Title: Never Bet the Devil Your Head
Word Count: 927
Warnings: Nudity! Yay!
Spoilers: Season 6. Post-Smashed.
Author’s Note: The sb_fag_ends prompt: Never Bet the Devil Your Head
Summary: One of the good days. Ahem.
The hands on Buffy’s hips match the sharp note of warning carried in her voice. “You did what?”
She means business, Spike’s business mainly, as if it’s any of hers, but then that’s hardly stopped her before and there’s no reason to believe that should change now they’re spending almost every night doing the dirtiest of the dirty.
“Made a wager, is all.” he shrugs absently, caring more about the way her small boobs jiggle hypnotically as she moves, punctuating her words as she talks, than the conversation itself. A bloke can hardly be expected to think straight with all that bouncing going on, can he? If she expects him to take her in any way seriously, she needs to put some clothes on.
Not that he’s going to encourage her to cover up. She’ll get some bee in her bonnet about something he’s said or not said and she’ll be off again soon enough; he needs to get all he can while she still feels like offering, and judging by the firmness of her expression, he doesn’t have long.
He doesn’t know why the hell she bloody cares what he does anyway; he’s not her boyfriend, he’s not her anything, she’s made that abundantly clear. Even though her bra is hanging off the lampshade with her thong and the rest of her kit is tangled intimately with his on the crypt floor in a orgy of discarded clothing.
“No need to get your knickers twisted ‘bout it.” He continues. He knows he’s asking for trouble, but he can’t help adding with a leery grin: “Not that you’re wearing any.”
“A wager, huh?” she pouts, trying to ignore his blatant staring, her eyebrows raised to her hairline in mock disbelief; but although she attempts for a moment to pretend that her lack of clothing doesn’t matter and she still expects a satisfactory answer from him, her confidence soon falters and her hands drift from the defiant set of her hips to flutter nervously over her breasts.
She eventually settles for crossing her arms over them and he’s forced to ogle other, less interesting parts of her body instead. Still, she can’t disguise the blush that deepens the colour of the orgasm-rosy glow that flowers across her chest. It’s a dead giveaway; physical evidence that she’s still affected by him and that bodes well for the rest of the night’s carnal activities.
“What kind of wager means losing your head?” she asks. “No wait, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”
Oh, but she does. That much is obvious.
He’s not about to make it easy for her though. This is hardly the first bet he’s made like this after all and if he wants to make a gentleman’s wager with a demon, he will; but he can’t have her poking her cute nose into every little shady thing he does. “Demon thing. Best keep the Slayer out of it.”
“But it’s you. Besides,” she says in a small, girly voice as if she isn’t the veteran Slayer who’s hacked off more than a few demon heads herself. “It’s creepy. How can I… You know. With that hanging over us?” she waves a hand coyly as she evades saying what she actually means.
Have sex. Fuck. Shag. Bang. Bonk. Boink. It’s not difficult for anyone else to say, he thinks sourly.
“Fine. I’ll move it then.” With a sigh he heaves his prize off its hook, taking care not to drip any of the head’s acid blood onto his exposed and vulnerable delicates.
He dumps twenty pounds of top quality, unprocessed, spell ingredients on top of the dresser; a few hundred easy dollars ready for his pocket once the thing has finally dried out. As it is, fresh and raw and still faintly warm, the head squelches as it rocks a little before coming to a rest on its side, the unlucky demon’s features sagging as its dead flesh succumbs to gravity and the flaccidity of death. Its thick tongue lolls from its drooling mouth; its severed neck oozes foul ichors; its bulging eyes stare into oblivion; which apparently is to be found somewhere in the middle of Spike’s scavenged mattress.
Oh yeah, if only the beast had known that was true, then it might have stuck to the kittens and lost a litter or two instead of its ugly head.
Spike thinks better of giving the head a front row ticket to the X-rated Buffy and Spike sex show and swivels the head around to face the wall; he loves needling Buffy, getting that rise out of her that makes her all hot and bothered and therefore more likely to shag him, but there’s no point putting her off any more than she has been by the head. She might have been revved up enough not to notice their lifeless audience until they’d finished their first go, but if he wants another round or three then he’s going to have to listen to his lady’s wishes this time.
When he turns back to her, Buffy’s rearranged herself decorously over his sheets again, the blip in her confidence seemingly forgotten as her body invites him in for a little bit more. She gives him as big a smile as she can manage these days and that’s good enough for him.
She holds out an arm, urging him to join her. “No more weirdo bets, yeah? Come back to bed.”
He’s got no problem agreeing to anything she wants if she’s going to put it this way…