Revenge

The evening was nice for Buffy, though she doubted that Spike enjoyed it much. When he heard what movie Dawn and she had chosen he gave her a nasty look that promised retribution, both for the outfit she had put on to tease him and for the movie he was being dragged to. Yet she didn’t really mind. His ways to get revenge could be quite interesting and inventive, and always pleasurable.

As Spike drove them home, they were all discussing college. Dawn would be starting at Sunnydale University six weeks later. For a while, she had been thinking about moving to LA, and Buffy had no doubt what, or rather who, she would have studied there. In the end, financial considerations had kept her on the Hellmouth. The money from the Magic Box allowed all three of them to live – or unlive – comfortably, especially with the internet order site developed by Willow and run from their home on Revello Drive by the two vampires. But tuition was still expensive, and Dawn staying in Sunnydale was the most financially sound option.

Both Spike and Buffy were taking summer classes at the local community college. They had started evening classes two years before, though the older vampire had been rather difficult to convince at first. They usually had classes three nights a week and were always out before ten, which left them ample time for patrols. For the summer semester, they were taking a class about mythology and literature together, and Buffy was also following a course on creative writing. For some reason, Spike had been inflexible about that one and refused to take it with her. Instead, he was patrolling somewhat grudgingly by himself once a week when Buffy’s class met. But she knew he enjoyed it. The demon in him loved the hunt, and she understood it very well because her demon loved it too.

It was still difficult, sometimes, to think of herself as a vampire. Yes, there was blood in the fridge, expired human bags that Spike got from the hospital every couple of weeks, complemented sometimes by pig blood from the butcher if the supply ran low. Yes, there were heavy curtains on all the windows of the house, and she had long ago lost her golden Californian tan. She missed the sun, but even before being turned she had been used to the darkness and shadows that were her territory as a Slayer. Yes, there were bite marks on her from her Sire, just like her marks were on him. These weren’t about blood or feeding, they were about sharing, renewing the link between them. But despite the blood, the bites and the lack of sun, she sometimes forgot.

She had been trained to think of vampires as emotionless killers. She was a vamp now, but she still had emotions, strong ones, and she didn’t consider herself a killer. Angel had been the first to bring gray to her world of white and black, and Spike had later done the same. The difference between them was summarized in one word: soul. Angel was good because he had one; Spike was good despite not having one. She sometimes wondered which of them she would have been like if she hadn’t awakened, that fateful night, with a soul. She very much feared she would have been some kind of Angelus. Spike had a reason not to kill. She was his reason. What reason would she have had? That was just one of those ‘what if’ questions she still thought of every so often, aware that she would never know the answer to it.

They reached home at last and Spike parked in the driveway. He still played poker and pool, indiscriminately with humans or demons, and had saved up his winnings for a while to get a second hand car. He was still whining every now and then about his long lost De Soto, but he wouldn’t let Buffy drive the new favorite. He had taught Dawn to drive with it despite the painted windows, and let her borrow it sometimes. But after one lesson he had declared Buffy unfit to drive. She had made a show of sulking and pouting about it, until he felt sorry and made it up to her. Yet, in truth, she didn’t care. Why learn to drive when she had her own personal chauffeur?

Dawn told her goodnights as they entered the house and went directly to her room, while Buffy followed Spike in the kitchen. He set some blood to warm in the microwave, two mugs even if she hadn’t asked. Then he beckoned her to come to him and wrapped her in his arms.

“You say I’m a cheater, but you don’t play fair luv.”

He punctuated his words by playful nips along her exposed shoulders that made her shudder in delight. His hands were drawing soft patterns on her back.

“What did I do?” she asked innocently.

“As if you didn’t know,” he growled softly, pulling her closer to him. “See what you did to me?”

A soft noise escaped her lips as he ground his hips against her, making her feel the hardness contained in his jeans. She rested her head against his shoulder, simply enjoying the feel of him.

“I did nothing,” she said, more weakly that she would have wanted.

“Liar,” he hissed in her ear before pulling her earlobe into his mouth.

His right hand slid down her thigh, took hold of the leather and came back up slowly, pulling the skirt upward until it was gathered at her waist. The same hand plunged back down, under the skirt this time, caressing his way toward the apex of her legs. She gasped lightly as he cupped her bare mound, just pressing against her flesh.

“You did nothing, you said,” he whispered against her cheek as he kissed his way toward her mouth. “Wearing that outfit and nothing else under it doesn’t qualify as ‘nothing’ to me.”

His tongue ran along her parted lips but made no intrusion into her mouth. In the same way, his hand was still flush against her but unmoving. For several seconds they remained immobile, just watching each other, until the microwave cycle ended with an obnoxious beeping. As if she had been waiting for a signal, Buffy grabbed his head with both hands and pulled his lips to hers for a deep kiss. Their tongues battled for an instant then danced, gliding along each other, old friends always eager to renew the contact.

Seemingly of its own volition, Buffy’s hand reached between them, unzipping and unbuttoning his jeans before wrapping around his erection. Spike groaned into her mouth and pushed her against the closest wall. He grabbed her hips and lifted her, slipping into her easily as he brought her back down. They both gasped as he stretched her slowly until she enveloped him like a glove. Instinctively, Buffy wrapped her legs around him, pulling him even closer if that was possible. They broke the kiss and stared at each other for an instant, the same thought and memory running through both their minds.

“Don’t bring the house down,” Buffy said with a grin.

Her Sire’s response was to claim her lips in a forceful kiss as he thrust into her, crushing her between the wall and his body. She moaned softly, her fingers tangling in his hair in a tight grip. Again and again he slammed into her, his hands clasping her hips hard enough to leave bruises, his lips never parting from hers and capturing all her cries. As he accelerated his thrusting, she knew he was close to his release and thoughtlessly shifted to game face. Instantly, his tongue was brushing against her fang, liberating his blood in her mouth. However often she drank from him, it was always a shock, the flavor and force so unlike any other blood. As she started convulsing around him, she purposefully nicked her own tongue, returning his gift in kind. Immediately he followed her over the edge, falling with her into the abyss of pleasure.

The kiss lingered, soft and tender now that the urgency had been satisfied. Finally, with a sigh, Spike pulled away and allowed her to regain her footing.

“I love you so bloody much,” he whispered in her ear, his unnecessary breathing ragged.

“I love you too,” she mumbled back.

Still trembling a little, she leaned against him, rubbing her face in the crook of his neck. Never breaking the contact, he straightened their clothing a little before gathering her in his arms and carrying her to their bedroom. The blood mugs remained forgotten in the microwave until the following morning.