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Buffy was sure this hadn’t completely been her idea. It had only taken one off-hand remark to Spike as they lay wrapped in their own sweat, sheets pooling around their legs in post-coital bliss. Spike looked as if he could have been dusted happy, one arm protectively cradling her back as he smiled to himself.
“You know I was thinking-”
“Must not have been doing my job then.” Spike’s smile turned into a leer. “How about giving me another go, love?”
Buffy ignored him, even as his hand reached down to tease her slit, fingers sliding through the folds slick with the remains of their love-making. “You know, what if I got a tattoo?”
“Wouldn’t be opposed, I do love it when you play bad.”
“Don’t be gross, Spike.” But even as she said the words she ground her hips against his hand.
Spike kissed her neck, trailing the ghost of his lips up to worry her earlobe. “Whatever you want I’ll do it to you, Slayer. Anything you want.”
Buffy supposed she missed the part where “anything” included free tattooing services. Nevertheless, Spike had arrived at her bedroom door a few days later with a needle and a jar of ink.
Buffy winced a little as the needle prodded at her tender skin once again.
“I don’t know why this has to take so long,” she grumbled.
“It’s art, love. Art always takes time,” Spike replied, glaring up at her from underneath his lashes. He carefully dipped the needle in the vial of India ink on the bedside table.
She watched the way his hands splayed out over her naked stomach as he set back to work, a fresh coat of nail polish adorning his nails. Her tank top was pulled up to expose her sternum, bare breasts spilling out from underneath. From her vantage point, she couldn’t quite see the design take shape, only Spike’s intent expression, too enrapt in his task to acknowledge the heat of her arousal.
“Why don’t you have any tattoos? Kinda goes with the whole-” Buffy gestured with her free hand, “-punk thing.”
Spike chuckled and she felt the tickle of his breath dancing across the bruised flesh. “Well, a tattoo is just like a scar really, a pretty little scar…” he trailed off, admiring his work, “I had a few, but vampires don’t scar well. They faded away after a few years. I suppose it will be the same with you.” His eyes were melancholy for a moment, but he blinked it away.
“So what was it, Woodstock on your ass or?”
“Oy, don’t insult your tattoo artist, you could end up with some very nasty mistakes.”
Buffy looked on expectantly.
“I had- I had a lock, like the one Sid Vicious wore around his neck only… a bit lower. Dru’s idea. And there was a starling, and a naked lady of course, tits out, all that -- very popular with the Victorians -- and one with two eyes thread by a string-”
“Urg.”
“It’s from a poem,” Spike said, as if that was an explanation. “Anyways, none of them lasted that long. Wasn’t much for tattoos when I was alive, sort of regret it now. It’s tough being immortal when nothing else is permanent.”
“I can change that,” Buffy said helpfully.
“I trust you to stake me at the right time, Slayer.” Spike took a rag and tipped a bottle of vodka over onto it, using it to wipe away excess blood and ink.
“What were you like when you were alive?” Buffy leaned her head back on the pillow and looking up at the ceiling.
Spike scoffed. “Not bleeding likely.”
“What?” Buffy demanded.
“I’m not getting into some one-sided show and tell,” Spike snapped. “Besides, my life pre-vamp isn’t worth the listen.”
“Oh, but now I’m interested.” Buffy wriggled a bit under the needle and Spike pulled back, cursing under his breath.
“You’ve got to keep still if you want this to look like anything.”
“Yep, blame me for your lousy tattoo skills.” Buffy smirked up at him. “Ooh, if looks could bite.”
Spike glared for a moment more, but set his hands on her stomach, bringing his leg over to straddle hers. “How about we play a game then, pet?”
“Oh, did the big bad punk get-” Spike thrust against her, catching the words in her throat.
“How about you keep still-” He bit his lip and thrust again. He could already smell her arousal even if it wasn’t showing through the light cotton of her shorts. “-and I’ll just get back to work.” He leaned down once again, his knee pressing into her mound. Buffy didn’t move, but he could feel the sharp intake of her breath under the needle
He tutted, dipping the needle in the ink again.
“I’ll play,” she said, her voice a challenge. The cast iron bars of the bed felt cool against her palms as she wrapped her hands around them.
The smirk Spike gave her then was almost enough to make her take her hands off the bars and shove him onto his back, but Buffy’s competitive streak won out. Barely. She squared her jaw in anticipation as Spike trailed the fingers of his free hand along her stomach to the patch of skin beneath her navel that always elicited a twitch of excitement. Buffy flexed, determined even as his fingertips alternated between skating across and massaging deep into the flesh. The pricks on her sternum remained constant, as if Spike was unaware of the ventures of his hand. He slipped his practiced hand under the elastic of her shorts, cupping her dripping sex.
“If I’d known tattoos got you this hot, love, I’d have gone in for the whole kit. I’m sure you’d love the buzz of the machine, the burn of your skin, could have been real quick too-” Spike slipped a finger into her quim, massaging around her little nub, “-but there is something to be said for taking it slow.”
