There are certain innate rules that every Sunnydale High School student worth their salt follows.
1) Never look Snyder in the eye.
2) Never sit in a desk near Larry Cartwright (his nickname tells you why quite succinctly - Cartwright-Farts-Right).
3) At all costs avoid the mashed potatoes in the cafeteria, unless you're jonesing to spend 5th period in the toilet.
4) Always have your homework done if you're in Mr Melvin's chem class (or, as it's popularly known - the gulag).
But the most important rule– the rule even the damn faculty adhere to on pain of death (or at least a severe ass-kicking) is never, under any circumstances, piss off Spike Pratt.
He's volatile, you might say. Like the time Angel O'Connor tried to chat up Spike's ex-girlfriend Drusilla (before she was the ex, that is) and Spike put him in traction. Then there was the time someone thought it would be funny to egg Spike's car in the student parking lot. Buffy didn't know the kids that did it (some Juniors, apparently) but the rumour mill assured her that the offenders had received their punishment. Death by egg. Non too pleasant.
It wasn't that Spike was a total Neanderthal. Oh, no. He wasn't a complete moron; he didn't do too badly in his classes. He read a poem once, back in 10th grade English, not long after he arrived in Sunnydale from the UK. In front of everyone and everything. It was an original work. When he said he was going to read his own poem she'd been so sure it would start, "There once was a man from Nantucket," but actually it turned out to be quite astoundingly touching. She'd loved it.
Your warmth steals into my path as I pass you,
Your spark draws my shadow,
The teacher gave him grief about it being so short, and of course, the jocks and dickheads sniggered in class, but Buffy just sat quietly, her head down, with a smile on her face. She loved the idea that someone could write something so beautiful about someone, even if it was so clearly his undeserving ho'bag girlfriend Drusilla. The thing that most got her though was the fact that he quite unashamedly got up in front of the class and read it out in that heartfelt voice of his. It was the kind of thing every teenage girl swooned over in movies, but in reality, all the girls in the class were laughing or turning away in embarrassment at this boy who was so uncaringly opening his heart to his peers. Well, he obviously had enough because he balled his poem up and threw it into the wastepaper bin at the front of the class and took his seat once again. Buffy bided her time until the end of class and once everyone had scarpered, she'd rescued the little poem and smoothed it out. It now took up residence at the front of her English folder. Willow always gave her a knowing look when she saw it, but Buffy refused to be drawn into her delusions. So she liked his poem. It wasn't like she liked him.
Okay, so yeah, it was that she liked him. A lot. Take away the supposed violent demeanor, and he was pretty insanely hot. He had this white blonde hair that was always spiked up. His eyes were shockingly blue when you were close enough to see them, which she'd discovered one night at the Bronze when she'd banged into him on her way back from the bar and spilled her diet coke on him. He'd raised his head to glare at her and all she could think was BLUE, BLUE, BLUE. He always wore black jeans and motorcycle boots though the t-shirt changed; sometimes it said Buzzcocks, sometimes Sex Pistols, sometimes Led Zeppelin. One thing that never changed was the scowl on his face as he walked through the halls. Strangely, it actually made him hotter.
So yeah, he was a honey to look at. Yeah, she may have thought about him when she did stuff, but that was beside the point. She wasn't on his horizon, and she was not the type of girl who sat around waiting for some guy to notice her. Therefore, until the day he did — but then he never would. She liked to distance herself from it.
Still, he was so pretty, so very, very pretty. Though his poem did own a small section of her heart, she still wasn't entirely convinced he wasn't anything other than a total dickhead. After all, there was that time he beat the shit out of Parker Abrams in the parking lot. She'd been dating him at the time (Junior year, the year after Spike had transferred to Sunnydale High) and yeah okay, so he was a little dull and a little grabby, but still, he was her sort-of boyfriend. She came out of the school with Will and Xand at her side and there was her boyfriend on his back with Spike on top of him turning his face into a beef-patty.
Buffy sprang into action. She wasn't a pushover after all. Her best friends Willow and Xander frequently looked to her when confronted with the assholes of the world - Harmony, Cordelia, Ryan Seacrest - and she hadn't yet let them down. Despite the fact that this was the guy who starred in her dreams nightly, she was not just gonna let him beat on her actual boyfriend. Or anyone else. Hot is hot but dickhead behaviour is dickhead behaviour. So she rushed forward, a string of curses stampeding from her mouth, and she'd grabbed one of Spike's raised hands in hers and pulled with all her might. He'd turned to see her furious face, the ever-present scowl on his bleeding into one she couldn't figure out, and as she pushed him off her boyfriend, called him a flurry of different names, each more colourful than the last and advised him to go have sexual intercourse with himself, he'd looked at her with an almost hurt expression on his face then turned abruptly and left. She hadn't seen him for a few weeks after that — suspended apparently. When he did come back to school, Buffy had already ended her relationship with grabby Parker (who thought he could use the sympathy to get a little more than a handful, so she'd reopened his split lip) and everyone in school knew it. The first time she saw Spike in the halls, his eyes had flickered in her direction, and he'd smirked at her.
She just wasn't sure what to make of him. One minute she was sure she wanted him to do dirty things to her. Repeatedly. And read her poetry while he did it. Then, she'd hear some story about how he had beaten up ten guys just because he could, and she'd think that she didn't know him at all, despite the fact his poetry spoke to her. So yeah she liked him, but was she gonna do something about it? Nu-uh. He made her head hurt. So she tried her best to stay away from him. Her body had this really unfortunate condition where if she was too close to him she started panting like a dog and all she could think about was sucking his bottom lip into her mouth and nibbling on it like her favorite chew toy. It was really debilitating; so she tried to steer clear of him. After all, he didn't have any problems ignoring her. It wasn't like they ran in the same circles anyway. Buffy and her two BFFs were about a world away from the stoners and slackers Spike hung around with. She was always with Will and Xand, and Spike never seemed to be without the company of that Faith girl. If Buffy felt twinges of jealousy when she saw them together she buried it. The one time she'd seen Spike really smile, it had been when he was with that Faith girl, and she'd felt her heart do a samba rhythm in her chest at the sight of his beautiful his face lit up with a proper, honest-to-God smile. It wasn't like she was a popular girl, but she wasn't quite what you'd call a bottom-feeder either. Buffy, Willow, and Xander lived in that happy middle ground that swallows you up and makes you almost immune to the bullying and cattiness of high school life.
