RockStarPeach

Title: Just ask

Pairing: Spike/Buffy

Rating: Adult

Summary: It’s a few months after NFA, and Spike decides to surprise Buffy by taking her up on her offer for him to come to England. They don’t really say much. Shameless schmoop, with a dash of porn.

A/N: Written as a mod challenge over at nekid_spike for the lovely xc_runner who asked for ‘How about some fluffy and naughty Post-NFA Spuffy christen their new London flat the right way.’ Uh, I gave it a shot, but it kind of came out more ‘Spike shows up to surprise Buffy and they have desperate sex’. Hope you like it anyway, honey!

***

Spike sat on the overstuffed chair in the corner, garish orange, and irritatingly comfortable, like you’d never want to get up again once you got settled in. It was just her taste, and he drummed his fingers in a nervous rhythm on the arms. Waited.

She’d invited him, sure, and she’d even sounded pretty genuine about it, but they’d been apart for a while, hadn’t seen or heard from each other in so long, and despite his bravado, Spike had never been one for thinking too highly of himself. He had the niggling suspicion that she was only being polite with her invitation, even though he should have known her a lot better than to think she was one for false politeness.

Her new flat was small, just enough room for one, maybe two if the two were on the close side, so he understood why Dawn spent most of her time elsewhere. One bedroom, cramped kitchen and living room that was barely big enough to fit the preposterous chair he was sitting on, along with a loveseat and a television, but he could picture her happy here.

She must be, if she was planning on staying, indefinitely.

She was, she’d said, when Spike had called her a few months ago, after he’d joined up with Team Angel to beat back the demon hordes. Illyria had mysteriously disappeared, and Charlie lay dead at his feat, Wes rotting on the floor of some fancy downtown low-rise.

Angel had survived, and Spike wasn’t going to waste any effort caring about that. At least, he wasn’t going to waste any effort admitting to himself, or anyone else, that he cared about that. But the pouf had taken off straight away once they were finished, let his sword fall from his suddenly limp fingers as he looked at Spike over the dead bodies of demonic soldiers, glanced briefly at Blue, then down at Charlie’s still form.

He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t nodded or waved, or made any sort of expression whatsoever, just looked at Spike, hard, blinked, and then turned, walked away, and all before his sword had even hit the ground.

Probably off on one of his ‘the world is out to get me and I need to be alone so’s I don’t hurt anyone, and can brood in peace’ kicks, and they wouldn’t hear from him for another several years.

He was such a tit.

But, Buffy deserved to know what had happened to all of them, even if he was nervous that she wouldn’t care, not anymore. He hadn’t even gotten to the part about Angel yet when she’d asked him to come to London, to be part of their little gang again. To be with them. With her, she left unsaid, but Spike thought he’d heard the meaning in her words. He hoped, anyway.

Which was why he was there at the moment, after saying he wasn’t sure, and that he needed to think about it. It wasn’t that he had anything better to do, really. Not anymore. Not with him the only one left after team Angel had been so monumentally stupid, and gotten themselves all either killed or guilt-ridden, but he wasn’t sure how well he’d fit in now with the Scoobies.

Hell, they weren’t even Scoobies anymore. They were Slayers, Watchers, working for a rebuilt council and after everything that had gone on back in Sunnydale, he wasn’t quite sure of his welcome.

Buffy would be happy enough to see him he figured, given she’d invited him and all, but he wasn’t sure about the rest, and though he tried to act like he didn’t much care what people thought about him, the truth was, he couldn’t handle the rejection, not at the moment.

But, Buffy had asked, and ultimately, that was all he really needed, to make him do absolutely anything at all. If he could die saving the world for her, he could handle facing Red, and Niblet, and even the Whelp.

The Watcher on the other hand… Yeah, Spike thought it might be best to avoid him, for a while. And if he never saw Andrew again, it would be too soon. But he wasn’t here for any of them, and he tried not to think about them.

He was here for Buffy.

He’d been trying not to think about her too, ever since he fell in love with her he’d been trying not to think about her. When he’d gotten his soul he’d tried not to think about her, when he’d ended up ghosted and stuck to Angel in some kind of cosmic joke he’d tried not to think about her, and now that he was alone, again, he really tried not to think of her. He failed.

He showed up without warning, and got Dawn to let him inside, giving her the lip, and the eyes, asking her to keep mum about him being there, because he wanted to surprise her sister. Dawn had always been a sucker for that romantic crap, and she sort of lived with Buffy, sometimes, when she wasn’t at her boyfriend’s house, so luckily her invite worked.

