They faced each other across their bed. They'd been facing each other all damn day; the weirdness should have settled, at least a little bit, by now, but no: still weird. Weirder.
Buffy seemed all right; she was bouncing a little on her toes, and, oh, God help him, there was even a twitch of a smile lurking around her mouth. Her eyes were bright and sharp.
Spike took a deep, jitter-quelling breath and let his eyes roam again over his girlfriend's body. Slight, wiry frame. Mane of gleaming gold hair framing a surprisingly strong jaw line. Sweet, pouting countenance. Stubble. No breasts.
"I am so ready," said Buffy, in a tawny port voice an octave below her usual range, "to be back in this room. You have no idea." She kicked off her flip-flops and ran her hands through her hair. One of Spike's grey t-shirts rode up on her tummy and a pair of Dawn's scruffy, straight-cut jeans hung low on her hips.
"And that wizard what'shisface? Can go stew in his stupid cauldron. Month-long ritual my firm and ... actually slightly-perkier-than-usual ass...." She blinked, twisting her neck around, then resumed the original thought train: "Wait till Willow gets here. When's Willow getting here again?"
It was just a variation on the theme Buffy had been singing all day. "Dunno," said Spike. "Some time Thursday," because, startling as Buffy's sudden case of man parts was, the undead alligators in French Guiana were more dire.
Buffy shed her token complaint along with wristwatch, phone and concealed weaponry, and sidled closer to Spike. It was impossible to tell from her smooth gait that she'd spent the past twenty-and-then-some years of her life working with a completely different centre of gravity. She'd adjusted in minutes. It had freaked Spike right the hell out.
Buffy stopped in front of him and laced her fingers through his belt. "Hi." Her lips were curving again.
"'Lo there."
"So-o. I've been trying to take this in stride, you know, because on a scale of one to dead this barely registers. Willow will fix it.
"I've been thinking that in the meantime, maybe—" she paused and tucked her tongue behind her teeth, and Spike was shocked to recognize his own gesture, "there are advantages we could take?" She moved into the gap between them, flashed her gaze down and then up again beneath dark lashes, and tipped her face up.
Well, there was no resisting that. Spike leaned in—but not down, not so far—and kissed her mouth.
He found himself looking for differences and finding similarities. Buffy's lips were a little wider, but no firmer nor more demanding than they always were. She wrapped one arm around his waist and lifted the other to cradle his skull.
The kiss heated fast, under Buffy's lead. She detached long enough to strip her shirt over her head, then dove back in to slide both hands underneath Spike's tee. She licked a stripe up his neck, and purred into his ear, "I want. I want to do you, Spike. I've been thinking all day about what it would be like to do you with a real cock—instead of Mr. Pointy." Her tongue flicked out, touching him. "Can we do that?"
Spike hesitated.
He didn't mean to, and it was only a second before he relaxed his body and turned to nuzzle her temple, but Buffy noticed: a hesitation where she had expected none, and she pulled off with a frown.
"Spike?"
"Nothin', love. 'S good. Kiss me some more."
Her hand landed on his chest. "Uh-huh. Spike, you just froze stiff; I felt you." He could see the wheels chugging in her head. Confusion. Why on earth should this be scary, since she'd already banged him to paradise and gone—repeatedly—with a silicone strap-on currently residing in the toy chest under their bed?
"I just— I—" Spike stumbled.
There was no good way to say that Buffy's male body didn't turn him on. Spike wished to think of himself as modern enough, cool enough, in love enough to ignore the packaging, make love to the spirit it housed.
He didn't understand himself, or have a clue what to say, and he wasn't the go-to guy for logical analysis anyway.
"Huh," said Buffy—a small, reflective puff of air as she absorbed his silence. She gave his wrist a squeeze, then broke away and wandered over to the mirror. For a minute, she just stood there and stared.
She had the sort of unthreateningly pretty face that belonged on the male lead of a TV drama aimed at teenage girls—or gay men, if any of the networks gave a flying fuck about catering to gay men. The effect was spoilt by the sharp steadiness of her eyes.
Spike dropped his eyes to Buffy's crotch, where she was toying with the button of her jeans. He sat down on the end of the bed and said, "Take them off."
Buffy glanced back at him, and he let his hand fall into his own lap. Seemingly reassured, she wasted no time unfastening her jeans and letting them and her silly, cheap briefs fall to the floor. She ran a solitary finger down the length of her penis.
"It's not very big," she noted, frowning vaguely.
Spike had to laugh. "Neither are you. But hey, y'never know, maybe you're a grower." Mutely, he quirked a brow: gonna find out?
Buffy met his eyes over her shoulder, but her own cock was too fascinating for her to hold the gaze. She palmed it firmly, squeezed, backed off and ran her fingers around its circumference and down to her balls, mapping their shape.
