USER: The weight of his winnings felt good in Spike's pockets, but not as good as the warmth of Buffy by his side. She'd hardly flinched when he'd unthinkingly offered his arm, taking it with a determined tilt of the head that had him biting back a smile. Buffy had decided to take 1875 as a challenge, then. That was his slayer. It'd taken longer than he'd liked, but eventually he'd managed to come out the big winner, leaving behind three empty mugs of ale, four very disgruntled demons, and the beginnings of a half-decent reputation. He smiled to himself. Nothing wrong with giving his future fledging self a bit of a head start, was there? They'd remember a vampire named William for a while, he'd wager. He'd had to rouse Buffy from half-sleep when they left. She'd looked exhausted, and his hand on her shoulder was as gentle as he could make it. "C'mon, love. This victor's got the spoils. Time to toddle off." For a second her face had been open and drowsily sweet. His chest constricted. Is that what she would look like in the mornings? Then she'd seemed to realize where she was, and it closed off again. She winced as she straightened, rubbing at her side. They'd filed behind the demons down the back stairs and out the back of the darkened pub, closed up for the night, emerging into the cobblestone street. Here and there night soil men trundled with their wagons, but Buffy hadn't asked, and Spike wasn't inclined to spoil the mood. Not all creatures of the night were as romantic as vamp...

USER: The weight of his winnings felt good in Spike's pockets, but not as good as the warmth of Buffy by his side. She'd hardly flinched when he'd unthinkingly offered his arm, taking it with a determined tilt of the head that had him biting back a smile. Buffy had decided to take 1875 as a challenge, then. That was his slayer. It'd taken longer than he'd liked, but eventually he'd managed to come out the big winner, leaving behind three empty mugs of ale, four very disgruntled demons, and the beginnings of a half-decent reputation. He smiled to himself. Nothing wrong with giving his future fledging self a bit of a head start, was there? They'd remember a vampire named William for a while, he'd wager. He'd had to rouse Buffy from half-sleep when they left. She'd looked exhausted, and his hand on her shoulder was as gentle as he could make it. "C'mon, love. This victor's got the spoils. Time to toddle off." For a second her face had been open and drowsily sweet. His chest constricted. Is that what she would look like in the mornings? Then she'd seemed to realize where she was, and it closed off again. She winced as she straightened, rubbing at her side. They'd filed behind the demons down the back stairs and out the back of the darkened pub, closed up for the night, emerging into the cobblestone street. Here and there night soil men trundled with their wagons, but Buffy hadn't asked, and Spike wasn't inclined to spoil the mood. Not all creatures of the night were as romantic as vampires. The late hour (or the early hour, depending on your perspective) was making Buffy pensive--between yawns. Her stride had slowed to an amble, and Spike slowed with it. Out for a nighttime stroll with his girl, he was. He indulged himself in a tiny, barely-there fantasy, one where he had simply asked her for a walk, and she had simply said yes. He tried to stay away from those sorts of dreams, but he was light-headed and loose-limbed from ale and triumph and the scent of Buffy so close to his nostrils. And it was so... nice, just to imagine. Imagine that she was there with him. Not just beside him. Buffy broke the silence. "Is it weird? Being back?" "Yeeeah." "So I was right? You were around in 1875?" He paused a moment, debating the lie, but he liked the feeling honesty gave him, with her. He could wield it so rarely. "Yeah." "So there's... there's another you." Buffy's voice was slow, deliberate, like she was working it all out. "There's another Spike out there, somewhere." "Not really." "What do you mean?" Spike sighed slightly. "Wasn't just around in 1875. Was alive." "Oh." Buffy's voice was tiny, tired. "So then it's... William, out there. The real William. Before you... took him over." The uneasy pit in Spike's stomach at this line of conversation roiled. "Before I what?" "You know..." "I bloody well don't know. I'm a vampire, Buffy, not a parasite." "But that's what a vampire is, Spike!" Spike got the feeling they'd be yelling if they weren't both so tired. She hadn't taken her hand off his arm, and it was confusing as all hell. "A demon that... that squats in a person's corpse." Spike stopped then, incredulity on his face. He looked down at her, searching for her eyes in the darkness. "You really believe that, slayer?" She kept his gaze. Spike opened his mouth, then closed it, cold rage bubbling up in him. Here he'd been pretending to be her man, out of an evening for a stroll, and she... she... As quickly as it came, the rage dulled away into pain. Pain that the woman he bloody worshipped didn't even bother to think of him as a person. Well, he could set that record straight, at least. "I am the real William, Slayer. That bloke out there... he's the figment. Not half the man I am. Being turned's what made me real. What made me me." "But you're not him!" Buffy finally took her hand off his arm, and he felt the loss. "You have his face, his personality, his memories, but none of it's real..." Suddenly she trailed off, and her face blanched as if she'd been struck. He bit his tongue, sensing that something important was happening. A moment later she turned her eyes to him again, deadly serious. "You remember him." "I remember me." "That makes you him." "Makes me me, slayer." He couldn't help but end with a bit of a growl. "Okay." Spike stood stunned. Had Buffy just... had he won an argument with the slayer? Had she just agreed he was a man? With so little convincing? He tried to sort out what he'd done, so he could do it again. Buffy had resumed walking, and he hurried to catch up with her, but she didn't take his arm again. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if protecting herself from the world. He dared a glimpse at her face and found her forehead creased in confusion and pain. He hadn't meant to do that to her. Just wanted her to see him as a man. Even if it wasn't strictly true. He wasn't a man, and there was some part of him, some stupid poncy part of him, that wanted her to see that too, and love him that way. Love every bit of him, the way he adored every bit of her. But Buffy'd never love a demon, and he could play up his human side for her, if that's what it took. Hadn't done it in a century, and it was both fun and frustrating to let those instincts come to the front now. Instincts aided by lots of research into human behavior. Daytime telly was useful for more than just passing time. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to keep from reaching for her. They arrived at a crossroad and he turned to the right. It seemed to rouse her from her reverie. "Where are we going, anyway?" "Hotel, love." "How much further? My feet are killing me." "What, from the vigorous sitting around all night?" He lightened his tone, trying to tease her back out of the pain. Buffy rolled her eyes. He took it as a good sign. "This is one of the hotels with the private beds, right?" "That it is, slayer," Spike replied. Maybe, as tired as she was, he could convince her to share tonight. Probably be best to play the gentleman a little while yet, but if he could get her into bed surely it wouldn't be long... Spike sighed. Buffy yawned. "Time travel looks so exciting in the movies," she mumbled. "Less with the endless walking." "Few more blocks," Spike replied. "And once we get there, Buffy, remember--I do the talking." "Uh-huh," she murmured sleepily. "Whatever I say, you just nod and look pretty." Buffy began to raise her eyebrows, but then her face collapsed back into that exhausted droop. "Punch you later," she mumbled. "That's a girl," Spike smirked. A few minutes later, and they stood at the huge carved door of The Langham. Spike adjusted his cap and straightened his coat, and took a few deep breaths like a swimmer on the diving board... which was a strange image that had Buffy giggling to herself. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew it was probably a dumb idea, letting Spike take point this much, but she was so tired and it was kind of nice not to have to run everything. She'd show him who was boss after a couple of hours... make that days... of sleep. Spike offered his arm again and Buffy took it automatically, playing the part. It was early enough that there was no footman at the door, only the night clerk behind his desk. He straightened as Spike and Buffy entered, finger poised over the bell on the desk. Thieves didn't usually bring their mollys along, but this one looked nearly as rough as her john, all rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. There was a revolver in the drawer, but he really hoped it wouldn't come to that. The carpet was new. The sharp-faced man guided his lady towards the desk, his bearing straight and tall. And she was a prettier thing than he'd realized at first, with a sweet, open face. The finger over the bell relaxed a hair. Maybe not thieves, after all. He decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. The clerk tried an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid we've no openings at the moment. The Midland Grand is hiring, I believe. Newer establishments do have more turnover." There was a note of corporate pride in his voice. The sharp-faced man looked offended for a brief second, then slipped into a placatory smile. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, my good man. We've come for a room." The clerk looked them over again. The Langham had a certain standard of clientele. Royalty. Nobility. Artistes. A standard this pair, even should they have the money, most certainly did not approach. "I know how it looks," the man sighed, exhaustion in every syllable. "We were waylaid coming up from the docks. They took everything--everything," Spike intoned, enjoying every minute of his performance. "We were rescued by one of God's own saints, who lent us these clothes. We're eager to rest, as you might imagine." "Awful luck," the clerk commented neutrally. "Indeed," Spike continued, like some demented thespian. "Not the welcome to this fair city I was hoping for for my bride." Buffy's shock at Spike's alibi must have passed for shock at the situation as a whole, and the clerk's expression softened. "Quite terrible," he clucked. "But I'm afraid we cannot give rooms on credit..." "Not a problem," Spike said