Buffy should be home any minute, or should have, according to the phone call he’d gotten from Dawn about fifteen minutes ago, saying she had left Council Headquarters, and was on her way. He did his best to relax, though he probably could have done a better job if she’d had any scotch in her apartment, instead of whatever fruity flavoured vodka shite she was on this week.

Worse than bloody Angel.

He heard her footsteps coming down the hall an eternity before he heard the key turning in the lock, and he swallowed a couple of times, nothing but dry air, and shook himself. Showtime.

“’Bout time, pet,” Spike tutted after the door had opened and closed, and he heard five, then six soft footfalls. He’d learned from the past half an hour studying the layout of the apartment that it probably meant that Buffy had come inside enough that she was out of the hallway and into the living room, where she could see him.

He looked casually down at the watch on his wrist, like he was disappointed she’d kept him waiting so long, but mostly he was just scared to meet her eyes. He was smiling though, and he tilted his head up just a little, thankful he couldn’t blush much.

“Spike…” she said, eyes wide and open, jaw lowered just enough that he could see the slight tremble in her lower lip. Fuck, he really hoped she wasn’t going to cry. He didn’t think he could handle that.

“Oh my God, Spike.” She dropped her purse to the floor, took another few steps, but stopped with a good distance between them. Spike could tell she was tense, movements jerky and unsure, like she wanted to go him and run from him at once.

They had a lot to talk about, a lot to work out. Things to decide, and plans to make, and after just one look at her, he knew what his would be. He’d be with her. He’d stay, no matter what else he had to do, and based on that hopeful look in her eyes, intense and shining bright with wetness, she was in full agreement.

That kind of talk could all wait though.

Because right now, she looked so beautiful, tired and worn, hair flat and stringy from a day at the council, probably working out or training other Slayers, and way better than she could ever hope to look when she tried to make herself up, be someone she wasn’t. And Spike had missed her. Bloody hell he’d missed her, and his whole body was tingling, need prickling at his fingers, and hair and his fucking nose.

Every goddamn part of him was on fire, and she was the only thing that could make it bearable.

He stood, hands falling to his sides, fists balled tight, and he took a step. “Buffy,” was all he said, and he blinked, and she licked her lips and smiled, sniffled a little, and that was all it took. He was on her in a blink, body pressed close against hers, hands tight around her, one on her back, pulling her snug, the other on the back of her neck, fingers teasing the soft strands of her hair.

She gasped and turned her head up, face stuck tight to his, nose sliding along the side of his jaw, and cheek. Her mouth opened, and for a second he thought she was going to say something, because her breath caught briefly, but then her arms were around him, and her mouth was on his, and he thought that maybe he’d died in that alley after all, and this was heaven.

She kept on kissing him, lips pressed to his even though they were pulled tight around her teeth in a wide smile, making the kisses half-assed, and hard. But still some of the best he’d ever experienced.

They took a few fumbling steps together, her legs working them sideways and back, feet tangling with his while they traded breaths, lips resting against one another’s, puckering every so often to trade awkward kisses. Around a corner, down a hallway, through an open door, and then Spike’s legs were bumping into a bed.

Buffy’s bed.

He pulled back from her slightly, licked his lips and looked around. Buffy’s room.

It wasn’t all that different from her room back in Sunnydale, brightly coloured walls, girlish trinkets on the dresser and vanity, that tattered, stuffed pig taking up residence on an overly fluffy pillow. It felt much too familiar, and so unfamiliar all at once, and it was like a punch to the gut, that Buffy had been moving on and living her life, getting settled into something new, and he hadn’t been there.

He could have. She would have let him back in her life any time if he’d only picked up the phone a little earlier, but he’d been too scared.

He was here now though, and he wasn’t going anywhere if he could help it, and he was going to make up for lost time.

She was looking at him, face turned up and so beautiful in the low light, like she was waiting for him to do something, or say something, show her that he was really here and he wasn’t going anywhere. He reached out and pulled her to him, tilted his head down and crushed his lips against hers, hard and insistent at first, like he was answering the question she hadn’t asked, and then softer, tongue darting out to slide past her lips.

Shaky hands moved then, gently over her shoulders and down her sides, unnaturally cool fingers slipping under her shirt to skitter nervously over the warm skin of her stomach and ribs, slowly raising up her shirt, to give her time to realise what he was doing, and stop it if it wasn’t what she wanted just now.