Buffy was sure the metal bars were going to snap under her grip. A bead of sweat ran over her collarbone. Spike didn’t even look up to catch her expression. The finger slipped inside her, hooking to stroke her nearest wall until Spike found that spot where he could feel her heartbeat pounding away. Despite the stoic stillness of the rest of her body, her passage undulated around him, begging silently for something more filling. He slipped a second finger in to join the first. Once again he picked up the vodka, wiping her down, then bringing the dirtied rag up to his nose.
“Sweat, blood, and ink — you smell so sweet, Slayer.” His fingers pumped in and out of her, his hand rubbing against her neglected clit with every stroke. Her thighs trembled with every brush of her little nub.
“Fuck,” Buffy breathed out, eyes squeezed shut.
“Almost done, love.” Spike gentled the tremble in her thighs like a panicked horse, then leaned up to catch her lips. Buffy, in return, bit down. “Oy!”
He moved his thumb to press the heel into her clit. Her orgasm was close, he could feel it in the thudding pulse of her passage. There was a creak as the iron bars bent beneath her hands. Buffy wanted to scream as Spike continued to prod at the skin on her chest.
Her orgasm washed over her, his hand stroking her through it. The sheets beneath her were soaked.
Buffy looked up at him victoriously. “So what’s the reward for this little game, then?”
He brushed against her sore little nub again and she bucked up into his hand reflexively. She scowled. “And you were doing so well,” he chastised. “Done,” he added, pulling back and setting the needle on the bedside table. He reached over for the vodka once again, wiping his slick-covered hand in the rag as he cleaned her off. A satisfied smirk played at the corner of his lips.
“You’re a cheater.”
“And you’re a sore loser — but the heart wants what the heart wants, pet.” Spike began applying a thin layer of ointment to the fresh tattoo. Before he had finished, he felt Buffy’s hand on his shoulder as she flipped them both over. Within seconds she straddled him, a hand splaying out over his still heart. She tugged her tank top off, allowing her breasts to fall free.
“Ooh, is this my reward? Going to give me a little show, then?”
“Shut up, Spike,” Buffy said, breathless, reaching behind her to fiddle with his zipper. His cock sprung free from his jeans, he’d been hard since they’d begun.
Spike watched as Buffy adjusted herself, could feel the hot press of her spread cunt burning against his stomach. He stared at the careful black lines he had etched in Buffy’s inflamed skin — the manifestation of so many raw words shared between them. His cock twitched at the sight of it, melding perfectly with bronze flesh. So much better than a bruise-
Buffy didn’t seem to care just at that moment though, too absorbed in the way their bodies fit together. Spike sat up, pushing her further down into his lap where the base of his member pressed into her folds. He caught her mouth again, eyes closed in mad passion, her breasts rubbing against his chest as they fought their way into one another. Buffy’s hand found its way between their bodies, guiding him to her entrance until he was buried in her to the hilt. He felt like he was home. Her body warmed his until he was burning up, ready to melt within her heat and the harsh pounding of her heart.
He could feel the little noises she breathed against his lips, the tiny moans and gasps as he pounded into her, her hips matching every movement. He was coming apart; she was tearing him apart.
“God, I love you. I love you-” he whispered against the line of her jaw, lavishing it with open-mouthed kisses. As much as he loved it when she held back, lying still and pliant beneath his hands, nothing could replace the feeling of her nails dragging across his back; the lurid movement of her hips as her muscles clenched around him; her wanton promises as she dragged him inside her. When Buffy did dust him, he hoped it would be exactly like this.
Caressing her breast with the palm of his hand, Spike’s thumb brushed the red lines that marked the edge of the sore flesh of her tattoo. Buffy moaned, a jolt of electricity running through her body. She clenched around him, utterly entranced in her climax. Spike’s head dropped to her sweat-slick shoulder, moaning a prayer of her name into her collarbone. She shrouded him in her pyre as he spilled himself inside her.
“Spike-” Buffy breathed out as they sank into one another, her muscles still holding him in place as he kissed and nipped at her neck, breath coming in short bursts. The air was heady with the smell of their bodies, intimately entwined on the mattress as Spike lowered them down to lay on the sticky cotton sheets. Buffy looked down at where they were joined, maneuvering herself off of him. Spike’s member came free, trailing a pool of their combined juices over the cotton. Buffy couldn’t muster the energy to care.
“So,” Spike drew back from where he had nuzzled into her neck to look at her face, “do you want to see it?
Buffy paused, momentarily stricken, having forgotten all about why she’d been in bed in the first place. “Oh- Oh. ” She sat up, looking over to the mirror on her dresser. The sunflower was emblazoned on the skin below her breasts, its rays spreading out over her sternum like it was burning there, “A sunflower…” She trailed off.
“You asked for something flowery and I-” Spike began.
“No, it’s really-” Buffy’s eyes studied the delicate lines of the petals as they overlay each other. “It’s beautiful.”
Spike let out a breath.
“Angel left his mark.” Spike caressed the faded white lines on her throat, “and now I have mine as well,” his eyes flickered down to the sunflower.
“They’ll both fade eventually,” Buffy reminded him.
Spike nodded, a soft smile playing across his lips.