smoothly. "We can pay now." The clerk raised his eyebrows. "You have the money on you, sir?" Spike's face went blank for a moment. Oops. He floundered for a reason why thieves would leave them their money. "Just our traveling funds. The thieves didn't search us that closely, thank the good Lord." Buffy's face twitched, and the clerk took it for embarrassment. His wife had been known to secret coins in some fairly intimate places in her clothing. The young missus must have done the same. And if their traveling funds alone could buy lodging... well, it'd be easy enough to expel them later, should their story unravel. "The Langham would be glad to assist you in this time of distress, sir. The room will be six pounds for tonight. Meals are served regularly in our world-renowned dining room. Do come see me or any of our staff if you require anything." Spike passed over a suspicious mix of coins and bills while the clerk gave his spiel, and they disappeared into the drawer alongside the revolver. The clerk turned briefly to pull a key down from the rack behind him. "Room 203," he chirped. "Not quite our honeymoon suite, but lovely accommodations nonetheless." He shot a smile at Buffy that put Spike's teeth on edge. "Thanks, mate," he responded, letting an edge of his rougher accent seep through. The clerk gaped, but Spike had already steered Buffy away, his hand on her back. Buffy stumbled a bit as they headed up the stairs, the carpet lush under her aching feet. Spike worked the heavy iron key into the door, and with little fanfare she headed for the bed and toppled into it headfirst. Spike shut the door behind them, noted that the curtains were pulled shut, and realized that there was no way to get in the bed with her the way she'd fallen slantways across it. He was so tired he almost didn't care. Being with the slayer full-time was bloody exhilarating until it was bloody exhausting. There was a little sofa with large decorative cushions to the side of the room. He pulled them off and tossed them on the floor next to the bed. He threw off his hat and coat, wrestled off his boots, and curled up by the bedskirt. He wasn't in bed with Buffy, but he was closer, and that was something. From above him came a voice so tired and small and mumbling that it took his vampire hearing to suss out the words: "Hey Spike... remind me to be mad at you in the morning." *** Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries hein idea).

USER: The weight of his winnings felt good in Spike's pockets, but not as good as the warmth of Buffy by his side. She'd hardly flinched when he'd unthinkingly offered his arm, taking it with a determined tilt of the head that had him biting back a smile. Buffy had decided to take 1875 as a challenge, then. That was his slayer. It'd taken longer than he'd liked, but eventually he'd managed to come out the big winner, leaving behind three empty mugs of ale, four very disgruntled demons, and the beginnings of a half-decent reputation. He smiled to himself. Nothing wrong with giving his future fledging self a bit of a head start, was there? They'd remember a vampire named William for a while, he'd wager. He'd had to rouse Buffy from half-sleep when they left. She'd looked exhausted, and his hand on her shoulder was as gentle as he could make it. "C'mon, love. This victor's got the spoils. Time to toddle off." For a second her face had been open and drowsily sweet. His chest constricted. Is that what she would look like in the mornings? Then she'd seemed to realize where she was, and it closed off again. She winced as she straightened, rubbing at her side. They'd filed behind the demons down the back stairs and out the back of the darkened pub, closed up for the night, emerging into the cobblestone street. Here and there night soil men trundled with their wagons, but Buffy hadn't asked, and Spike wasn't inclined to spoil the mood. Not all creatures of the night were as romantic as vampires. The late hour (or the early hour, depending on your perspective) was making Buffy pensive--between yawns. Her stride had slowed to an amble, and Spike slowed with it. Out for a nighttime stroll with his girl, he was. He indulged himself in a tiny, barely-there fantasy, one where he had simply asked her for a walk, and she had simply said yes. He tried to stay away from those sorts of dreams, but he was light-headed and loose-limbed from ale and triumph and the scent of Buffy so close to his nostrils. And it was so... nice, just to imagine. Imagine that she was there with him. Not just beside him. Buffy broke the silence. "Is it weird? Being back?" "Yeeeah." "So I was right? You were around in 1875?" He paused a moment, debating the lie, but he liked the feeling honesty gave him, with her. He could wield it so rarely. "Yeah." "So there's... there's another you." Buffy's voice was slow, deliberate, like she was working it all out. "There's another Spike out there, somewhere." "Not really." "What do you mean?" Spike sighed slightly. "Wasn't just around in 1875. Was alive." "Oh." Buffy's voice was tiny, tired. "So then it's... William, out there. The real William. Before you... took him over." The uneasy pit in Spike's stomach at this line of conversation roiled. "Before I what?" "You know..." "I bloody well don't know. I'm a vampire, Buffy, not a parasite." "But that's what a vampire is, Spike!" Spike