So yeah, they never hung around together. At all. And despite the fact that since his entrance into her high school life she'd spent most of her time trying to figure him out and stop lusting after his face, body, voice, and poetry, they barely spoke.
Which was why the situation she was in at that moment was so damn awkward.
She was in the art supply closet. In school. In the empty, closed up school. It was early evening and the prospect of her getting out of the locked room was slim until someone came in the next morning.
Oh yeah, and Spike was in here with her.
Okay, so she'd kinda been breaking the rules a little. She'd come back here to the far end of the school where the crappy art supply closet was to steal some paint so she could colour in the scrape she'd accidentily left in her dad's bumper the previous week (that he miraculously hadn't noticed yet, thank Buddha). The sensible part of her brain had tried to tell the panicking-spaz half that the crappy water-paint they use in high school art wouldn't be able to cover the scratch on the plastic bumper convincingly but she'd been too stressed to listen to reason, even from her own brain. Her parents were away for the next 3 days, and they left her dad's car at home. This was her chance to fix it and she'd taken it.
So she waited till the students had mostly cleared after the final bell before making her way over to the ass-end of the school. She'd hoped against hope it would still be open. The art supply door was always left open during the day at school. It was one of those heavy doors that locked from the outside when it closed, so it was always left ajar. And as luck would have it when she arrived, there was the open door. So shelving her happy dance, she'd quickly let herself into the closet.
As soon as she did, she saw the platinum head in front of her facing the opposite wall, and the inexplicable thought that even the back of his head made her hot leaped into her mind before the very real fact that he was in front of her penetrated her mushy brain and she panicked, propelled herself backwards, and knocked the door closed.
Or more accurately, knocked the door closed and it locked.
His head had whipped round to stare at her with a look of dawning horror on his face, as he took in who it was that had disturbed him and just what she'd managed to accomplish in the five seconds she'd been in his presence. She meanwhile had her back plastered to said door and was finding it difficult to move.
He'd regarded her for a long minute; his jaw clenched, his eyes twitching before he finally spoke in a very matter-of-fact tone.
"You know what you've done, right?"
"Uh-huh," she replied in a daze.
He sighed and slumped onto the waist-high shelf behind him, his face trained on hers.
She really agreed.
So yeah, here she was. She hadn't moved yet. They'd been in here for at least an hour by now and though they'd tried to shout to get someone's attention, they'd only addressed each other once - he'd congratulated her on her move with the door and she'd glared at him and sweetly thanked him, and it looked like this was just the start of their forced time together. This could last all night. Everyone had left by the sounds of things and what with there being nobody waiting at home for her, she could pretty much guarantee that she'd be stuck here all night.
In a room. With Spike. The boy she alternated between desperately lusting after and scolding like a parent. Plus she was stuck in a five-by-five box of a room with him for the next God knows how many hours. He was quite clearly a hot-head - in more ways than one - and she figured if anyone were going to be the adult here, it would have to be her. So she could snark at him and behave like a baby when really this was kinda all her fault, or she could appeal to his human side and maybe get out of this with as little bloodshed as possible.
And don't look at his gorgeous eyes. Or his arms. Or his cheekbones. And whatever you do, do not think about his bottom lip–hmm, that lip–this is bad, this is bad…
"What are you mumbling?" he asked sharply, a pissed off sigh accompanying his bark.
"Nothing," she squeaked.
He sighed again, turning his head to peruse the shelves and their contents, and she took the opportunity to do exactly what she'd just been telling herself to definitely not do. She slumped onto the door to really enjoy his beauty. His cheekbones made her hands itch. God, she just wanted to run her hands over them. His lips were forming an almost pout as he sulked against the wall across from her. She was writing a letter to Santa in her head that she was sure would secure her the no.1 slot on his naughty list.
Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is this boy's mouth all over my body! Enjoy your cookies, Buffy.
She shook her head to bring herself out of her lusty haze. Oh god, she couldn't possibly sit in here for hours with this boy and not throw herself at him. How humiliating. She had to distract herself.
Talk, Buffy! Talk to him! Otherwise you're just gonna sit here and fantasize about him until you snap and start humping his leg! Talk, talk, talk!
"Um, I'm here — or I was here to, um, get paint," she started, with no idea what she was saying, and his head gradually turned to regard her silently as she continued her humiliating ramble. "Then the door, you know — Now I'm just waiting for someone to come because we're stuck– I guess."
Yep, she really just said that and he really did hear it, and she really couldn't take it back. She tried to remember if the kind of paint they used in art class was toxic and how much she'd need to take to commit suicide.
He didn't say a word as he regarded her. His eyes were boring into hers and all she could think was BLUE, BLUE, BLUE, and Lusty-Buffy was so overjoyed at the situation she'd created for herself that she started happy dancing like a Smurf on ten tabs of ecstasy.
Oh god, maybe she should keep talking.
"It's funny how paint smells, isn't it?"
Or maybe not.
His lips twitched slightly, but she just couldn't stop.
"Smells like..." she trailed off, desperately trying to think of something paint smelled like.
"Paint?" he offered.
Yep, that's what paint smells like.
"Yeah, it's madness," he deadpanned and if pushed, she would say he was teasing her.
His voice was like velvet in the quiet of the closet and she couldn't stop the small shiver that went through her when his teasing eyes met hers.
Holy crap, she was excited he was making fun of her. She needed therapy.
"Do you think we'll be stuck here for long?"
"Pro'lly all night," he shrugged
Oh god, all night. In a room. With Spike.
Thankyouthankyouthankyou! Lusty-Buffy cried.
No! Not thank you! What is wrong with you, you little slut! Cried the levelheaded part of her brain she decided to christen Brainy-Buffy.
"Oh well, sorry," she offered.
