaned, and then sank back as he licked her right through her panties, which was something she’d heard people did but she didn’t think guys would actually like doing so she’d figured it was, like, a special request or something but Spike seemed to think it was just business as usual and oh god what was he doing ? Because whatever it was, it was fantastic.
“I hate you,” she moaned, suddenly feeling the need to remind him of this important fact.
“I hate you more,” he rumbled into her crotch, lifting his head up just far enough to take the waistband of her panties in his teeth. He took the elastic in his hands, and yanked hard with teeth and fingers until it parted, ripping fabric and popping elastic.
“Hey! I liked those!” Buffy kicked her heels against his back.
“Evil,” Spike growled shortly, rending the remains of her cute undies and setting his mouth to her again, and oh god, he was , he was so evil, and then his wicked, wicked tongue did something extra-evil that made her eyes open wide and her legs spasm and sent jolts of pleasure all the way out to her fingertips, and he laughed into her, sounding a bit shaky.
“Hope you counted that one, pet,” he crooned, kissing the inside of her thigh sweetly before diving back in.
“Shut up, Spike,” she whimpered, because she really needed his tongue to be doing not-talky-things.
But he had been right.
This was definitely not nice .
Spike might have kept at the slayer’s luscious, hot quim for the rest of the night if she hadn’t gotten impatient and started yanking on his hair, muttering something about needing a thesaurus, and given the way she’d been squirming and moaning – and yes, she was in fact a screamer – he was bloody well sure he’d already left Angel’s “nice” showing in the dust, and so more than happy to proceed to the main course.
He had his own flair for drama, though, so he stood over the cot, looking down at her, all sweaty and disheveled and wild-eyed, and started to undo his belt as slowly as he could bear.
That lasted about as long as it took for Buffy to sit up and start helping.
Of course, her idea of helping was to grab the waistband of his trousers and fling him down to the cot, popping the button and yanking down the zipper and getting his trousers all the way down his legs before she had at his boots, and then he was naked and she was on top of him, rubbing her warm, strong body all over him, and he suddenly remembered Drusilla’s last words to him, you’re covered in her , and oh god he was, she was all he could see, and he watched as his hands helped hers fit his cock to her and then she drove down and he thrust up and it was like dying all over again, the feel of her hot around him, and he took hold of her hips and thrust harder, harder, and she clenched around him, wringing a curse from his lips, and then there was a groan and creak of metal and the cot collapsed beneath them.
She didn’t stop moving above him, just laughed brokenly and fucked him harder, and all he could do was watch and do his damnedest to keep up.
She came again, eyes wide with disbelief, and he took the opportunity to roll her over, wrestling the thin mattress around beneath her naked body as he pounded into her on the floor, and she wrapped her arms around him and bucked up against him madly, and he couldn’t stop kissing her, her face and her throat and her shoulders, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thought that this was somehow wrong, that he should just be taking his hateful pleasure and bugger hers, but bugger wrong and bugger hate, he did what he damn well pleased and he pleased to please his lady, so he did, he set his hands and his body to worshiping hers and when she shuddered beneath him yet again, going boneless with her release, he let himself go, coming with a bitter groan and collapsing beside her, pulling her in to pillow against his shoulder.
He could cuddle his mortal enemy if he damn well pleased.
Buffy stared up at the ceiling of the basement, not entirely sure what had just happened, except that it had been like opening a closet door and finding a brand-new world on the other side, all forests and mountains and castles, instead of rows of blouses and shoes.
Finally, she rolled away from Spike’s soothing arms, struggling to stand on decidedly weak legs, and looked down at him. He gazed back up at her, eyes unreadable. But whatever that expression was… she didn’t think it was hate.
“We sure showed Angel,” she said at last.
He tucked his hands behind his head, chain clanking across the concrete, and gave her a smug grin. “That we did.”
“So… Yeah. I guess that’s it.”
“Suppose it is.” He stretched out one arm to trace a random design on the concrete, which inexplicably made Buffy want to kneel down and run her tongue up along his bicep.
They were really, really good arms.
“You want some blood?” she said instead. “Of course you want some blood. Why don’t I go get you some blood?” And she turned and fled up the stairs, pulling another Tupperware out of the freezer – holy crap , that was cold! She’d never opened the freezer naked before! – and popping it in the microwave, watching it spin around and around.
Her head spun right along with it.
When the microwave dinged, she checked the temperature and popped it in for another forty-five seconds, because it wasn’t like it was that much trouble to make it actually warm, and when she checked it the next time it was a lot better. She popped a fresh bendy straw in and headed for the basement.
She made sure to stop by the fridge and snag the leftover Reddi Whip.
Because now that she thought about it, she was pretty sure she was still feeling a little bit revenge-ey. She was almost positive. Might as well get it all out of her system now, right? Wouldn’t want any spare vengey-ness cropping up later and ruining a perfectly good day. Nope, the best plan was just to head back down and nip that right in the bud. And who could blame a girl for wanting a little whipped cream on a bud she happened to be nipping?
After all, it really wasn’t Thanksgiving without dessert.