got the feeling they'd be yelling if they weren't both so tired. She hadn't taken her hand off his arm, and it was confusing as all hell. "A demon that... that squats in a person's corpse." Spike stopped then, incredulity on his face. He looked down at her, searching for her eyes in the darkness. "You really believe that, slayer?" She kept his gaze. Spike opened his mouth, then closed it, cold rage bubbling up in him. Here he'd been pretending to be her man, out of an evening for a stroll, and she... she... As quickly as it came, the rage dulled away into pain. Pain that the woman he bloody worshipped didn't even bother to think of him as a person. Well, he could set that record straight, at least. "I am the real William, Slayer. That bloke out there... he's the figment. Not half the man I am. Being turned's what made me real. What made me me." "But you're not him!" Buffy finally took her hand off his arm, and he felt the loss. "You have his face, his personality, his memories, but none of it's real..." Suddenly she trailed off, and her face blanched as if she'd been struck. He bit his tongue, sensing that something important was happening. A moment later she turned her eyes to him again, deadly serious. "You remember him." "I remember me." "That makes you him." "Makes me me, slayer." He couldn't help but end with a bit of a growl. "Okay." Spike stood stunned. Had Buffy just... had he won an argument with the slayer? Had she just agreed he was a man? With so little convincing? He tried to sort out what he'd done, so he could do it again. Buffy had resumed walking, and he hurried to catch up with her, but she didn't take his arm again. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if protecting herself from the world. He dared a glimpse at her face and found her forehead creased in confusion and pain. He hadn't meant to do that to her. Just wanted her to see him as a man. Even if it wasn't strictly true. He wasn't a man, and there was some part of him, some stupid poncy part of him, that wanted her to see that too, and love him that way. Love every bit of him, the way he adored every bit of her. But Buffy'd never love a demon, and he could play up his human side for her, if that's what it took. Hadn't done it in a century, and it was both fun and frustrating to let those instincts come to the front now. Instincts aided by lots of research into human behavior. Daytime telly was useful for more than just passing time. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to keep from reaching for her. They arrived at a crossroad and he turned to the right. It seemed to rouse her from her reverie. "Where are we going, anyway?" "Hotel, love." "How much further? My feet are killing me." "What, from the vigorous sitting around all night?" He lightened his tone, trying to tease her back out of the pain. Buffy rolled her eyes. He took it as a good sign. "This is one of the hotels with the private beds, right?" "That it is, slayer," Spike replied. Maybe, as tired as she was, he could convince her to share tonight. Probably be best to play the gentleman a little while yet, but if he could get her into bed surely it wouldn't be long... Spike sighed. Buffy yawned. "Time travel looks so exciting in the movies," she mumbled. "Less with the endless walking." "Few more blocks," Spike replied. "And once we get there, Buffy, remember--I do the talking." "Uh-huh," she murmured sleepily. "Whatever I say, you just nod and look pretty." Buffy began to raise her eyebrows, but then her face collapsed back into that exhausted droop. "Punch you later," she mumbled. "That's a girl," Spike smirked. A few minutes later, and they stood at the huge carved door of The Langham. Spike adjusted his cap and straightened his coat, and took a few deep breaths like a swimmer on the diving board... which was a strange image that had Buffy giggling to herself. Somewhere in the back of her head she knew it was probably a dumb idea, letting Spike take point this much, but she was so tired and it was kind of nice not to have to run everything. She'd show him who was boss after a couple of hours... make that days... of sleep. Spike offered his arm again and Buffy took it automatically, playing the part. It was early enough that there was no footman at the door, only the night clerk behind his desk. He straightened as Spike and Buffy entered, finger poised over the bell on the desk. Thieves didn't usually bring their mollys along, but this one looked nearly as rough as her john, all rumpled clothes and disheveled hair. There was a revolver in the drawer, but he really hoped it wouldn't come to that. The carpet was new. The sharp-faced man guided his lady towards the desk, his bearing straight and tall. And she was a prettier thing than he'd realized at first, with a sweet, open face. The finger over the bell relaxed a hair. Maybe not thieves, after all. He decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. The clerk tried an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid we've no openings at the moment. The Midland Grand is hiring, I believe. Newer establishments do have more turnover." There was a note of corporate pride in his voice. The sharp-faced man looked offended for a brief second, then slipped into a placatory smile. "I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding, my good man. We've come for a