Spike sat still as a statue on the end of his bed and watched his girl fondle her dick in the mirror.
Her foreskin appeared to amuse her. She pinched it, grinning a little, rolled it up and back a few times. When she thumbed just underneath the head, her mouth opened and she licked her lips like she was thinking about what lips could do on just that spot. Then she spit pragmatically into her palm—God, what a changed woman she was from the girl he'd fallen for in Sunnydale—made a proper fist around her length and began to tug.
Buffy's abs rippled and her mouth dropped open a little more; she braced one arm against the mirror. Buffy was never especially loud about her pleasure, but she began to make the tiny ah sounds that meant that she was getting somewhere. Her hair swung forward, fine strands stirred by her breath, and summer sweat pricked on her skin.
Spike abruptly needed to be there.
He cat-footed up behind her and tugged once so she fell back against his body. The fit was different, not as cosy. The enveloping, possessive posture Spike liked to assume seemed off somehow. Unsuitable. Never mind. Spike turned and pushed Buffy lightly over to the bed. She sat willingly, legs splayed, and looked up at him, eyes limpid, lips parted. Spike reached out to touch the sandy stubble on her jaw. He ran a thumb over her lower lip and her tongue curled out immediately, drawing him into the familiar, wet heat of her mouth. His dick twitched.
Buffy released him with a long, pointed lick, crab-walked back toward the headboard and propped herself against the swell of pillows there.
Okay. This Spike knew how to do. He flicked open his fly, shed his jeans and crawled after her onto the big bed. Buffy reclined quietly, letting him go where he liked. Spike didn't stop to think about it. It wasn't the time for a flashy, five-act performance. He settled down between her legs and fed her cock into his mouth.
Buffy inhaled strongly, but her exhale shook. "Oh, wow. Oh, that's—" Her head thumped back, but then with an effort she raised it again. She wanted to watch him.
It had been a long damn time since Spike had done this, but he knew every last nerve ending on Buffy's girl self. It was just an exercise in translation. Come on, Spike, he told himself. Step up. He put his tongue to work, pulling most of the way off so he could tease and push at the sensitive glans. Buffy groaned above him, and a sweet surge of pride washed through him at the sound. He remembered the sharp feeling of power he'd known, years ago, the very first time he had made Buffy come apart under his tongue.
Buffy spread her legs further, a blatant invitation. Spike paused mid-suck and remembered that he had two hands. Slightly chagrined, he curled his left around her balls, gently massaging to gauge her receptivity. When she moaned happily, he pressed a little harder and curved his fingers around to stroke her perineum.
How weird this was. How amazing, really, that she trusted him to know and take care of this strange body with all its vulnerable parts. He bobbed his head, tucking his lips carefully over his teeth, and made love to Buffy's cock as best he knew how.
"I think," Buffy panted, "I think I'm gonna—" Spike sucked harder, until Buffy lurched and dug her fingers into his hair.
"Pull off; I want to see!"
Spike released her with a harsh breath and replaced his mouth with his fist. Buffy didn't need the help, though; Spike jerked her once and she bucked hard and wailed his name, shooting copiously all over herself.
Buffy had been beautiful to Spike long before he loved her. Fighting or dancing, poised in solitary stillness or surrounded by the people who followed her, she was brightness, she was grace. And then one day she had let him inside, past the surface tension, the wakeful grace she wore like a breastplate. Buffy letting go was the most beautiful thing he would ever see.
"Oh, God," Spike whimpered, and reared up, frantic to get his hand on his own cock. As Buffy lay gasping, Spike crouched over her, one fist braced on the mattress and the other, wet with her come, sliding fast and slick on his straining erection.
He came with her name on his lips, just like he always did.
Spike's instinct was to collapse. Instead, he blearily opened his eyes and gazed at the picture beneath him: the finely sculpted male chest streaked with come. Why should that sight seem dirtier, more jarring, than the same on her breasts, a mess he loved to make and hardly thought twice about? He was getting pretty tired of the nonsense in his head.
Buffy brought him back to her, caressing his face. "Spike," she said, "that was amazing."
Spike swallowed. "Yeah. It was."
Cupping his head with both hands, she pulled him in, took his mouth. Spike submitted to gravity and sank down on top of her, feeling their slippery spendings cool on his skin.
Buffy kissed him lusciously. Then she pulled back just far enough to nuzzle his cheek: a tiny kiss, a sweet rubbing of noses, and then one quick, hard, deliberate rasp: his skin burned in her wake. Buffy smiled and brought her lips back to his. Against his mouth, she whispered, "But I'm gonna fuck you in a little while."
"Yeah," Spike agreed. "I guess you probably are."