He said nothing. He just looked at her. Oh god, he knew what this was doing to her. He must. He was just playing with her. She started to sweat. This was not good, not good–
"So, uh, have you done that English assignment yet?"
Oh great, Buffy. That's just great. Talk to him about homework. May as well just talk to him about the damn weather! He'll be falling at your feet in about, oh, let's see– NEVER!
"Not yet. But it's all I can think about," he replied, staring at her with half-closed eyes filled with derision.
She laughed nervously. "Yeah. Can't say it's been occupying my thoughts."
He perked a little. "Oh yeah? Thought you were a right little Mary Sue with homework."
She frowned. "I'm not a Mary Sue."
"If you say so."
"I do say so."
"Okay, then," he said, quirking an eyebrow, an almost-smile dancing around his mouth.
She sighed again, slumping more heavily against the door at her back.
"Don't suppose you've got a phone on you?" he asked, startling her.
She couldn't believe that hadn't occurred to her. Her first response was to say 'of course, my phone!' She opened her mouth to do so, when it occurred to her that when she got her phone out of her bag, she'd be able to phone for help and then her time stuck with the object of her lustiest thoughts would be over. She wasn't quite sure when her plan had gone from 'ignore him, ignore his effect on you' to 'manipulate every situation to keep him as close to you as possible' but who was she to argue with her id? As it was, when Brainy-Buffy tried to answer him honestly - probably something like 'why yes, Spike, I do have a phone. We should use said phone to call for help, thereby extracting ourselves from this most unfortunate situation' - Lusty-Buffy wrestled her for control of her body and what came out of her mouth was something along the lines of, "Mnha!"
Tell him you have your phone, Buffy!
No, don't! Hide the phone, pounce on him, and lick him from head to toe!
"Are you alright?" he asked with genuine confusion.
Tell him you have your phone!
No, no, no! LICK HIM!
"I'm fine," she managed, in a rather loud voice, trying desperately to drown out the full-on war that was taking place in her head.
His face adopted a 'this might be a crazy person' alarmed look, before shaking it off and nodding to her bag. "So, phone?" he tried again.
This is it, Buffy, pick: stick to the plan you've followed for years–or give in.
Give in! Give in, give in, give in!
"I, uh..." she started, her eyes drawing patterns on his almost-visible-through-his-tight-t-shirt six pack.
"You?" he prompted again, growing agitated.
"Don't," she finished.
I win, I win, I win, chorused Lusty-Buffy in her head. She swallowed audibly, but Spike's sigh of frustration covered it. His attention had now returned to the shelves that crowded the walls of their prison. She fidgeted against the door. Her decision having been made, she was now at a complete loss as to what to say to him. Maybe if she could get him talking, but he beat her to it.
"So how long 'til someone rings the 'Buffy's missing' bell, and they come looking for you?" he asked, still not looking at her.
"I don't think they will," she mused. His gaze returned lazily to her face.
"Oh yeah? Not too popular at home, eh?" he smirked, and she felt her hackles rising.
Oh right. This is why I never actively chased him. Cause he's a DICKHEAD!
Misunderstood? Lusty-Buffy offered in a hopeful voice.
Pft, scoffed Brainy-Buffy.
"Not quite," she said snidely, her face and voice hardening. "My parents are away for the next few days and Will's going out with Oz tonight. She won't be phoning the house looking for me."
He sighed and let his head drop back onto the wall behind him, where he was perched on the shelf.
"What about you?" she asked, still peeved at his out-of-nowhere jibe. "Won't your mommy and daddy be missing you tonight? Or how about your current playmate of the month?"
This is more like it, Buffy! This is the real you! No nonsense Buffy! You should be proud; you've defended yourself with wit.
His eyes grew cold. "Don't think so, ducks, since my parents are dead."
You're going straight to hell, Buffy. Straight to hell.
The smirk disappeared off her face in a heartbeat and she felt a dreadful weight settle in her stomach as she looked into his stormy eyes. "Oh G-god, I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry, I–" she rambled but he held up a hand to stop her verbal diarrhea.
"No, I really — I'm really sorry, Spike," she said pleadingly. "I really didn't– I tend to suffer from foot-in-mouth."
"Is that genetic?"
"Seems that way," she replied in a self-deprecating tone of voice.
His eyes lost the frostiness at her genuinely apologetic manner, and he once again raised his hand to wave it in a dismissive manner. "Don't worry 'bout it. Really."
"Okay," she said in her smallest voice, still feeling the size of an amoeba.
"As for my playmate of the month," he said, his lips twitching.
She face-palmed and he smirked good-naturedly before continuing.
"There isn't one right now."
"Wow, I'm just on a roll, aren't I?" she asked wryly.
He grinned. "Should be proud, pet."
She smiled ruefully and cast a hand through her hair, dropping her head back onto the door behind her.
Okay, so you've insulted him in one of the worst possible ways but still, talking is talking, Buffy! Keep it going!
"So, won't someone be expecting you home?" she tried, desperately hoping he wasn't going to tell her that no, actually he lived alone in a tree because everyone in the whole of his immediate and extended family were wiped out in a nuclear explosion and he'd thank her to shut the hell up and stop rubbing his face in his lonely existence.
"Not likely," he replied with a scoff. "Wouldn't be the first time I've stayed out all night."
"Oh. So, who is it you live with?" she asked cautiously.
He regarded her warily, as if trying to suss out her sudden nosey intentions, and she was just about to start squirming again when he answered. "My uncle."
"Well, it's just, if someone told me I had to stay with my uncle, I'd probably take a leap off the nearest bridge," she finished. It was only when she was met with silence that it occurred to her a reasonable person might take that as another insult. Her eyes widened and her hands came up to gesture widely as she attempted to backpedal.
"Oh no! I don't mean — I mean, I didn't mean that it's bad you stay with your uncle, I just — that's not what I meant."
He quirked another eyebrow prompting her to continue.
"I just meant in my particular case, because the only uncle I have is a lecherous semi-alcoholic who's married to my mom's sister and spends most of our bi-annual family gatherings trying to coax me into an incestuous liaison with him in unoccupied areas of the house."