room." The clerk looked them over again. The Langham had a certain standard of clientele. Royalty. Nobility. Artistes. A standard this pair, even should they have the money, most certainly did not approach. "I know how it looks," the man sighed, exhaustion in every syllable. "We were waylaid coming up from the docks. They took everything--everything," Spike intoned, enjoying every minute of his performance. "We were rescued by one of God's own saints, who lent us these clothes. We're eager to rest, as you might imagine." "Awful luck," the clerk commented neutrally. "Indeed," Spike continued, like some demented thespian. "Not the welcome to this fair city I was hoping for for my bride." Buffy's shock at Spike's alibi must have passed for shock at the situation as a whole, and the clerk's expression softened. "Quite terrible," he clucked. "But I'm afraid we cannot give rooms on credit..." "Not a problem," Spike said smoothly. "We can pay now." The clerk raised his eyebrows. "You have the money on you, sir?" Spike's face went blank for a moment. Oops. He floundered for a reason why thieves would leave them their money. "Just our traveling funds. The thieves didn't search us that closely, thank the good Lord." Buffy's face twitched, and the clerk took it for embarrassment. His wife had been known to secret coins in some fairly intimate places in her clothing. The young missus must have done the same. And if their traveling funds alone could buy lodging... well, it'd be easy enough to expel them later, should their story unravel. "The Langham would be glad to assist you in this time of distress, sir. The room will be six pounds for tonight. Meals are served regularly in our world-renowned dining room. Do come see me or any of our staff if you require anything." Spike passed over a suspicious mix of coins and bills while the clerk gave his spiel, and they disappeared into the drawer alongside the revolver. The clerk turned briefly to pull a key down from the rack behind him. "Room 203," he chirped. "Not quite our honeymoon suite, but lovely accommodations nonetheless." He shot a smile at Buffy that put Spike's teeth on edge. "Thanks, mate," he responded, letting an edge of his rougher accent seep through. The clerk gaped, but Spike had already steered Buffy away, his hand on her back. Buffy stumbled a bit as they headed up the stairs, the carpet lush under her aching feet. Spike worked the heavy iron key into the door, and with little fanfare she headed for the bed and toppled into it headfirst. Spike shut the door behind them, noted that the curtains were pulled shut, and realized that there was no way to get in the bed with her the way she'd fallen slantways across it. He was so tired he almost didn't care. Being with the slayer full-time was bloody exhilarating until it was bloody exhausting. There was a little sofa with large decorative cushions to the side of the room. He pulled them off and tossed them on the floor next to the bed. He threw off his hat and coat, wrestled off his boots, and curled up by the bedskirt. He wasn't in bed with Buffy, but he was closer, and that was something. From above him came a voice so tired and small and mumbling that it took his vampire hearing to suss out the words: "Hey Spike... remind me to be mad at you in the morning." *** Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries in idea).plan).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, s...

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike offers the massage. When he thinks she's pliant, he then tries in plan).nibbling and flicking out his tongue).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike offers the massage. When he thinks she's pliant, he then tries nibbling and flicking out his tongue).in plan mentioned in the last paragraph).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries in exact plan mentioned in the last paragraph).sentence of the prompt).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries in exact plan mentioned in the last sentence of the prompt).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, s...

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries in plan mentioned in the last sentence of the prompt).offers the massage, Buffy agrees. Spike gives her feet some light kisses, Buffy is surprised but is enjoying the experience too much to tell him to stop).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike offers the massage, Buffy agrees. Spike gives her feet some light kisses,tries the plan mentioned in the last sentence of the prompt, Buffy is surprised but is enjoying the experience too much to tell him to stop).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, s...

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike offers the massage, Buffy agrees. Spike tries the plan mentioned in the last sentence of the prompt,prompt ("Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out"), Buffy is surprised but is enjoying the experience too much to tell him to stop).stop.).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike offers the massage, Buffy agrees. Spike tries the plan mentioned in the last sentence of the prompt ("Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out"), Buffy is surprised but is enjoying the experience too much to tell him to stop.).plan, eventually giving her feet some quick kisses).

