Bogwitch (bogwitch) wrote,

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Fic: Cats and Dogs (Spike/Tara)

I think I’m allergic to Thursdays.

This is the second week running that I’ve been feeling icky on the Thursday, horrible headaches, dizziness and nausea that won’t go away. Last week I blamed it on a hangover, even though it was only a glass and half of wine, but this week I’ve had nothing to drink. I don’t know what’s going on.
No, I’m not pregnant. Better not be anyway.

Anyway, it's finally the 24th and I can post my response to the spiketara Cats and Dogs Challenge! Hope you enjoy.

Cats and Dogs – Bogwitch
(Tara/Spike, Season Five? Special thanks to calove for the beta)

Tara gets curious about men sometimes, really she does, in the way that Willow might get intrigued by a mysterious magical object she cannot quite fathom the use of. She’ll scrutinise it, her brow furrowed, as she wonders at its purpose, examining from every angle, every magnification, until she puts it away again, none the wiser. It’s ascetically pleasing, a curio, little else.

Tara will think the occasional man is easy on the eye, in dim light, at a certain angle, if you squint a bit, perhaps. She’ll ask herself, what would it be like to fuck one? Just one? Then she’ll notice a pretty face on a girl with nice breasts and a wisp of a waist and any curiosity will stop there. She doesn’t desire men. Doesn’t want them, doesn’t trust them; she knows the men of her family, after all. She’s quite content with the little witch she’s got, thank you, and that will do.

There is one though that holds her attention, makes her wonder why the temperature has suddenly gone up inside, despite the air conditioning whirring away. Spike is not like the other men around her. The safeness of Xander and Giles and her professor, who don’t even rate on her sexual scale, doesn’t compare to the effortlessly cool sexuality of the vampire. He’s all attitude and punk spit, and oh god, a sexy as hell.

She doesn’t know him well, neither of them are Scoobies really. She sees him only rarely, when Buffy’s in the mood to let him help out. But when their paths do cross, she can’t keep her eyes away, can only stammer awkwardly if forced to say something to him, because he’s intimidating, yet somehow mesmerising, and if she was ever going to go with a man, then he would be a terrifying prospect, because he’s still as evil as they come, but he’s got that magnetism that reels her in like she’s bitten a baited hook, and if he wanted to he could pull on the line, and although she would struggle for air, she couldn’t fight him at all.

She thinks she’s beneath his notice. That she’s the quiet face, forgotten in the corner, observing the rest. She knows he’d rather sneak glances at the slayer’s pert bottom when he thinks no one is looking, or even sometimes when they are, just because he knows it will put Giles off his Darjeeling. But the once or twice that he’s noticed her watching and caught her eyes, she’s felt herself blush, the blood rushing to the crown of her head in a tsunami of embarrassment for being caught staring over the top of the occult text she’s supposed to be researching, not using as a shield to oogle the vamp over. Then he will wink at her, and turn away to try and get a look down the slayer’s flimsy low-cut top, maybe hoping for a glimpse of a perfect pink nipple. There’s a smirk on that kissable, sultry mouth, and Tara wants to explode.

Don’t get her wrong - she’s happy with Willow, the cute little red head in her arms, but sometimes in the deep night when touch and taste are the whole of her senses, because she’s ignoring the rest with her eyes squeezed tightly shut, and she’s not even listening due to the movement of her lovers hands - forget about smell, who cares about that? She imagines cool skin, smooth and pale as moonlight itself, and broader shoulders under her fingertips as she runs her hands across her lovers back. The painted red lips that brush, and press and slide against her own become firmer, male; they push harder when they demand attention, and don’t taste of cherry pie lip gloss, but smoke and the peppermints he’s used to disguise it. Willow’s delicate fingers between her legs become Spike’s cock, filling her to bursting, connecting the male part to the female part, to complete the circuit, sexual electricity making her as breathless as him.

Such are the secret depths of her night thoughts. You see, nothing is going to happen here, those impulses will never be acted upon. She doesn’t want him that way really. Not while he’s a he anyway. They are cats and dogs, incompatible in every way - he wants his slayer and she has her wily, witty Wicca to love. But then there’ll always be a part of her that longs for a little taste of the other animal.

Some Spuffy I am!

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