The bark of his laughter drew her out of her panicked rambling, and the sight of his face crackling with mirth caused her heart to skip a beat.
Good God, he is absolutely gorgeous.
"Is that so?" he said once his laughter died down though the smile remained. "Sounds like your family gatherings are a hoot 'n' a half."
A cautious smile grew on her face and she answered as un-breathlessly as she could. "Oh yeah. Fun is always had. Nothing says Christmas like some drunk pinching your ass."
"Can't let him get away with that," he teased.
"Oh I don't," she answered nodding. "Last Christmas when he cornered me in the kitchen, I 'accidentally' jammed his hand in the microwave door. Repeatedly."
He laughed again. "Nice one."
"I thought so."
He regarded her quietly for a moment, with a musing expression on his face like he was deciding on a course of action. Which he seemed to have done when he spoke after a small nod.
"My Christmas last year was equally fraught with dangers."
"Oh yeah?" she asked, thrilled beyond words that he was offering her a glimpse of his life.
He's engaging with me! We're engaging! We have engaged! Yay!
"Yeah," he started. "My cousin came back from college with a friend, who then tried to sneak into my bed in the middle of the night."
Skanky bitch! Brainy-Buffy barked.
Wish I'd thought of that, Lusty-Buffy bemoaned.
Dampening her jealousy as best she could, Buffy decided that teasing was the best route to take here. "I thought that's something all teenage guys would love."
"Depends on their sexual orientation, luv."
Oh God, he's not gay, is he? What if Drusilla was so skanky she turned him gay! Please, God, no!
"My cousin's friend's name was Andrew," he supplied with a wry grin.
Thank you, Jehovah!
"Oh," she laughed, passing her relief off as amusement.
The air fell silent again and she took the moment to review their discussion so far.
Okay, so she'd taunted him about his dead parents. Not good.
She'd made him laugh more than once. Good.
He'd needled her for no reason. Not good.
He'd shared some personal information. Good.
He smelled like smoke, leather, and yumminess. Good.
He looked like a human version of a banana split with whipped cream on the top. Really good.
His voice made her tremble in naughty places. Really, really good.
He licked his lips and she moaned audibly. Very audibly. Not good, not good.
He was now looking at her like she was a hop, skip, and a jump away from needing a straightjacket. Bad. Very, very bad.
She had to restrain her hand from reaching up to slap herself in the face.
"You feelin' alright?" he prodded.
"Yeah, I'm just hot."
"N-not like that, I j-just..." she stuttered, fazed by his unwavering gaze. "I just mean it's hot in here, that's all."
They fell silent again. She hadn't been lying. It was damn hot in the little room, especially with his eyes on her. Her hands grabbed at the end of her tank top, trying to fan herself without giving him a free show, but it was useless. She tried to picture things to cool her down. Polar Bears. Penguins. That guy from Touching The Void. Ice. Ice-cubes. Running an ice-cube over her neck. Spike running an ice-cube over her neck. Spike trailing ice-cubes all over her…
"So why're you here?" he asked abruptly, startling her out of her lusty haze, and she had to take many deep breaths before forcing her brain to focus on what he'd asked her.
When she did, she frowned and gestured towards the door behind her. "The door's locked–" she trailed off in confusion. She always knew he had a reputation for bad-assery. She didn't even consider he might be a moron, not with the poem and all.
"No, pet," he smiled. "I mean, why were you coming in here?"
"Oh! Oh, well…" she squirmed, "I was maybe gonna, um–stealsomepaint," she finished hurriedly.
The eyebrow made yet another journey upwards. "Oh yeah? Got a reason or are you just a thrill seeker?"
Was he making fun of her or teasing her? Did it matter when he looked this hot?
"Um, my dad left his car at home and I was gonna steal some crappy paint and fill in a scratch he hasn't noticed yet on his bumper," she confessed.
"That you put there?"
He chuckled. "I would make a crack about female drivers but then that would make me a sexist pig, wouldn't it?"
"Yu-huh," she said with a challenging scowl. Yeah, he was hot and yeah, he was making her behave like somewhat of a bitch in heat and yeah, she was at that very moment on her very best Buffy behaviour but still; if he turned into The Dickhead again, she'd have no problem firing some paint up his nostrils. Riley, another brief old boyfriend, used to make fun of her driving. Not because she was bad (which okay, she might have been), but simply because she had a vagina. It was somewhat of a sore subject.
Luckily for him, he chose the wise route. He smiled contritely and said nothing. And goddamn, if that didn't make her want him even more.
Keep it going, Buffy! Make him talk to you!
"So, what were you doing in here?"
"Waiting for Miss Nicholls to meet me so we could continue our forbidden love affair," he quipped. Miss Nicholls was the 60-year-old school nurse.
"Wow. Yours is a love that can't be contained, huh?" she played along.
"The world just doesn't understand," he replied sadly.
"Life can be cruel that way."
They shared a grin and her heart started beating like it was taking a Zumba class.
"I ducked in here to hide from Snyder, who was scouring the halls looking for me."
"Why was he looking for you?"
"He's under the mistaken impression that I vandalised his car the other day."
"Someone vandalised his car? I didn't hear about that," she asked, confused. It wasn't like the high-school grapevine to let her down.
"He kept it quiet. I only know because I know who actually did it."
"And you're not going to–"
"No," he answered definitively. "I'm not a grass."
Her brow furrowed. "And that's British for–"
His lips quirked. "I don't tell on people."
"Oh. Okay," she smiled softly. "So what happened to his car?"
"Someone, who shall remain nameless, painted a very artistic representation of the male anatomy on the hood."
"So Snyder thinks you did it?"
"God knows why," he chuckled.
"And he was looking for you, so you figured hiding out in the art closet, where the paint lives, was the best course of action?" she questioned incredulously.
"Huh, I didn't think of that," he mused, his faced scrunched up adorably and she giggled. "Hey, I wouldn't throw stones, pet. You were gonna use crappy art-class water paint on a car bumper."
