She is waiting. Moonlight spills across the sheets, stains the sheets silver, dusts her skin.
Across the room, he is silent. It is uncanny how he can stand there, so still. That’s what it is to be dead, she thinks. She isn’t being ironic.
There’s a tap at the door and then light; she narrows her eyes. She hears whispering. Pssst. Psssst. Psssst. Then Spike is kneeling beside her on the bed.
“I don’t need these,” she says. She jiggles her wrists a little and the handcuffs clank against the metal of the bed rails.
“You might,” Spike replies. “’Sides, no one wears cuffs as well as you do.”
Angel steps out of the shadows then. “I don’t know about that, Spike. You don’t look bad all chained up yourself.”
“Sod off,” Spike says without taking his eyes off Buffy.
“Hello, Angel,” Buffy says.
Angel nods. He meets her eyes for a fraction of a second and then shifts his gaze down, down, down. It feels like he is touching her.
“Are you ready?” Angel whispers.
They’ve been together so long now. Buffy has left her girlhood behind: the coltish legs and supple flesh. She doesn’t say her age because it freaks her out. The numbers are meaningless anyway because she never thought she’d make it past twenty-one. Here she is, though, cuffed to her bed, naked in the moonlight, living the dream.
“What’s funny, love?” Spike is naked now and there’s nothing funny about that.
“You might be,” Spike cautions, his eyes cutting across the room where Angel is sitting in a chair, long legs crossed at the knee.
“Are we playing good cop, bad cop?” Buffy asks.
Buffy is impatient to get started. She lifts her head a little and tries to catch Angel’s eye. He’s just sitting there. He hasn’t really changed at all, but he looks even more beautiful than he did when she first met him.
She drops her head back onto the flat pillow and takes a breath, counts to three. In the beginning she used to spend a lot of time trying to figure out how they got to this place: Spike, Angel, Buffy. At sixteen she couldn’t have imagined it; at twenty-one she could imagine it, but only in a vague slightly surreal, tickle-in-her-tummy way. Now it’s just the way it is: puzzle pieces that fit together with hardly any effort – well, hardly any effort on her part. She doesn’t talk to them about it, thinking maybe that the delicate balance they’ve achieved will be knocked off kilter.
Spike’s face looms over hers, his blue eyes narrowed, his tongue pushing up against the underside of his top lip.
“Kiss me,” she says.
You could use the word ‘family’ to describe them, but only in the loosest sense: it’s not like they have Sunday dinner or divvy up the chores. They share a house, but have separate rooms. Angel spends most of his time alone. Spike is as affable as a well-trained puppy. They don’t have to explain the deal to anyone because those who remain know. Two vampires and a slayer make an odd kind of sense, although Buffy is pretty certain that Giles would have cringed at the thought.
Spike is kissing his way down Buffy’s throat. It takes him so long to get anywhere these days. Buffy feels the wet tickle of his tongue and it makes her shiver, her nipples knotting in anticipation. He is cool, but he leaves a trail of fire.
Strangely, kissing Spike always makes her think about what it had been like to kiss Angel for the very first time: her first grown-up kiss. There was nothing slobbery or tentative in that kiss or any of the kisses that came after. Angel kissed like his mouth had been built solely for that purpose.
Spike is nibbling at her lips now and she opens and lets his tongue slide against hers. This is foreplay of the most delicious kind. And torture, too. Angel watching from across the room heightens every single nerve. When he touches her, finally, she’ll split apart.
Sometimes she comes without his touch, but when she does there’s a price to be paid.
He never gets sick of this. Generally speaking, Spike has always been a ‘been there, done that, got the T-shirt’ sort of bloke, but not when it comes to her. Every time he’s near her, near her humming, golden skin and the gorgeous nectarine smell of her, Spike remembers what it feels like to breathe.
It’s a weird sensation, being breathless. One shouldn’t underestimate that. It should also be said that being a vampire with a soul isn’t the easiest gig in the world, either. One foot on either side of the fence, the fence jammed uncomfortably up against your crotch.
Spike pulls back from the kiss and takes a moment to admire Buffy, arms stretched up, fingers curled protectively into her moist palms. Her nails will leave crescents there eventually.
“Spike,” she moans.
“Hush,” he says. “Just wanna look.”
True, Buffy doesn’t look the same as she had as a young woman. Her breasts aren’t as firm, but it hardly matters considering how they swell under his tongue. There isn’t an ounce of fat on her, but she isn’t twenty anymore. That’s a fact.
“Please,” Buffy says.
“So impatient, pet.”
