"The Non-Mutual-Exclusivity of Perversion and Love" - S/B/(A) - NC17
Title: “The Non-Mutual-Exclusivity of Perversion and Love”
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Uh, S/B/A? I don’t know what this is. Spuffy with Spangel(us) overtones? And a pinch of B/A too? It is porn people (or the promise of porn in idea form) or maybe fluff flavored with wistfulness? But with a healthy dose of feelings, because that is what I do.
Summary: Do I need one now after that? Set nebulously post-NFA.
Rating: NC17, in theory more than in practice.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Joss. I do not make money from the ways that I twist and tangle these bodies and emotions.
Word Count: 1216
Author’s Note: Fic by me. Title by amybnnyc-inspired by kittyzams’s psychology text book (the title, not the fic).
She thinks she might be a pervert now for real, and this is so much more than the whole fucking vampires thing. That’s old hat. Buffy accepted that kink because she had to, and because of love.
Through the bedroom wall (which is too thin-a fact which is probably a serious burden on the neighbors next door) she can hear the cheerful noises of Spike, going about his normal business. If what you consider normal is blood cocktails paired with frozen Tater Tots and Footie on cable. Which she does. Unfathomable and male, but normal in Buffy-land.
There is ice clinking in a highball glass and happy boy mumbling and then a stream of weird British curse words as he burns his fingers on the oven. Then the murmur of TV sports punctuated by enthusiastic vocal participation from the audience (of one).
Yep, this is domesticity. This is commitment. This is a nice but not too nice flat and matching house keys. Fluffy towels and laundry day and picking up blood at the butcher shop on her way home from the Council. Taking turns doing the dishes.
Intimacy.
But perhaps there is such a thing as too much truth-telling, baring-it-all, I-need-you-to-know-everything-about-me, loving honesty and maybe she can’t handle it yet. Or else she’s just a perv.
Because since Spike told her that about him and Angel, it’s a steamy, sordid place in the mind o’ Buffy. Filled with a riotous intermingling of beautiful man parts that she’s loved so hard, each in their own way. It makes her dizzy, and guilty, because she can’t tell him. He’s worked so hard for boyfriend status (Hello, save the world much?) and so she just can’t.
But that doesn’t stop her now from shoving her hand down her stylish, velour, drawstring pants, knowing she’ll be covered by Spike’s unwavering attention to the soccer game.
Buffy fingers herself quickly and efficiently, as if somehow getting off fast will make it less of a transgression. And then she lies there on her back, in their bed, panting and heaving, with images of Spike on Angel and Angel on Spike burning behind her retinas.
*****
She doesn’t tell him. Later that night she wants it on all fours, knees poking into the mattress and eyes squeezed shut. She doesn’t tell him that she is thinking about Angel and wondering (hoping) that he too knows what it is like, to have this slight weight pressing down, made heavy by passion.
He is murmuring her name into her hair, calling her love and sweetheart and his pretty, pretty whore. She wonders if he called out Angelus’ name or if it was all stoic and manly and whatever. She knows they were evil then, but in her head it’s just a flood of hotness and maybe she’s not just a perv but an emotional freak, because she should be jealous, right?
But after all this time, Buffy doesn’t know how to be jealous of them, or differentiate between how she loves them and how she knows they love each other. Even if they won’t talk about it, won’t admit it, and in this reality, it isn’t sustainable. They’ve hardly talked since LA except to grunt in Vampire Man Code on the phone before she picks up the receiver and makes pleasantries.
Maybe domesticity isn’t their thing.
And then there’s the inexplicable rush of heat to her groin when she thinks of them, mashing mouths, pulling hair and maybe (guh!) touching each others’ faces tenderly.
Buffy shudders.
“Buffy, love, are you here with me?”
She whispers, “Yes, of course,” feels guilty, and turns around, lets him fuck her AND see her eyes.
He is so sweet, sometimes, her tamed monster.
So was Angel.
But William the Bloody and Angelus?
Spike’s eyes are flaring blue and when he comes she can see the wildness he suppresses. He repeats her name in a growling litany and it is good; it is enough. So why can’t she stop thinking about this?
Afterwards, she lets him smoke in bed. There is kissing and cuddling, but Buffy’s mind is still not quiet after Spike’s flick of the lamp switch and “Good Night, Pet.”
*****
Too much booze will make a good Slayer honest.
Buffy pushed away and suppressed her traitorous thoughts for weeks, but now the word from Giles is that Angel’s coming to London. About some whoseywhatsits about demon spawn in LA. Or something. It isn’t Buffy’s job to know everything about everything anymore.
But she should know about her vampire ex-boyfriends!
Buffy’s quickly getting smashed. But it *is* Saturday and her night off from patrolling.
