Mountain Dew 3/?
Author: dutchbuffy2305, aka db2305
Story note: 10 years post-NFA
Rating: M
Betaed by: mommanerd and thedeadlyhook
Feedback: I never tire of it! dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
Her face is cool. Buffy's eyes snap open, her rational brain tells them not to, you can sear your eyes by looking straight at the sun for a second, but she's safe. The spike of rock that hides the Ladies' Room from plain sight is sheltering her face. It's a narrow shadow, and she won’t have long to gather her steaming thoughts, cool them down and save herself. She can move. Carefully she rolls her whole body into the shadow of the rock and debates. Will she make it to Spike's cabin? It the most likely place to protect her from the malignant sulfur pustule in the sky.
Wake Spike first. "Spike!" she yells. "Help! Spike!"
She waits. Precious seconds tick by. Finally a cautious voice sounds. "Slayer?"
"Open the door! I'm coming!"
Buffy turns on her feet like a cat and sprints for the door. It's like a hundred feet or so. Still too far. Halfway through, the light hammers down on her skull and splits her thoughts open like a grape. Her feet forget what they were doing and she stumbles down, headlong, her arms reaching for something, for nothing.
#
The Slayer is going down. Bugger. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Spike rips one of the foil blankets from its staples and flings himself into the day's maw, quivering with heat and malice. As he reaches for her hands, his burst into flame. No time to worry about that, he clasps her to his chest and they stumble back. The sun scorches his bare heels and sets fire to his pants.
They fall into the cabin and Spike kicks the door shut with one flaming foot. The blanket douses the smoldering bits of him with hissing and crinkling noises. Buffy sits up, clearly recovered from whatever hit her out there. She takes his hands into hers, cooler than his at the moment, but that will pass, of course.
"Thanks, Spike. Your poor hands."
"Not a problem, Buffy. Hands will heal soon enough." He pokes his feet, but they're not too bad. His thermal long johns have gaping holes on the calves where they've melted away. "What happened out there, love?"
That slipped out. He doesn’t think she noticed.
"The sun got to me. I fell over, and I couldn’t move, and it was sort of…" She's blushing, or maybe it’s a sunburn? Whatever it is, she finds it hard to get the words out. "Warming me up. Getting me all hot and ready for something."
She meets his eyes, determined to be adult about this. His scent memory informs him that, yes, she was all creamy and juicy when he held her in his arms. His bloody tackle stands up eagerly with this thought, and it's fucking embarrassing when you're wearing stretchy underpants instead of trusty stiff jeans that hide a multitude of sins.
He shrugs. "Sorry."
"That's okay. I can't help it either."
Right. They’re adults. Stuff happens, and they can be cool and professional about it.
"You think it's got something to do with tonight?"
Buffy's still stroking his hands, pink flesh now appearing beneath the flaking blackness. They're incredibly sensitive and his cock won't go down.
"Has to. Trying to disable me. The Sherpas didn’t help me. Maybe they've run off?"
"Let me check."
It isn’t easy to stand up in his condition. The rub of the cloth against his boner as he moves is making it worse. A little moan escapes from his lips.
"Are you okay?" Buffy asks.
"My feet," he lies. "It's nothing." At least she's not touching him now.
He walks to the peephole he's made in the aluminum and through the wooden planks, with a clear view of the Sherpa tents and fires.
"Have a look, lo…Buffy."
Buffy stands on tiptoes, disturbingly close, disturbingly closer when she needs him to help keep her balance. The Sherpas have plastered themselves in the shadow of a narrow overhang, and they're not going to make it through the day in there. One of them, Jigme, Spike thinks, lies supine, crucified by the baleful eye of the sun, his eyes open and staring. Dead, or in best case, blind and crazy.
#
It's torture to stand this close to Spike, to not look at the straining bulge in his thermals. Buffy's determined not to give in. That would be wrong, because it wouldn’t be them. It would be the magic making them crazy. The sun was blaring down at her, trying to pry open her eyes to get at her soft squishy brain and cook it like porridge. Porridge is gross and she needs actual brains to think, evidence to the contrary notwithstanding.
