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Stick Shift (Redux)

By Stultiloquentia

Buffy's not the intellectual type, but she's aware that her work has a certain symbology.

So when Spike, with bitten lip and eyes agleam, tugs her into the bedroom of their newly acquired London loft and pulls a leather-fitted strap-on out of a purple plastic bag, her first thought is, 'Holy crap,' and her second, 'I've already been staking vampires for ten years, how hard can this be?'

"Holy crap."

Spike snorts at her. "Don't be coy, Slayer."

"Coy, mister?" Buffy protests. "Excuse me, you're the one holding the—"

"You were tickling my ear not two nights ago, filthy girl, with questions about me and Angel. Got you hot, thinking about us that way."

"That—that was a purely scientific inquiry into the social dynamics of—" She can't get the rest of her disclaimer out past Spike's giggle fit. Buffy rolls her eyes and huffs, "Fine. Hot boy vampires," across Spike's mutter of, "Me an' Angel were never social."

Buffy eyes the equipment askance. "Spike?"

"Hm?"

"When I said, 'Hot boy vampires,' I didn't actually mean I thought I needed to be one."

His grin unfurls again. "Oh, no, love, I'm all in favour of your girly parts." One hand darts forward to illustrate, rudely. "Jus' thought you might enjoy switching gears, as it were. For a short spell. Different perspective, an' all."

"Ah-ha. Broaden my outlook."

"'S right. Brave new territories."

"Plough new terrain."

"Plant a flagpole or two."

Buffy glances down. "Spike...are you sure you're okay with the size of this flagpole? It looks. Um. Big." Though not, she notices, bigger than he is, the vain idiot.

Spike looks her right in the eye. "I know what I can take."

"You do," breathes Buffy.

"Want you to fuck me." He takes the dildo in his fist. Buffy stares at the casual, unthinking way he slides his thumb across the head. His voice has dropped an octave. "With Angel an' me, it was blood an' violence an' power, like I told you. But good, betimes." He pauses thoughtfully. "Necessary, even."

Buffy wonders if it's still about power, if this is about her or about him, but she can't figure out what questions to ask. Banter sidelined, she's startled by the vague feeling of disgust his request stirs in her, but can't pin down the reason. She's had anal sex and liked it, knows how much he likes her fingers up inside him while she's sucking him off. She hesitates. "I'll—I'll think about it. Rain check? I can't tonight, anyway; I told Neelam I'd do a club sweep with her while Vi's out sick."

She coaxes up a laugh. ""And frankly? It looks like it might take until midnight just to get me strapped into that thing."

Spike takes the excuse with suspicious demureness. "Sure, love." He lifts one ink-slash brow. "Quick shag in the shower before you dress?"

Gratefully, Buffy sidles nearer and runs her fingers up his chest. "Maybe. You have to answer a question first." The eyebrow goes fractionally higher, and Spike blinks once, slowly, indicating assent. She pauses to admire the lines of him, so economic and graceful when he's relaxed.

"Would I be getting your perspective or Angel's?" and she flings herself over the bed, pursued by a vampire.

*

In the club, writhing absently while scanning the crowd for vamps, Buffy ponders Spike's cock. She thinks about it when she comes home and finds a scribbled note saying Jay called and he's taken the wolf tranq down to the docks, see you in the morning. She thinks about it at brunch, watching Spike as he drizzles blood down the middle of his pancake, rolls it up and bites it like a jelly roll. Spike winks at her and licks his lips.

Buffy has always thought of herself as pretty girly in bed. She likes to be covered, likes the weight of a larger body against her belly and breasts. Occasionally she misses that feeling of petiteness, being with Spike.

Theirs is a bonier clash of bodies. For too long, he was too careful with her, too awed to find himself again cradled between her thighs, his touches sweet, full of startled laughter and delight, but holding back. Now he's cocky and suasive, leaves her more often than not with gasping lungs, flung limbs and a feeling of being slightly scorched. It suits him better. And her.

Buffy thinks about the unlikely things she likes so well, and the improbable man who gives them to her. She thinks about Spike's cock, and wonders what Spike thinks about.

*

"Holy crap." But Spike's giggles seem to have gotten lost. Buffy twitches self-consciously and eyes herself sideways in the mirror, then eyes her lover. "What?"

"Oh, Buffy..."

"You like it?"

"Yeah, love. I like." Spike swallows twice. "How does it feel?"

"Um." Buffy considers. "Sproingy?"

Spike's laugh sounds a shade hoarser than usual. "You are—you are—"

"Protuberant—"

"C'mere."

He reaches out and tugs her to him—by her cock. Buffy stumbles a little, laughs and braces her hands on his chest. He kisses her slowly, lasciviously, one hand on the back of her neck and the other still wrapped around the dildo, manipulating it up and down and in small, leisurely circles.

"Hnn," Buffy croons low in her throat and thrusts awkwardly back. She feels herself grow slick beneath the leather and silicone. Her palms are sweaty, too; when she rubs them across Spike's nipples he smiles against her lips. For a long moment they just make out, Spike still in his jeans, Buffy feeling the press of skin-warmed buckles more sharply than nakedness.