“Woah, easy now, Pet. Don’t wanna be extracting you from the toilet bowl later on, all right love?” Spike wrests the bottle from her fingers gently and flashes that crazy grin that still makes her puddle on the inside.
Buffy feels her chin begin to jut out petulantly and knows there is no escape from the verbal diarrhea that is going to ensue. Wheee! Goodbye, healthy relationship.
“Was it good? With you and Angel, I mean?”
Spike gives her a dumbfounded look and then collects himself. Tries to size her up with his eyes.
Apparently, he decides that it’s safe to proceed, because he says quietly, “Sometimes-when he forgot to hate me. An’ it was even good when he didn't. But not in a way that’s acceptable for tea parties like this one and polite conversation.”
She is looking at him with rapt eyes and it seems to unnerve him. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep throatful of whisky.
“Buffy-love, why do you want to know about this? It’s in the past now. Don’t want you actin’ all queer when old Grandsire comes to visit.”
“It’s OK, Spike. It’s…I don’t…mind.” The blush that crosses her cheeks is the mother of all blushes. She can feel it burning, radioactive and hot.
Spike cocks his head and tilts an eyebrow both. Is he *trying* to make it worse?
“What’s this? Are you…are you having naughty thoughts in there, Slayer?”
Buffy meeps. That’s the only way to describe the terrible, horrible way that her mouth betrays her.
And then Spike does the most surprising thing. He laughs. Deep, guffawing chuckles that make him grab his stomach and nearly lose hold of his still-burning cigarette.
Buffy’s indignant. Her mouth gapes and nothing comes out.
When he calms down, Spike pulls her close and touches her cheek with his knuckles.
“You really are a wicked girl, aren’t you?”
“You…you don’t mind?”
“Well, it’s not like you weren’t thinking ‘bout me, now is it?
Look at that smirk. Who’s wicked now?
“S’long as you stay here with me, in this flat, in our bed, I don’t give a rat’s arse ‘bout much else.”
Buffy snuggles in closer and speaks softly into his chest, “And Angel?”
“We’ll have ourselves a nice visit, now won’t we?”
It’s like a quickening-how the promise of his words pings through to her extremities and back inwards.
Buffy pulls him close and kisses him, and on their tongues she tastes Angel too, and knows that love is love, and it doesn’t always come in the expected formations.
And so maybe she will accept this kink too, because of love.
*****
Continued in Together Again for the First Time.
Author: femmenerd
Pairing: Uh, S/B/A? I don’t know what this is. Spuffy with Spangel(us) overtones? And a pinch of B/A too? It is porn people (or the promise of porn in idea form) or maybe fluff flavored with wistfulness? But with a healthy dose of feelings, because that is what I do.
Summary: Do I need one now after that? Set nebulously post-NFA.
Rating: NC17, in theory more than in practice.
Disclaimer: It all belongs to Joss. I do not make money from the ways that I twist and tangle these bodies and emotions.
Word Count: 1216
Author’s Note: Fic by me. Title by amybnnyc-inspired by kittyzams’s psychology text book (the title, not the fic).
She thinks she might be a pervert now for real, and this is so much more than the whole fucking vampires thing. That’s old hat. Buffy accepted that kink because she had to, and because of love.
Through the bedroom wall (which is too thin-a fact which is probably a serious burden on the neighbors next door) she can hear the cheerful noises of Spike, going about his normal business. If what you consider normal is blood cocktails paired with frozen Tater Tots and Footie on cable. Which she does. Unfathomable and male, but normal in Buffy-land.
There is ice clinking in a highball glass and happy boy mumbling and then a stream of weird British curse words as he burns his fingers on the oven. Then the murmur of TV sports punctuated by enthusiastic vocal participation from the audience (of one).
Yep, this is domesticity. This is commitment. This is a nice but not too nice flat and matching house keys. Fluffy towels and laundry day and picking up blood at the butcher shop on her way home from the Council. Taking turns doing the dishes.
Intimacy.
But perhaps there is such a thing as too much truth-telling, baring-it-all, I-need-you-to-know-everything-about-me, loving honesty and maybe she can’t handle it yet. Or else she’s just a perv.
Because since Spike told her that about him and Angel, it’s a steamy, sordid place in the mind o’ Buffy. Filled with a riotous intermingling of beautiful man parts that she’s loved so hard, each in their own way. It makes her dizzy, and guilty, because she can’t tell him. He’s worked so hard for boyfriend status (Hello, save the world much?) and so she just can’t.
But that doesn’t stop her now from shoving her hand down her stylish, velour, drawstring pants, knowing she’ll be covered by Spike’s unwavering attention to the soccer game.
