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Grappling (1/2)
By Steph
Spike was waiting for her in the training room the next night.
She entered
from the alley, via the newly repaired back door. Paired with loose-cut
nylon
workout pants, her top gave him pause. Half the size of her other
sport tops
and an eye-popping fuchsia; it was basically a swatch of spandex molded
to her
breasts with a web of skinny straps holding it in place. The expanse
of creamy
skin left bare to his gaze was- impressive.
"So then," Spike said. He was actually quite proud his voice hadn't
cracked.
He mentally calculated the number of people who had seen her on her
way to the
Magic Box. The number made him see red. "Get dressed and
we'll get to it."
"I AM dressed," Buffy said, taking her place on the mat. She began to
stretch
and warm up.
"For what? The early shift on the corner of 3rd and Main?"
Spike rambled
around the room, looking on shelves and in cabinets until he found
what he
sought.
"Bite me."
"Love to. Can't." He threw her the t-shirt he'd found. She
threw it back,
hard. He balled it up and threw it back, harder. "Get dressed."
Spike
growled.
"Make me," Buffy growled back.
"Gladly."
Spike pounced on her from 4 feet away, taking her to the mat in a tangle
of
arms and legs. In a flash, he was astride her waist, grappling
with her for
control of the shirt.
"Preternatural speed is SUCH an unfair advantage," Buffy whined, her
hands
tangled in the t-shirt, pinned above her head.
"'S quite handy. Almost makes up for the chip," Spike panted, trying
to bring
the shirt down over her arms. "Care to surrender now? Give
you agreeable
terms."
"Surrender to you? Never," Buffy retorted. She rolled him
off to the side and
scrambled on top of him to sit on his stomach. She cocked her head,
looking at
him curiously, while trying to fully divest herself of the offending
shirt.
"Okay, ignoring how much that sounded like a line from some bad romance
novel,
can you tell me again WHY we're fighting?"
"Because you insist on dressing like a streetwalker!" Spike spat,
bucking her
off him, sending her flying over his head.
She landed on her stomach with an "Ooof" as Spike kipped back to land
across
her. Had her face not been smushed against the mat, her mouth
would have
dropped open at Spike's exceedingly -prim- comment.
"Streetwalker?" Her voice held a warring combination of outrage and laughter.
"Doxie, tart, whore. Take your pick," he growled.
"Spike, either this is some kind psychotic vampire flashback to your
Victorian
upbringing or-" Laughter won; Buffy snorted. "Holy shit, you're
channeling
Wesley."
"Who?" he snarled into the crook of her neck. He lay across her
somewhat
diagonally, his chest across her back, his feet extending some inches
past
hers. As she giggled, he felt both his anger and indignation
at her dress, and
something else, growing.
"Wesley. Wyndham-Pryce? Watcher-nerd extraordinaire? Thought you knew him."
She turned her head to look back at him. He was clearly not amused.
Tough, she
thought, arching her back to fight the kink forming from the position
of her
arms. "Funny, I thought HE was the biggest prude I'd ever met.
Guess not,"
she snickered, and wriggled her hips for punctuation.
Spike set his teeth. So that's how she wanted to play it, he thought.
He
shifted the nearest leg to slip his knee between hers, insinuating
it up
between her thighs until it pressed against her. At her sharp
inhalation, a
small smirk graced his lips.
"And you're not, are you, Slayer, he snarled, bringing his face closer
to her
neck. He pressed his knee against her a little harder. "Got no
problem showing
your wares to all and sundry, hmm?"
"Maybe," Buffy whispered. "Mayb-" She threw
her head back, connecting
with his forehead with a crack, "NOT."
Stunned, Spike reared back, releasing the shirt and Buffy with it.
Spinning
around, slammed her shoulder into his chest, toppling him onto his
butt. She
then hopped to her feet, balled the shirt and threw it across the room.
"Nice try."
Spike heaved himself back onto his feet, suddenly feeling every one
of his
hundred-plus years. He grabbed his duster and headed for the
door.
-end part 1-