She huffed and pouted. His eyes zeroed in on her mouth and glazed over when, in a nervous reaction to his close scrutiny, she couldn't stop herself from licking her lips. All of a sudden, she felt the temperature sky-rocket again.
God, it's hot in here. Maybe you should take off some clothes and get him to blow on you, Lusty-Buffy suggested.
Shut up, you little slut! Brainy-Buffy replied.
"It is hot in here," he rumbled distractedly, his eyes still focused on her lips. She could feel herself hit by the fidgeting fairy again and she started to shift her weight from foot to foot. It's funny how you want something so bad and then when you think you might be getting it, your bravery-meter plummets to zero. She'd been panting internally for him to do something to her; she didn't really care what, but when he was actually looking at her with that sizzle in his eyes, all she could think was PANIC STATIONS! So she reacted like she always did when she panicked. She rambled.
"You would think they wouldn't have one of these self-locking doors in a school," she started, desperate to break the tension. "I mean anything could happen. Someone could get stuck in here over the summer holidays by mistake and die. I mean it's not like there'd be anything to eat in here, right? Unless you can eat paint. Can you eat paint?" she asked, but he was still just looking at her with that unreadable expression on his face, his gaze now travelling all over her face, and her brain just wouldn't. Stop. Spewing.
"I guess it'd be pretty toxic, huh? I mean there was one time when Xander accidentally ate some glue paste back in freshman year and he started foaming at the mouth…"
Kinda like you're doing now, Buffy!
"I panicked and tried to pat him on the back, but I did it too hard, and I ended up pushing him into the corner of the desk and he bruised his crotch–"
He doesn't want to hear about Xander's crotch! SHUT UP!
"When he was lying there with his hands over his, um, stuff, Will said we should try to clean out his mouth, so we started pouring water down his throat, but he started to choke, and all I could think was–"
Spike darted across the space between them and grabbed her quickly, fixing his mouth to her open one. One of his hands clamped onto the back of her head, holding her to him, as his other hand caressed the side of her face. His mouth twisted sideways over hers and he slowly but firmly opened his lips and then his tongue was in her mouth - HIS TONGUE WAS IN HER MOUTH! It was running all over hers and caressing the roof of her mouth in what was turning out to be the slowest, hottest, firmest, yummiest, most emphatic kiss of her whole life. She was just hanging there like a rag doll, shocked beyond shocked at the feel of him, that he was kissing her — no, devouring her! Oh god, he tasted good; he tasted so damn good.
Spike lips! Lips of Spike!
It was all her brain could manage while her body was stuck in suspended animation, a pliable doll for him to mould how he wanted. She was surprised her legs still worked.
He broke his mouth from hers but continued to hover over her. She could feel his pants for breath hitting her wet lips and before she could give in and pull his mouth back down to hers to quench the fire he'd started, he pulled back slowly until his face filled her vision. She couldn't breathe; she could barely open her eyes. But she managed it somehow. And her shocked, dreamy eyes immediately locked onto his fiery blue ones, waiting for him to speak, to tell her that yes, that really did just happen.
"You talk a lot," he said quietly, his thumbs stroking her face.
She swallowed heavily. "Sorry."
He just regarded her silently, taking in her clearly eye-popping expression, the shock commanding control of her entire body.
His hands fell away, and he backed up a little, an expression of apology leaking onto his face. She felt reality seep into her head for the first time since he'd touched her.
He'd kissed her. Spike Pratt had kissed her. His hands had been on her face. His lips had moved on hers. His tongue had been inside her, and oh God; it'd felt even better than she thought it would.
Her hand absently came up to touch her lips as her eyes took on a day-dreaming quality, as he backed up to the wall he'd previously been leaning against opposite her, still with that expression of apology on his face.
"Sorry," his voice reached her and her daze broke. He's sorry?
She shifted self-consciously. God, what was happening to her? She was acting like a mouse! She wasn't a mouse! She was Buffy Anne Summers! His presence just sucked the sense right out of her.
"Didn't mean to…" He started, his voice sounding strained. "It's just, you were–"
"Why do you get into fights?" she cut him off, breathlessly.
"What?" he asked with a perplexed expression.
"Why do you–"
"Why do you care?" he cut her off.
Because I like you, you moron, and I want to make sure you're not a psycho!
But she said nothing. He shifted impatiently and sighed.
"People think I'm, you know– the school badass or whatever cause I wear black and don't play bloody sports. I don't give a stuff about that reputation rot but some arseholes do and they want to take the title by force. So I'm supposed to, what? Just sit back and let people jump me?"
"I guess not," she reasoned.
Yay! That sounded halfway reasonable, so it's 99% certain he's not a psychopath! Now what the hell do I do? I can't just jump him, can I? Or could I? I mean he just did it to me.
"What's the matter, pet? You wanna fix me or something?" he asked intently, breaking into her thoughts. When she didn't immediately answer, he dropped his head as if he'd been expecting it.
"I don't think you need to be fixed," she said in a whisper. He tilted his head to the side, still not looking at her.
"Yeah?" he asked, in an equally quiet voice. She nodded, unable to find her voice, but she didn't know if he saw it; he still wasn't looking at her.
Make him look at you! Get his frickin' attention, you tool!
"Your poem," she blurted and his eyes immediately flew to hers.
That'll do it!
"Your poem, in 10th grade. Remember?"
Well of course he does, you freak, he WROTE IT!
"Yeah. What of it?" he asked warily.
"I — I…"
Just say it, sayitsayitsayit!
It seemed Brainy-Buffy and Lusty-Buffy had merged.
"You?" he prompted.
She took a deep breath and gathered her courage, trying to remember that she was not a wilting wallflower.
Suck it up, Buffy. Just do it!
She shook her head with her eyes closed, breathing quickly and deeply, and when she felt her resolve slip into place, she opened her eyes and locked onto his.
"Your poem. I loved it," she said steadily, her eyes boring into his bravely.
He was silent and all she could think was if she could get away with pouncing on him, the way he did to her without her looking like a giant ho'biscuit.
"You did?" he asked surprised.
Keep going, Buffy; rip the Band-Aid off.