USER: Spike awoke to Buffy moaning and flailing on the bed--and not in the good way. He sprung to his feet, on guard for whatever had infiltrated their lair, but saw nothing. Invisible demons? Ghosts? "Ow ow ow oooooooow!" Buffy grunted through clenched teeth. She was half-twisted on her side, with her left leg bent up behind her tight. She was trying to push it flat, her face scrunched up in pain. Spike got on his knees beside her on the bed, trying to help push. A screech escaped Buffy's lips. Panicky, Spike tried a different tack, digging his fingers deep into Buffy's calf, trying to unlock the seizing muscle. For a few moments Buffy kept screeching, but then her leg started at last to lower, and the screeches turned to whimpers. Her whole body relaxed, and she slumped back on her stomach. Spike continued to work her calf with one hand, while the other gently pushed it back on the bed. The whimper became a little moan of relief. And oh. He was in bed. With Buffy. He was in bed with Buffy, and he was touching her. Touching her leg. Massaging her leg. He actually hadn't been hard when he awoke, but he was achieving the state rapidly. He looked warily over at Buffy, but her face was soft, the removal of the pain making her woozy. He kept massaging her calf, gentling his fingers a bit, wondering what this would feel like without the thick tights. In a second it was all laid out in his mind--work the massage up to her thighs, then up under her skirt where it was twisted around her, stroke that dark, warm place that occupied his fantasies, how she'd moan and whimper with pleasure then, how she'd want him, how she'd turn to embrace him-- He had shifted on his knees, angled over her. Skipping a few steps, there, mate. Slow. Careful. Work up to it. Do it right. He was tingling, from his groin out to the tips of his fingers, still rubbing slow circles into her muscles. This was happening. This was happening. Centimeter by centimeter, he inched towards the back of her knees. She was breathing heavily, still recovering. Spike shifted again, trying to ease the pressure on his prick, give himself room to think, to stick with the plan. Good plan. Except that the creak of the mattress roused her. "Um, Spike?" He froze, eyes glued to the back of her thigh. So close. "I'm good now." "Yeah." He sounded weirdly breathy. It's not that Buffy didn't appreciate his help--she hadn't had one in years, but Charlie horses hurt like a bitch--but it was unsettling when he hovered over her, like a man on a diet slavering over a hamburger. She was really trying to play nice with Spike. Being reminded she was his favorite meal wasn't helping. Although, damn, could the man give a massage. She'd missed that luxury, since Riley had left. Even if the last few months' worth hadn't been quite as effective, just the act of being touched, soothed, worried over had been healing. Spike touching her like that... it bothered her. "Get off the bed, Spike," she said quietly, with just enough steel to get her point across. Spike gripped her calf, just a little too hard, enough to remind her of his strength, not enough to set off the chip. Domineering jerk. He made some kind of noise and then the mattress creaked and he was off at last. Buffy laid still, trying to let the grief ebb back out of her, gently flexing and pointing her ankle to keep her calf muscle relaxed. She decided to focus on that. "Sorry about the wake-up call," she said at last, sounding more concerned for her pride than his beauty sleep. "Muscle cramps are the worst. You know I got thrown two stories up a wall awhile back and it didn't hurt half so much?" Concern crushed the vestiges of Spike's thwarted arousal. "You what now?" "The demon I asked you to watch out for." "You didn't tell me she was that bad." "Well, she is." Buffy trailed off, her face drawn with worry. "So I have to get back. To protect... to protect everyone." Spike turned away to hide his smile. He loved the way she got all protective, tiny and fierce and violent. He could still remember the way she had looked when he was hurt when she'd loved him--when she'd been spelled into loving him, remember that bit, Spike--and to have her look at him that way again... God, what he wouldn't give. "--but the thing I don't understand is why my feet hurt so bad. I haven't done anything here. Could it be a side effect of the time travel? Like jetlag for feet? Feetlag?" Spike cocked his head. Perhaps he could offer a footrub? Get them back on track with the massages? Feet could be very erotic. Not really his thing, but he could work with just about anywhere for a starting point. Get her all soft and pliant with his hands again, then nibble on her toes, flick his tongue out, make her want... (Continue the story. Make it 5000 words. Spike tries in plan, eventually giving her feetsneaking some quick kisses).kisses and licks).