But he ducks his head and catches a puckered nipple between his human teeth, pulls and tugs until Buffy’s eyes roll back.
What he wants to do is bite her. It’s always a struggle not to. He feels the little nub of flesh in his mouth and he wraps his two hands around her breast, vice-like. He knows what happens: the nerve endings popping and sparking. Once, he’d bound her little breasts. Just the memory of them, bulging from the rope, the blood flow constricted and turning the pale peach of her skin faintly purple had made him so fucking hard. Her nipples had puffed up and Spike knew that if he bit into them, the blood would have gushed into his mouth: nectar of the Gods.
He lets go of her breast and kisses away the memory of worse deeds.
“You can if you want,” Buffy says. She always knows what he is thinking.
He can’t hurt her. Strangely, though, he can watch Spike do it. He doesn’t know why. Theirs is a weird symbiosis.
Angel’s cock is aching, but he doesn’t move. It’s a delicious sort of pain and Angel has always been a little self-indulgent when it comes to suffering. Instead, he concentrates on Buffy’s face, its myriad expressions: delight, shock, a little wince of pain, the smoothness that settles over her perfect features just before her brow creases and her mouth flies open with her orgasm.
Spike is an attentive lover. Angel admires his patience.
Just when Buffy doesn’t think she can stand it anymore, Spike slips a confident hand between her legs. She’s a slow boil these days: her body takes a little bit longer to catch up to the place her mind has already landed. All the bits still work, just not as fast.
She is relieved when Spike presses a finger into her slick center.
She never did have kids and she feels that finger, a delicious tingle up her spine. Spike is stretched out beside her, his erection pressing against her hip. Up close, his eyes are too blue and too knowing.
“What do you want?” he whispers.
“More,” she says.
“You heard the girl,” Spike says to Angel.
Angel pulls his sweater over his head and makes his way to the bed. He stops and pops the button on his pants, sliding them down his legs without a hint of awkwardness. His cock points east, heavy.
Spike moves between Buffy’s legs, offering his ass to Angel.
It’s a beautiful pas de trois: Buffy’s legs opening to accommodate Spike; Spike’s head bowing to sip at the altar of Buffy’s cunt, Angel’s cock- spit-slicked - poised at Spike’s backside. Angel watches Buffy’s face, knows the exact moment to begin.
Fuck is the only thought in Angel’s mind when he pushes into Spike. That tight, dark, confining space blooms white light in his head, prickly star-bursts behind his eyes. When his vision clears, he sees Buffy’s eyes, clouded with her own version of heaven. Spike is working her with fingers and tongue and Angel knows how that feels. Angel reaches under Spike, palms the length of him and starts pumping.
Spike’s tongue is magic. Buffy likes this feeling of connection: Buffy to Spike to Angel. Of course, there are other possible combinations, but this one is good. Better than good. She opens her legs wider and groans as Spike fills the space with two fingers, curling them up to touch her there.
She can feel her orgasm a mile off. The tips of her fingers pulse, the muscles in her calves tense. She tilts her pelvis and locks eyes with Angel.
Spike is going to come. How could he not? His mouth is planted in the most beautiful, fragrant garden imaginable. His ass is pulsing around Angel’s huge dick. Angel’s equally large hand is jacking him off rather expertly. Everything seems too much, which is impossible, of course. He’s a vampire. Too much is never really a problem.
“Don’t you come,” Angel says behind him, thrusting viciously, squeezing his dick extra hard.
“Bugger that,” Spike hisses.
“Not before she does,” Angel whispers.
Spike can fix that. Right quick. He morphs and then pricks his incisors into the tender flesh around Buffy’s throbbing clit.
“Cheater,” she sobs.
When he feels Angel’s teeth in his shoulder, he spills himself into the cup of Angel’s fist.
Angel unlocks the cuffs and kisses Buffy’s palms- the first time he’s touched her since entering the room. The cuffs aren’t for any reason, really. Mostly he just likes to see Buffy stretched out and vulnerable. He’s a vampire; a soul can’t change that.
Not a day goes by that he doesn’t remember what it felt like to make love to Buffy that first time.
But before he gets too broody, he pulls Buffy close, buries his face in her hair and whispers: “I love you.”
For a little while, their bodies are warm, as if the blood is heated up by the memory of being human and the act of doing human things. Buffy nestles between them, fighting exhaustion and guilt. Neither feeling lasts. Eventually, Spike’s cock is hard against her hip and Angel’s lips are pressed against the old scar, his fingers making the impossible, possible once more.
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