"I stole it. From the bin. It's taped to the inside of my English folder," she finished in a wavering voice, her now apprehensive eyes fixed on his. His beautiful blues widened ever so slightly, taking in what she just said.
His head tilted once again as he continued to look at her and she could feel her body twitching under his scrutiny. All of a sudden she found she preferred it when he didn't look at her. This whole regarding-her-quietly thing sounded romantic in her head but when faced with the reality it made her palms sweat and her scalp itch and she couldn't for the life of her remember how to do normal things like control her body. Her arms kept swinging to and fro. Her lips felt alien under his gaze and she couldn't remember how to not pout, so she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and bit down. She shifted from foot to foot. Her eyes kept twitching.
"You move about a lot," he commented quietly.
"I can't help it," she released on a whoosh of breath, somehow not caring at that moment that she was laying herself bare. She was just too agitated. "I always fidget when I'm–"
"Stuck in a room with a deviant?"
She frowned. "I don't think you're a deviant," she offered quietly.
"You nervous or something?" he asked curiously, intently.
"N-no," she sputtered, a furious blush staining her cheeks.
"Afraid I'll pounce on you again?" he smirked.
"Afraid you won't," she mumbled quietly before she could stop herself and when her brain caught up with her traitorous tongue, her hand flew to cover her mouth. His eyes widened comically and they found themselves staring at each other in awkward silence. Incredibly, his cheeks were stained with a blush that could rival the one on hers.
The space fell into silence and she dropped her eyes again. Her hand was still on her face, now trying to cool her cheeks and she lost her courage. She turned around and grabbed the door handle, rattling it a few times, fruitlessly trying to will the door open. She was looking for any excuse not to look at him. Oh God, this was without doubt one of the most awkward moments of her life. Way worse than the time Xander's mother had walked in on her and Willow looking at one of Xander's dirty mags for fun when he'd gone to the toilet. Ugh, Mrs. Harris had never looked at them the same since. Not that Buffy cared really, what with the woman being a bit questionable herself.
"I liked your story," said a whispering voice in her ear, tearing her out of her thoughts and she jumped, putting her hand out to steady herself on the door. When the hell did he get so close to her?
A story? What? Whose story? My story?
Her brain was on overload trying to make sense of what he'd said when he elaborated quietly, right into her ear.
"Back in 10th? When we marked each other's assignments?"
She did remember. The class had swapped assignments at random to mark and she'd done Tracy Wright's. She never knew who got hers (it was supposed to be anonymous) but she'd got an A for it.
"I got yours," he continued in a whisper and she could feel her whole body shiver when his breath danced over her skin. God, she hadn't been through this many emotions in such a small space of time since her and Willow had watched Up and cried and laughed for an hour and a half. But this was so much more intense.
"Y-you did?" she whispered back, shaking.
God, his voice was so soft and she could feel him place one of his hands on her hip. Her hand on the door grasped for purchase and her arm started to shake a little.
"I liked it. The little girl in it made me sad."
"Hm-mm," he replied. "She seemed lonely. I wanted to make her feel better."
"She'd have liked that," she answered quietly, bravely.
He chuckled softly. "Is that right?"
He was silent then. He didn't move. And she couldn't move. Really, if the door burst open right now and her mom– no, Snyder– no, the police– no, a Nazi marched in and held a gun to her head and told her to SCHNELL, she'd still stand there like a statue, her mouth producing an inordinate amount of drool and yet still strangely parched.
"So you stole my poem, huh?" he asked, startling her again. He felt her jump this time and slightly tightened his hold on her to reassure her. He didn't seem to get that he was the thing making her feel jumpy.
"Yes," she replied softly.
"I wondered where it'd gone," he mused, his chin nuzzling into her hair at her neck and she felt goose bumps break out all over her body. Lusty-Buffy was having an epileptic fit. So was Brainy-Buffy. "I went back to get it later that day, was maybe gonna rework it but it was gone. Now I know why, don't I, kitten?"
Kitten? I'm goo, I'm Buffy-shaped goo.
"You can't have it back," she teased, finding her self-confidence and she felt him smirk against her hair.
"Holding it hostage, are you?"
"Sure is, pet. Wrote it 'bout you," he offered in the smallest voice she'd ever heard him use and she couldn't stop the feeling of delighted surprise that warmed her whole body.
YES! Screamed her inner-voices, both of them now fully onboard the Spike-Love-Train. She felt a flood of giddiness stretch and flow through her body, lighting her up from her head to her toes. She felt a goofy grin spread over her face. She could hear him shift behind her, reminding her that yes, in fact, he was actually still there and the thought occurred to her that while she was happy dancing all over the place, he was standing behind her awaiting her response to his brave confession. She gathered her resolve, all her inner self-confidence and couldn't wait to put him out of his misery.
Her body twisted in the small space he was allowing her to have and when she was facing him, he looked so unsure and unlike himself that she felt such a wave of Sympatico with him in that moment. The goofy grin morphed into her very best flirty, half-smile that Willow told her the boys went crazy for.
"Yeah," he confirmed quietly, his face searching hers for acceptance.
"Thank you," she said breathlessly and before she could talk herself out of it, she leaned forward to brush her lips softly against his. He didn't move to deepen it and neither did she, but she stayed in his orbit and as they started to share their whispered confessions, his right arm was slowly wrapping itself around her waist.
"Wish you'd told me," she whispered bravely as her shaky left hand came up to sink into the hair at the nape of his neck.
He inched closer to her, a cautious, hesitant smile growing on his face. "Didn't think you'd like it. Guy like me writing poncy poetry 'bout you."
"I'd've loved it," she assured him, feeling more and more like herself.
He grinned. "I'm getting that."
She blushed through her smile and dropped her head.
"I used to think it was about Drusilla. I was.. Jealous," she offered, looking up at him through her eyelashes.
"Oh yeah?" he chuckled.
He regarded her quietly for a moment, a small smile teasing his mouth.
"That time I beat up that Parker gimp and you verbally assaulted me? It was because I'd heard him talking about you in the locker room. He was being less than gentlemanly. I didn't like it."
Her brow wrinkled. "I didn't assault you!"