It had been a while since they’d seen each other, and despite her initial enthusiasm, he wasn’t sure if she wanted to jump straight back into bed with him.

But then she let out what sounded suspiciously like a relieved sigh against his lips, short little bark of laughter before pressing a quick succession of closed mouth kisses against his lips, and her hands were on his belt buckle, working it furiously open. Thank God.

The next few seconds were a blur of superhuman strength and speed as they undressed themselves and each other, zippers tugged roughly and buttons popping and if Spike decided that just tearing Buffy’s underwear off with a deft twist of his wrists instead of taking the extra second and half to slide them off the proper way was a good idea, well, he’d just have to buy her new ones.

Black ones, maybe with a bit of lace.

She was on top of him on the bed in the next second, her small frame barely covering his, kissing her way up his naked body, gooseflesh rising up in the wake of her touch until she was straddling him, grinding her hot core against his hard cock.

He was on top of her seconds later, need overwhelming any intentions he might have had to make this slow and sweet, the reunion he’d dreamed about for them in his more womanly moments. That’s what he got, he supposed, spending so much time around Angel. He was bound to rub off on him. And not in the fun way.

He worked his way between her legs, and she helped by opening them up and lifting, flats of her feet fitted solidly against his calves, and he held her writhing form in place with one hand around her wrists, using the other to guide himself inside.

“Fuck, Buffy,” he panted, the words getting caught in his throat as he struggled for breath he didn’t need. He’d had some great sex before, even recently, but he’d never loved anyone in the world like he loved Buffy, and the emotional combined with the physical was making this easily one of the best moments of his life. Un or otherwise.

“God, so good, pet,” he praised her, and she moaned for him, so hot and dirty sounding that Spike knew it wasn’t going to last long, when he pushed into her harder. She squirmed underneath him, hips bucking in time with his, swivelling slightly to change the angle when she wanted it, and Spike fucked her hard, and fast, raining light, loving kisses down over her face and neck and lips, stark contrast the motions of the rest of his body.

He ran his hand up her thigh and over her hip, across her belly to settle just over her pelvis, ducked his head down to bite sharply on her left nipple, and his hand slipped down. She cried out and bucked when his thumb slid over her mound, legs raising to wrap around his waist, and she flipped them, Slayer strength and the element of surprise working in her favour.

And then it didn’t last very long at all.

She moved over him, lifting and falling, strong thighs trembling with effort and desire, perfect globes of her tits bouncing as she did, shaking and jiggling. Her head was thrown back slightly, eyes half closed and her bottom lip caught lightly between her teeth while Spike jerked his hips up, thumb still working circles, faster and faster now over her clit.

Spike had his free hand on her hip, to keep her steady or to keep himself grounded, he wasn’t sure, but he could feel himself shaking, almost flying apart, because he loved her so fucking much and he needed to come more than he’d ever needed anything, at that particular moment.

His balls drew up, tight and high against his body, and his cock went even more rigid inside her, pulsing and throbbing, surrounded by warmth and wetness, and yeah, Spike was a moron for staying away even this long.

“Yes,” Buffy whispered, eyes screwing shut tight and head dropping down. The motion of her hips became erratic, jerked forward twice, then back slowly, then lost any kind of rhythm at all, and her walls clenched around him and he knew she was coming. “Yes, fuck, Spike.”

And then so was he. He waited for her to ride it out, waited until she loosened and sagged, then he held her hips tight in his hands and bucked up five times, six, then cried out, wordless and keening, and spilled inside her, completely lost in pleasure, floating and sinking.

She fell on top of him, gasping for breath, and his arms went tight around her. They were both smiling, laughing even, through the blissful haze of orgasm, and Spike rolled them so they were on their sides, facing each other.

“Hi,” she said, sweet and almost embarrassed, cheeks flushed from exertion and tracing her fingers over his jaw.

“Hi yourself,” Spike answered, pulling her close and laying a meaningful kiss to her forehead. “I… I missed you, Buffy.”

She barked out another laugh, like that was somehow pretty funny, even though it shouldn’t be. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she admitted quietly, ducking her eyes. “You said you didn’t know, and I thought…”

“Shhh,” he cooed, cupped her face in his hand and tilted it up again. “’Course I came. You asked.”

And really, that was all it ever took.

END