Spike kisses like talking. He has no preferred pattern. Every phrase is new. Buffy's whole body pays attention. The kiss seems to rise from somewhere deep inside him, tremoring through his hips and fingertips and soft palate and tongue. The proprietary curl of his tongue around her teeth says, Ha, ha, I've got you!, and the dip of his jaw, the acquiescence as she slips her own tongue into his mouth says, I'm yours.

Finally, Spike has to shuck his clothing, and there he is, his lovely cock suddenly looking funny and foreign above hers. She takes it in hand, reassured by its familiar weight and the bead of precome that she smears with her thumb. Feeling more in charge, she tightens her fist the way he likes and pumps him a few times before dropping down to cup his balls. "Yeah," breathes Spike. "Yeah." He's still playing with her added parts, both hands now skimming along the harness, probing between her thighs, measuring the curves of her ass, where he pauses to squeeze and pinch until she rocks closer, her cock sliding against his thigh and his kissing her belly. Spike thrusts his leg between hers and Buffy moves on it, letting the familiar rhythm pull them into heat and urgency.

It's a strange mix of new and known. The intimidating object between her legs is hardly big enough to make her lose her balance, but she feels unsteady anyway, and absurdly grateful for the surety of Spike's hands, the height and breadth of him. She kisses him with her eyes open. When his lashes flutter and she catches a close-range glint of blue, he pulls back and gives her a full-out grin, and she can't help smiling in return at her pretty, saucy man.

"You ready to slay me, then?" he growls, reaching to the nightstand and tucking the tube of slick into her hand.

She snorts at his yeah-I'm-sex-god growl, but she's been kissed too breathless to answer and he knows it. Their ankles hook, and then they're tipping down to the bed.

With a hot glance, Spike flips onto his front. "Grease me."

Buffy's mouth goes dry. It's not like she's never played with his—back there—before. She knows he likes it. He likes variety. He likes everything.

"Yeah?" she says, her voice gone husky. "Like this?" And she palms the curves of his ass and nudges his legs apart, and dips down with her tongue.

Spike yips in shock, and bucks hard. Pleased, Buffy laves and probes deeper, kneading his gluts. "Oh, my God, woman. Oh God, oh God."

He is the most responsive creature she's ever met, every twist and flicker setting free a brand new sound, from shaky gasps to dark, lush moans. It's flattering, and emboldening. Buffy twirls the cap from the lubricant with her thumb and butters up her fingers.

She feels like she should talk to him, tell him how sexy he is, and how astonishing that she should find him so, in this position, when only a few years ago she knows full well she'd have balked in ignorant distaste. But she can't, she doesn't know how to say it in the midst of things like this. She's always relied on the tilt of her head and the glitter of her eyes to tell him how she feels. Instead, she traces his spine with open-mouthed kisses, and revels in his words.

"Like that, just like—oh God, yes. Buffy. Yes. More, oh God, more, do it, another one. Yes."

She's got three slim fingers inside him, curved and sneaky, moving in and out and teasing his prostate in an unhurried way. She looks at Spike's arched neck and wonders if any of her other lovers would have gone for this, and bites down a giggle at the thought of Riley confronted with a strap-on. Maybe she's not giving him credit. Maybe Sam's a secret dom. She banishes the intruders from her bed, stroking a possessive hand across Spike's shoulder blades.

Fingers still buried deep, she coaxes him up onto his knees. She's almost forgotten about the dildo bobbing at her apex; now her awareness comes roaring back. She stares at Spike, heaving ribs and long expanse of back foreshortened behind two pale globes and a shiny red pucker, and back at the thing strapped to her body, pointing at its target like a bird dog's nose. Judiciously, Buffy covers it with a second coat of lube, then lines up behind Spike, handling him until she thinks he's crouched at the right height. Spike lets out a sob when Buffy pulls her fingers free. "Ready or not, here I come," she mutters, and gingerly presses forward.

"Wait," Spike orders. "Stop."

Buffy freezes. "What is it?"

"I'm good, we're good, but—" Spike scoots forward, flips onto his back and smiles up at her. "I think this'll be better." And Buffy's whole world tilts.

There he is. Buffy looks down at the man beneath her. How many times has she seen him like this, splayed on sheets and pillows—concrete, carpet, leather, grass, for that matter—waiting for her move like he's sure it's going to be her best yet? Heavy cock, light sweat, panting mouth, sleek torso: His beauty strikes her like a physical blow. No wonder, she thinks, guys get possessive. Asked, "Do you fuck your boyfriend?" she'd have—she'd have gone goggle-eyed and blushed, but thought immediately, "Yeah. Hard. Often. From the top, too—" But.... She looks down into Spike's open, lusty face. No wonder guys get protective. Being on her back, on the bottom, has never felt passive to Buffy; there's power in taking a man deep, squeezing and flexing around him until his face twists up and his body writhes. But from here, she could hurt him so very easily. She feels adult, responsible.