He laughed. "That's what you're focusing on? Not the fact your ex was an arse about you?"
"Oh big shocker there," she replied wryly and he chuckled. "I didn't verbally assault you," she pouted.
"I believe your exact words were, 'why don't you go fuck yourself, you piece of shit Billy Idol clone!'"
She blushed and looked down between their bodies, trying to hide her face, but his chuckling made her feel better.
"S'alright, kitten. It actually made me like you even more. Angry, fiery Buffy is delicious," he purred and she almost melted right then and there. But before she could, he switched tacks and adopted a wry look. "Plus, I had it coming. I shouldn't have jumped him like that. Just didn't like hearing him talk about you like you were a piece of meat."
"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I split his lip back open a few days later when he tried his little 'oops my hand just slipped' trick for the millionth time."
He chuckled appreciatively. "Good girl."
"Wait.. You got suspended for that," she started, puzzled.
"Yeah. Snyder looks for any excuse, though."
"You got suspended for defending my honour?" she asked sternly, trying to bury the awe that was flooding through her body and trying to break over her face.
"Well yeah," he answered, shifting slightly. "What's wrong with that?"
"I don't like the idea of you getting into trouble because of me."
"I don't mind, pet," his brow furrowed.
"Well I do. You shouldn't waste your time with a-holes like Parker. You're better than that."
"Exactly what I used to think when I saw you walking down the halls with him," he replied wryly.
"I don't know whether to be happy or pissed about that," she answered, wrinkling her brow.
"It's a compliment, ducks," he grinned. "I always thought you were too perfect for that gimp."
"Don't distract me by trying to make me swoon," she berated, channeling stern-Buffy. "I'm not that Dru girl. You don't need to be all protective to impress me."
"What makes you say that?" he asked, stumped.
"Oh I don't know," she replied sarcastically. "The fact that she would goad you with other guys to rile you up and then cheer at the sidelines when you beat the crap out of them in the parking lot."
He smirked at her. "You been researching me for an auto-biography or something, Summers?"
She blushed, hoping he wouldn't be freaked by just how much she'd thought about him over the years. "Not the point," she started, trying to get back on track. "No more beating people up for me and getting into unnecessary trouble, okay?"
"All right," he nodded, looking at her blushing but serious face, a secret little smile lighting up his eyes like he was happy and relieved she wanted him to be more than her battering ram in life. His arm tightened around her waist.
"So you like me, huh?" he asked.
Oh we're way past like, boy.
"Yes," she whispered, her gaze flickering between his eyes and his mouth, before asking hesitantly, "And you like me?"
"Oh yeah," he answered, his gaze burning into hers and she felt like her insides were doing cartwheels. "You don't have–" he started.
"What?" she prompted, confused.
"S'just that bloke you're always with."
"Yeah. Is he your boyfriend?"
"Oh, no!" she replied, a little too emphatically. "No, he's — he's just my friend. Nope, I'm flying solo these days. No boyfriend for Buffy," she finished with a hopefully endearing headshake.
"Good," he said, smiling softly.
"What about that Faith girl?" she trailed off in hope.
"Friend," he answered with a grin, and she sighed in relief.
"Oh. Okay. Good. It's just I always see you with her and I thought–"
"You watch me?" he teased and she blushed.
"I don't stalk you or anything–" she started hurriedly but he cut her off with a laugh.
"I was teasing, kitten. I don't mind. I mean," he broke off, dragging his eyes slowly from hers down to her mouth and back up again, "I watch you," he purred.
"You do?" she whispered, shivering.
"Mmm. My eyes follow you down the hall, can't help it. Plus when you sit in front of me in English, it's all I can do to not stick my face in your hair to smell you," he rumbled and her legs really did almost collapse. Luckily his arm was wound around her so tightly she just slumped into his body. But it didn't go without notice.
"You like the way I smell?" she asked. Okay, if she'd heard that line in a movie she'd be laughing her ass off but when he said it? Swoonage.
He burrowed his face into her neck at that and breathed her in. "Like vanilla and coconut," he murmured into her hair, before pulling back to smile at her and nuzzle her cheek with his nose. "Yummy."
You can say that again.
"Your eyes," she blurted, with no idea why, only that she needed him to know it wasn't just him.
"They're blue," she stated. Like a moron.
"For about 17 years now," he grinned with a knowing smile.
"I love them," she whispered, gazing into them and then it was like her brain and mouth exploded. It was awful. His grin faded and a look of awe coloured his features as he listened to her hurriedly get it all out of her, her blush now turning her face beetroot but she didn't care, she just wanted him to know.
"The first time I saw you I thought you were so damn perfect, I almost hyperventilated right there in the hall and then when you read your poem I — I couldn't think of you as just hot any more. You were just– beautiful," she took a deep breath and swallowed at the look in his eyes but she just couldn't stop the rambling and he didn't look like he was falling over himself to stop her either. "And the night I spilled my drink on you at the Bronze, the reason I was standing there gaping like a fish was because all I could think about was how blue your eyes were and how much I wanted to lick and bite and suck on your bottom lip."
He looked completely taken aback by her rushed confession, his eyes burning with lust. He opened his mouth to speak then shut it again, and she could feel her face flaming, but she just couldn't bring herself to care. She was just so glad she'd told him how he'd always affected her. It felt so damn good to get it out.
"Buffy.." he croaked, his voice catching when he tried to continue. He stopped to clear his throat, which made her laugh.
"Now you know how it feels when you tell me you wanna smell me," she teased.
"Yeah," he replied in a daze. "Although biting is way sexier than smelling, kitten."
"I can't help it," she started, managing to blend shy with coy, "Your lip is just so bitable."
"Well, far be it from me to deny a beautiful girl what she wants," he purred, delight shining in his eyes.
"Beautiful?" she teased, fishing.
"Oh yeah. Thought you were fresh as a daisy first time I saw you."
"Is that a good thing?" she asked with a breathless, relieved laugh, and when his giggle reached her ears she felt so wonderfully warm.
"S'why me and Dru broke up. I think she got sick of me writing poetry about you," he laughed, and it was her turn to look at him in awe. He'd written more poetry about her?