Why are they standing here again? Oops, yeah, Sherpas. A good little Slayer would go out and rescue them, but she can't. She's not going to lie there again, legs open to that thing in the sky. The only thing her legs will open for is Spike. If she were going there, and she's not.
His hand is resting on the shiny foil wall, large and pale. It has shiny pink patches on it and around those patches a flaking, blackened edge. Her eyes are so close to it that she can see the pores on the unblemished parts of creamy skin, the short light brown hairs that cover the back of the hand and the first digits, some of them short and crispened. She could blow on those hairs, she's that close. Spike's nails are pink and shiny, and his manicure has held out up better than hers. What is the world coming to if men like Spike have manicures, huh?
Buffy lifts up her own hand, heavier than it's ever been before and turns Spike's hand over. She needs to see the inside. Even the palm of his hand is a different color than hers, pinker. The pad of the thumb is thick and fleshy, and she'd like to put her teeth in it. The lines and creases on his palm, what story do they tell? She knows nothing about palmistry (palmology?) but she traces the thickest, deepest line from the outside to the base of his third finger. Spike doesn't move his hand while she's doing this, but it trembles ever so slightly beneath her fingers. He has calluses at the base of his fingers, much like hers, a little orangey, from handling all those weapons. She strokes his middle finger upwards, intrigued by the smoothness and softness after the harder, rougher callus. Then there's the tip of the finger, twice as wide as her forefinger. Does that mean it's twice as sensitive?
Spike starts talking to her in a hoarse voice, so close to her ear her spine arches from the sound of his voice. The place beneath the ear is the most sensitive place spot on her whole body, or at least it is right now. She doesn't understand his words, something about salt and roses, shadows and souls. He used to talk to her just like that when they were fucking. It's as if she can feel the rough concrete of his crypt walls under her fingers again, and he's moving in and out of her, too slow, torturing her, preventing her from coming because she needs it hard and fast, and all the time that voice goes one and on and says beautiful incomprehensible things that she refuses to hear or understand. He should say dirty, nasty things to her, demean her, abuse her, but instead he's delivering these lines in a suddenly plummy voice and she just can't parse it.
Buffy blinks and the aluminum crinkles a little under her sweaty cheeks. She's not in the crypt, that's all in the past, over and done with, forgiven, forgotten, only it isn't quite like that. Spike leans heavily against her, his whole body flush with hers. A quick check downwards confirms that she's still fully dressed in all her winter gear, and he's still in the thermal pants. That explains the sweating, then.
She can't keep ignoring what is going on. There is going to have to be actual communication on the subject.
"Something out there is doing something to us, Spike," she says, the words sandpaper gobbets in her throat. It's not quite as decisive a communiqué as she’d hoped it would be.
Spike understands. "I know," he moans in her neck, and his hands have snuck around her waist.
"I can't…"
"Can't what?"
Can't stop, can't go on, don't want to have anything to do with you ever again? She needs more info.
"Can't keep myself from feeling like this. I know it's wrong," he pants.
Not so much wrong as inopportune, Buffy thinks. They've got a job to do. This horny spell is preventing them from doing it.
"Yeah. Not now. Not here. We've got to resist."
Spike grabs her shoulders, which makes her waist feel lonely and rejected and turns her around so she can look into his face. Her nipples grab that opportunity to commune intensely with his bare chest. It's a miracle they can sense anything through her five layers of thermal clothing, which must be two inches thick over her chest. She hopes her nipples haven't grown that long.
Spike's eyes keep flicking down over her body, but there's nothing to see but her thick Helly Hansen Arctic jacket. She pulls down her fleece inner collar, so he can at least see her lips.
"Not now? Not here? When, then and where?"
"Later. After. When we're back," she murmurs against his cheek. Hmmm, cheek of Spike.
"What time is it?" Spike whispers.
Oh. Spike is pulling away from her, apparently regaining control. Buffy tries not to let her disappointment show She peels back her jacket, rolls up outer fleece, inner fleece and thermal vest, and there it is, her special clunky mission watch. With stopwatch function and everything.
The hands stand at exactly twelve o'clock. "Noon," she says. "Funny."