Buffy fingers herself quickly and efficiently, as if somehow getting off fast will make it less of a transgression. And then she lies there on her back, in their bed, panting and heaving, with images of Spike on Angel and Angel on Spike burning behind her retinas.
*****
She doesn’t tell him. Later that night she wants it on all fours, knees poking into the mattress and eyes squeezed shut. She doesn’t tell him that she is thinking about Angel and wondering (hoping) that he too knows what it is like, to have this slight weight pressing down, made heavy by passion.
He is murmuring her name into her hair, calling her love and sweetheart and his pretty, pretty whore. She wonders if he called out Angelus’ name or if it was all stoic and manly and whatever. She knows they were evil then, but in her head it’s just a flood of hotness and maybe she’s not just a perv but an emotional freak, because she should be jealous, right?
But after all this time, Buffy doesn’t know how to be jealous of them, or differentiate between how she loves them and how she knows they love each other. Even if they won’t talk about it, won’t admit it, and in this reality, it isn’t sustainable. They’ve hardly talked since LA except to grunt in Vampire Man Code on the phone before she picks up the receiver and makes pleasantries.
Maybe domesticity isn’t their thing.
And then there’s the inexplicable rush of heat to her groin when she thinks of them, mashing mouths, pulling hair and maybe (guh!) touching each others’ faces tenderly.
Buffy shudders.
“Buffy, love, are you here with me?”
She whispers, “Yes, of course,” feels guilty, and turns around, lets him fuck her AND see her eyes.
He is so sweet, sometimes, her tamed monster.
So was Angel.
But William the Bloody and Angelus?
Spike’s eyes are flaring blue and when he comes she can see the wildness he suppresses. He repeats her name in a growling litany and it is good; it is enough. So why can’t she stop thinking about this?
Afterwards, she lets him smoke in bed. There is kissing and cuddling, but Buffy’s mind is still not quiet after Spike’s flick of the lamp switch and “Good Night, Pet.”
*****
Too much booze will make a good Slayer honest.
Buffy pushed away and suppressed her traitorous thoughts for weeks, but now the word from Giles is that Angel’s coming to London. About some whoseywhatsits about demon spawn in LA. Or something. It isn’t Buffy’s job to know everything about everything anymore.
But she should know about her vampire ex-boyfriends!
Buffy’s quickly getting smashed. But it *is* Saturday and her night off from patrolling.
“Woah, easy now, Pet. Don’t wanna be extracting you from the toilet bowl later on, all right love?” Spike wrests the bottle from her fingers gently and flashes that crazy grin that still makes her puddle on the inside.
Buffy feels her chin begin to jut out petulantly and knows there is no escape from the verbal diarrhea that is going to ensue. Wheee! Goodbye, healthy relationship.
“Was it good? With you and Angel, I mean?”
Spike gives her a dumbfounded look and then collects himself. Tries to size her up with his eyes.
Apparently, he decides that it’s safe to proceed, because he says quietly, “Sometimes-when he forgot to hate me. An’ it was even good when he didn't. But not in a way that’s acceptable for tea parties like this one and polite conversation.”
She is looking at him with rapt eyes and it seems to unnerve him. He lights a cigarette and takes a deep throatful of whisky.
“Buffy-love, why do you want to know about this? It’s in the past now. Don’t want you actin’ all queer when old Grandsire comes to visit.”
“It’s OK, Spike. It’s…I don’t…mind.” The blush that crosses her cheeks is the mother of all blushes. She can feel it burning, radioactive and hot.
Spike cocks his head and tilts an eyebrow both. Is he *trying* to make it worse?
“What’s this? Are you…are you having naughty thoughts in there, Slayer?”
Buffy meeps. That’s the only way to describe the terrible, horrible way that her mouth betrays her.
And then Spike does the most surprising thing. He laughs. Deep, guffawing chuckles that make him grab his stomach and nearly lose hold of his still-burning cigarette.
Buffy’s indignant. Her mouth gapes and nothing comes out.
When he calms down, Spike pulls her close and touches her cheek with his knuckles.
“You really are a wicked girl, aren’t you?”
“You…you don’t mind?”
“Well, it’s not like you weren’t thinking ‘bout me, now is it?
Look at that smirk. Who’s wicked now?
“S’long as you stay here with me, in this flat, in our bed, I don’t give a rat’s arse ‘bout much else.”
Buffy snuggles in closer and speaks softly into his chest, “And Angel?”
“We’ll have ourselves a nice visit, now won’t we?”
It’s like a quickening-how the promise of his words pings through to her extremities and back inwards.
Buffy pulls him close and kisses him, and on their tongues she tastes Angel too, and knows that love is love, and it doesn’t always come in the expected formations.
And so maybe she will accept this kink too, because of love.
*****
Continued in Together Again for the First Time.