"She found a big stack of 'em in my room, and I didn't wanna pass 'em off as being about her. Turns out she couldn't take my wandering eyes the way I could take hers. So she threw a wobbly, and I kicked her out."
She gaped at him like a fish. "But you guys broke up before last summer."
"You sure you haven't been stalking me?" he teased.
She ignored him. "That's six months. Why didn't you ask me out or even–"
"Well, why didn't you?" he countered.
She opened her mouth but her brain provided no answer, so she said nothing.
"See? I don't know. I just thought you thought I was a complete arse. I figured you would never, you know cause of who I am," he finished sheepishly.
"Yeah, me too," she frowned. She glanced up at him, caught his equally rueful expression, and couldn't stop herself from chuckling. "We're dumb."
His laughter joined hers, and when it died down, a comfortable silence settled between them. His hand was making circles at her waist and she mimicked his actions with the hand that was in his hair, dragging her fingers across his nape and playing with the soft hairs. A shiver passed from his body to hers and their situation, their closeness, suddenly hit her. She was stuck here with him, maybe all night. He liked her, just like she liked him. She could feel his hands on her body, his breath on her face, and his hard body against the length of hers.
His eyes were eating up her face and his other hand came up to wrap itself in her hair, where her head met her neck. She tightened her hold on his neck, her other hand coming to rest between their bodies on his chest.
Wow. Muscles. Thank you, Buddha!
His purring voice drew her focus away from her internal soundtrack (which basically consisted of the word Yippee over and over).
"So, you gonna go out on a date with me, Summers?"
Her breathing went all fluttery, and she nodded jerkily. "Yes, please."
He chuckled silkily. "Well that was easier than I thought it'd be."
"God bless art closets," she agreed, moistening her lips with her tongue. His eyes darted to her mouth and she felt the biggest feeling of anticipation flood her body.
He slowly inched his face toward hers, and when his mouth finally came back in contact with hers, she knew he was the only boy she'd be kissing for the foreseeable future. His lips brushed against hers so softly, his parted lips dancing across hers over and over and she couldn't stop herself from opening her mouth to capture that bottom lip between her teeth. At her womanly moan at finally having that piece of flesh between her teeth, he seemed to snap.
He growled and his mouth fixed itself to hers, hard. His hand twisted in her hair, angling her just so he could plunge his tongue into her mouth, claiming all of her at once. She felt like she'd been hit by lightning and was too stunned to respond at first. Her limbs lost all their strength as he twisted and turned her, devouring her mouth with his. She felt her legs turn to jelly and a warm tingle flood through her entire body. She distantly heard a low growling and realised it was him. He was growling at her, even as he was claiming her, and it kick started her into action. She fixed her hands in the waistband of his jeans and pulled his lower body flush against her in a jerky motion and he pulled away with a gasp, releasing her mouth to desperately pant for breath while she let her lips and tongue trail from his mouth to those damn cheekbones and then down his jaw and finally to that delicious looking neck that pulsed and twitched under her attention. He was groaning again and when she lightly bit on his pulse point, his hands swept down to her rear, slipping his hands into the back pockets of her jeans and pulling her violently against him. She took her chance and curled her hands into his hair, dragging his head down to hers for another all-consuming kiss, this time with her in control. She moaned into his mouth when he sucked on her tongue and when his hands continued to press her lower half into his, she couldn't stop herself from raising a leg to wrap around his right hip. He shuddered against her, grabbing her leg to hold her there, and she felt a wonderful sense of power and adrenaline stream through her.
She was bent over, her back arching backwards, his curled forward like a cat's, one hand curled around her leg, holding it to his hip as they thrust against each other, his other clutching at the back of her neck, holding her upright. Her arms were wrapped around his neck, clawing at his shoulders and upper back and she couldn't stop herself from thrusting against him as he held her to him. The feel of his body pressed to hers was enough to drive her insane. They were moaning and devouring each other's mouths and grasping at each other's bodies with a desperation Buffy had never experienced or even thought could happen outside of movies when they heard the voice.
"Hello? Is anybody there?"
They broke their grope-fest in a daze and stumbled apart, chests heaving, panting for breath, hands reaching for the wall to hold themselves up, almost dizzy from the lack of contact. They stared at each other in disbelief at the lust that had so consumed them. It was unlike anything Buffy had ever felt before in her life, and she almost thought herself asleep and dreaming when once again the distinctly un-dreamlike voice broke into their moment.
"Is there someone in here?"
"Snyder," Spike whispered, his eyes blinking, clearly trying to sober himself.
"Should we?" Buffy panted quietly.
"If you want," he answered equally quietly.
"Hello? Speak up if you're there, you little rats!"
Just when he seemed about to answer Snyder's typically unpleasant address, Buffy saw her finger reach out and place itself on Spike's lips.
Good finger! Clever finger! Cooed Lusty-Buffy.
Ah screw it, you've got a good point; this boy is HOT! Brainy-Buffy replied, happy in defeat.
He threw her a questioning look and at her warm smile, his eyes crinkled and his expression turned soft. They waited until the interloper's steps grew faint and then both breathed sighs of relief.
Spike smiled at her almost shyly then and she returned it. He reached forward to close the space between them but instead of seizing her lips again, he tugged on her until she was within the circle of his arms and her head was resting on his shoulder, his own head tucked into her neck, his arms bandied around her waist, and she could hear him breathing her in. Oh god, he was cuddling into her like a cat, and she thought she would melt right then and there into a puddle on the floor.
"You fit me," he mused into her neck, and she hummed and smiled a beautiful smile against his shoulder.
She could feel the skin of his throat against her cheek and couldn't stop herself from turning her head and licking, then biting it softly. He seemed to really, really like it.
"Christ!" he breathed, pulling back to lock his lust filled eyes with hers, one of his hands trailing down her back to press her more fully against him. "You're a feisty one, aren't you, kitten?"
"Like?" she asked, smiling.
"Love," he replied with a grin.
We could find a place to stay
A secret little hide away
Spend a little time inside of you
All I do
All eyes on you