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Disclaimer: this is a non-profit, amateur effort not intended to infringe on the rights of Joss Whedon, the WB, or any other copyright holders of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
by The Brat Queen
Okay, this is for harmonyfb who wanted dark/light/wherever my muse took me Spuffy. Also for Buffybot for whom I hope my Spike was not a weiner.
Takes place during s6 Buffy.
There'd been halfway tolerable music at the Bronze that night. Local group that Spike hadn't known from piss, but the beat was the same as a thousand others. Something dark, primal, *alive*.
Miracle of bloody miracles the Scoobies hadn't been around. He didn't know why and he didn't care. They weren't there, which meant he could be there.
She'd been standing by the bar when he'd walked in, pulled into the club by the same gut instinct that had, barring one or two embarrassing little side-treks, kept him unalive and well for this long. The urge to "go here" which worked hand in hand with his only other true urge, which was "why not?"
He'd sidled up to her and knew right away this wasn't the night for the usual merry-go-round of quips and half-hearted banter that passed for Buffy's attempts at dismissing him. She hardly moved when he came near, instead remaining caught in a state that was nearly catatonic, like the way Dru used to get when chasing after the rainbows in crystals, except without Dru's comparatively ironic joie de vivre.
It was enough to make him sick in the gut.
So he'd dragged her out onto the dance floor. Somewhat literally as he had to hook a finger through one of her belt loops and tug her along with him like a parent with a child. *That* finally brought a protest out of her, but he ignored it, having learned from a century plus some of experience that nothing ever good came from humoring a sick mind.
Token protest number two came as he'd put his hands on her hips and started to move. But she didn't leave and that was the key thing. Besides, protests from her never meant stop. They meant keep going, because she was waking up.
And, much like Spike himself, the Slayer wasn't exactly a morning person. But once you got her blood pumping - oh yeah. Worth the wait.
Getting her going was always the tricky part. Each night it was a different thing. All that ever remained certain was the only thing that really mattered: it had to be him.
Tonight's wake-up call was combat. A personal favorite of his, if he had to admit. He knew it as soon as Buffy snapped out of the inside of her skull enough to shove at him with the flat of her hand, pushing him away like he was little more than a frat boy invading her personal space at a party. With clipped, well-worn tones she told him to leave her be.
Which was fine enough. He used just as clipped tones to parrot along with her the part about needing to run home and take care of the others.
The spark of anger that glared from her eyes was reward enough.
They kept at it then, her thrusting at him with claims of work, responsibility, practically even throwing in the parts about needing to be home by a respectable hour for the good of America and apple pie.
He parried back with laughter, mockery and, finally, outright molestation. Each volley hit its mark, shaking her out of her core, making her move, making her react, making her *feel*.
She showed her gratitude - at least that's what Spike liked to consider it - by grabbing *him* by the front of his pants and hauling him out into the alleyway until a handy pile of rubbish obscured them from the view of the hangers-on by the club door.
Still, supernatural senses all his own told him they weren't really alone out there. Not in Sunnydale. Not past midnight. But it didn't matter. Because there was something far more dangerous in that alleyway, and she was currently writhing her body against him.
Time for the next phase of the evening then, and this was the part that could last for hours if he played his cards right. A Slayer's anger could stoke a deep fire, and few things sparked that flame like frustrated urges. Shirts were torn, knickers were, as usual of late, helpfully absent, but even with his cock buried balls-deep inside of her he knew it didn't mean the fun had to be over. Instead now *he* stilled, pressing her up against the graffiti-decorated wall with the patience that only decades spent with the highly distractible cock-tease that was Dru could give him until finally, like an ice flow come spring, Buffy cracked and began moving. Her hands spidered up onto the wall, grasping the bricks for some kind of purchase as she grimaced and groaned and rocked against him, working his cock like a cowgirl atop a bucking bronco as she strained to find the friction and stimulation she craved.
With a deep-seated satisfaction that could only come from victory, Spike thrust back into her then, ramming her even harder against the wall, smiling even a little cruelly as her head rapped against it because he knew even *that* only furthered his goals. Hell - *her* goals, even if she wouldn't be woman enough to admit it. The goal to get her going. Get her not just feeling but *wanting*. Pull her out of her funk and get her back into the real world that had hopes and needs and desires.
He pawed her breasts, grabbing at them in a way that would have meant a certain mastectomy for a mortal, but for a Slayer simply meant beautiful bruises and cries of - oh yeah, no mistaking it, delight. Mouths met, lips locked, teeth came out to play and in the end even Spike couldn't tell if he was tasting his own blood or hers anymore.
Finally, with a three-chord gasp that stuttered out of her like the start of a song, she came, moaning his name on the downbeat in a way that twisted his own balls and got a cry out of him. They slumped against the building, her breathing heavily, him simply limp inside of her, until her legs untangled from around him and she pulled herself off.
She got dressed again, much as she could, and gave him a quick glance as she left.
Spike zipped himself up, drank in the scent of her that still dangled in the air, and headed for home.
It wasn't love. Not on her part anyway. But it was hate and that was a start.
Any emotion was better than none at all.