Spike falls back against her. She knew it. She knew he couldn't be feeling any lessening of the Spike-Buffy gravity effect. Or maybe the Spike-Buffy gravy effect, because her panties are soaked. Which is so not fun if you haven't seen a washing machine in weeks, and you'd actually welcome a nice babbling brook to beat your clothes in with your bare hands.
Spike sniffs, and Buffy blushes a deeper red. Beet suits her. "I'm sorry," she mumbles.
"No, you smell like heaven, love. It's just – doesn't feel like noon. Feels like later. That watch run alright?"
"Well, yeah, it's like this major brand special watch that Andrew bought for the mission especially. He could hardly part from it."
"Mmmm."
He really shouldn't say 'Mmmm' like that when his lips are so close to her neck. They set off a reverberation in Buffy that is centered suspiciously low in her body and is accompanied by clenching, shuddering and involuntary eye-closing. If she wasn't sort of past feeling anything but lust she'd have been embarrassed.
Spike clenches his jaws, which makes interesting hollows beneath his cheekbones. "Maybe the sun has made it stop?"
Yeah, sure, maybe. Something's doing something to them, and it has to be connected to the thing Andrew has sent them out to fight. There are too many things in that sentence, and yes, the sun has damaged her speech center and left the lust-center up and running, which is, like, her lot.
#
Spike's muscles are paralyzed, and the organs in his body that have no muscles are stiff and motionless. The combination leaves a lot to be desired, but at least he can't act on his baser impulses. He doesn’t do that on a mission, because he's not The Bloody, Spike the Bloody, to fuck every female enemy agent that crosses his path. Maybe if he could cross his legs it wouldn't be so bad.
Buffy is trembling and twitching in his arms and he wishes she would stop, because although his control is awesome, at some point he's definitely going to soil his thermal underwear, God bless its quick-drying polypropylene.
"Spike…" Buffy sighs against him. "My legs. I need to lie down."
His lower body spasms a little at the thought of lying down. He's forgotten why it is so urgent not to give in to the lust that hangs tangibly in the air. Working together, feelings develop? No, that's been done to death. He's going to wring Andrew's skinny little chicken neck when they get back. This is a conspiracy. Something magical is going on, connected to the Summer Solstice, no doubt. Why Buffy? Why him? Male, female, ritual marriage, sacrifices. Yeah, you could call what's happened to poor Jigme a sacrifice, and Buffy and he have celebrated the joining of man and woman many times over. Buffy, fertile female, Spike, dead infertile male. Andrew sending him the Pablo Neruda love poem. He knows in his gut these are the building blocks of an explanation of what is happening here, but they're not matching up to a complete puzzle yet.
And Andrew might be a skinny little nerd, who still thinks Counselor Troi and Commander Riker are a match made in heaven, but he's also the frighteningly competent and ruthless Head of Council. And Spike's friend. Admirer, too. He wouldn't set him up, unless he thought it was for his own good. Spike is going to resent that as soon as he's figured out what exactly he's been set up for.
Buffy's still talking and pushing weakly against him. Hm, nice. His cock pushes back and they’re getting a serious rhythm going.
"Spike, bed, now!" she
says from between clenched teeth and he obeys that voice, he can't not.
They stagger to the truckle bed and collapse onto it. It holds, miraculously.
Buffy groans in relief as her tired muscles let go and her warm, slack weight on
his chest is his idea of paradise. Her Buffy scent is quadrupled after all those
weeks with bathing in a pan and he doesn't mind a bit. His hands burrow
mindlessly under her clothes, healing burns be damned, until he touches moist
hot skin. Yes!
Buffy sits up and stares wildly down at him. She flings off her hat and starts ripping off her jacket. The zippers and Velcro fastenings fire off like farts.
Buffy gives up halfway, yanks his pants down and grabs his dick with both hands. "Spike! Why are we fighting this?"
Spike's last sensible thoughts fly to all corners of his brain and he tries futilely to grab after them. "Because. It's. It's."
He can’t find the words but he frees his poor confused dick, which is getting all ready to fire, by clasping her hands between his. "No. We're not going to do this. We're stronger than this."
Buffy shakes her head. "I'm not. I'm weak. You have to punish me. Hard. You know where."
"I am strong," he says. "Repeat after me."
TBC
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