She murmurs, "Spike," and sinks down, not inside yet, just between his open arms, until her face hovers inches above his. She kisses the point of his cheek.

"Buffy," he returns.

"Gonna fuck you."

He's startled; his melting sigh belies his amused, indulgent words. "I gathered that was the plan."

She goes for the slick again, obsessively, while Spike shifts on the mattress, fumbles for a pillow. She courses her hands up his calves as he lifts them high around her torso. Eyes locked on her lover's, Buffy breathes, and pushes.

Spike's mouth is open and slack; he gives a low cry as she rocks forward, but nods, wide-eyed, when she stops and looks the question. His hands lift to grasp her shoulders, and he lifts his hips to impale himself further.

Buffy thrusts back in response and hits someplace nice, because Spike throws his head back and hiss-moans, fingers skittering on Buffy's arms. She does it again, amazed by the helpless sounds he's making.

She can feel him, but she can't; the dildo feels good—really good—against her as she rocks it into Spike's tight body, but it isn't her, not the way Spike is himself, warmed and pliant and so minutely attuned, when he puts his dick inside her. So she curls her spine and kisses him again, reaching and balancing with one hand on his chest and the other fisting his hair, and thrusts her tongue into his mouth in time with the movement of her hips.

There is only them. The world has diminished to this sphere of light, these salty, tidal bodies. Skin. Friction. Buffy breathes in and smells lavender and sex and sea grass. She even likes the undignified noises they're making, whimpers and slaps, the ones that used to make her wince and chuckle.

When she opens her eyes this time, she sees him already watching her. Buffy lifts her mouth to whisper closely, "Is this right? Am I good?" Spike only nods. The look on his face makes Buffy stutter and lose her rhythm. She recognizes it. It is present every time they make love, whether in a flash, moments before climax, or waxing and waning throughout an entire night. She's called it gratitude, and lust, and love. It's all of these. But from here, she sees it anew. She sees surrender.

Buffy resumes her movements, but slows them to a volcanic crawl, concentrating on the slippery drag of skin and slick prosthetic. She expected raunch. What she's got is revelation. Holding Spike's gaze, she tries to convey this to him. His eyes widen, making him look bizarrely innocent, and his short gasps intensify. Buffy pushes her body down and opens her lover wide, and understands that of all the ways he has cracked himself open for her sake, this is but the least.

It's over before she's ready. She wishes for days of this. She doesn't know how to pace herself or hit the proper angles to keep him simmering like he can do for her. A deep, unusual blush rises in his cheeks and throat—Spike shy, of all impossible things?—and she'd lick the sweat from the hollows of his collarbones if he weren't moving too desperately now for her to reach it. His eyes stay riveted to hers.

Spike shouts—"Buffy!"—and seizes up. Buffy stays transfixed as he comes, splattering their bellies with rich, sticky white. She leans down and presses her breasts against him, making herself as messy as he. His orgasm lasts a long time. He quietens in ripples and shudders, with small, nonsensical cries. And then she spasms abruptly, so caught up in his bliss that she's scarcely noticed her own cresting wave, and she tumbles forward into his loose arms.

Their lethargy isn't comfortable for long. Buffy wallows in a mindless, boneless purr for as long as she can before drying fluids and other vexations intrude. She groans and heaves like a seal, prompting one last lazy thrust from Spike as he untangles his fingers from her hair.

Their wrists and ankles brush in passing. Propped on his elbow, Spike helps Buffy with her buckles and pulls the toy away. Leaning in, he kisses her stomach and the arch of hip, lips smoothing over the rosy calligraphy the new leather left behind on her skin. She's still sopping wet. He licks her delicately with the tip of his tongue, then closes his mouth over her cunt and cleans her in earnest, sucking and humming like a contented animal.

Buffy sighs. "Hm, this thing isn't refundable, I guess." The corners of her lips twitch upward.

Spike lifts and props his chin on her pubic bone, eyes slitted, and makes an idle sound of negation. "Nah. Bet we could find some alternate uses in the kitchen, though. Juice your oranges in the morning."

"Oh, nummy."

"Or, wall art. Y'know—some people display moose heads, some people display—"

"Don't finish that," she swats and glares at him around a yawn.

"Sorry." Divested of her gear, Buffy reaches for a towel, which Spike drags unconcernedly across their middles. "Best earning its keep in here with us, then...?"

"I suppose. Mmm."

Buffy opens startled eyes as Spike surges back across the bed and her body, propping himself, for an instant, between her legs, looking down into her face. Something singular passes between them, acknowledgement, perhaps, or confirmation, though Buffy, sleep-ready, feels as yet unfit to define what has been acknowledged. She lifts a hand and touches his temple. Spike leans into her palm, then turns and softly bites the heel of her thumb.

Spike banishes the small, warm light from the bedside lamp. Buffy grabs his shoulder and invites herself back into his space, and he wraps and rolls them underneath the sheet. They kiss sloppily. In the curling darkness, it's impossible to tell whose limbs are whose, whose sly tongue leads and whose gives chase, and which of the two, when they drift to sleep, enfolds the other close.

August 11, 2006
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