No Vacancy by Kindred

ReviewsRating: NC-17

Summary: Alternative S3 'Anne'. After sending Angel to hell, Buffy disappears into anonymity in a dusty Californian town until a little piece of Sunnydale finds her...

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Chapters 4-6

A/N: This story was written without being divided into chapters. I am trying to organize breaks in the story that strike me as appropriate places to pause, therefore the final number of postings may yet change again.

The ancient neon sign in the small motel flickered and buzzed as they turned into the parking lot. Buffy led Spike to the last lime green door on the first level. She fished a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, switched on the light and entered.

Spike stepped up and leaned against the door jamb. He felt the barrier lightly with the back of his index finger. Motels wouldn't usually keep him out but Buffy had lived there for quite a while and that made the difference. She thought of it as her home and had been there long enough for it to become one. Vampires were therefore excluded.

Her coat found its way to a hanger on a lonely metal rod. Buffy looked at the open door and walked over. Spike gave her his best come hither look. He wasn't through playing even though he knew he wasn't going to kill her that evening.

"Friendly chat over for tonight?" He asked with a sweet expression trying to get a rise from her.

"What do you want, Spike?" She rubbed her forehead.

"Well pet, I had my pie and we had a nice little tussle in the alley. I could go for a good hard fuck or some more cheery conversation right about now." His voice rolled hypnotically off his tongue.

Buffy was hit by the lulling timbre of his voice. It buzzed in her teeth. The meaning of that sentence didn't exactly register immediately. She was concentrating on her throbbing toe. That pain was fast occupying her entire being.

"What?" she tried to focus. "What was that?"

"You gonna invite me in, hmm?" He raised his eyebrows and bent his left hand pinky finger. "Truce?" She stood and blinked at him instead of slamming the door in his face.

Shit. If he's here at least I'll know he's not out chewing on our quarterback. This town needs that kid.

"Come in." Her voice was a dead ringer for perfect defeat. Too tired to think she turned her back on the vampire entering her small room. "Welcome to Casa Slayer," she sighed.

Spike shut the door and surveyed the bleak room: bad wallpaper, horrible pink bedspread, nondescript mismatched furniture, Gideon bible, weird paint by number harvest scene and a tiny television with rabbit ears.

Spike nodded at the horror surrounding him. "It suits you," he pronounced with authority.

"The water pressure is awesome. I guess that's something," Buffy offered as she sat in a low easy chair. There was little in the room to suggest that someone had been living there as opposed to staying for one night. A coat, two more uniforms and two pairs of jeans hung beside the bathroom door. She filled two out of six drawers in the low dresser. A few personal items sat on top.

"What are you doing here?" she sighed wearily. "This is hardly Spiketown." Even Mayberry was a tad too cosmopolitan a moniker for this little town. When she first arrived Buffy wouldn't have been surprised to see a stagecoach rattle down the main drag. There was a definite one horse vibe to the whole community.

"Don't know about that pet, you're here." She stared at him. He shrugged his shoulders. "I fancied a road trip is all. I'm a back roads fella, myself."

"Really?" Buffy angled a disbelieving eyebrow at the downtown saturated figure before her. It really pissed her off that he could swagger and remain perfectly still at the same time. She had no idea how he did that.

"And there's always something interesting off the beaten track, ain't that right, Slayer?" Spike winked at her and shifted his weight onto his other foot.

Buffy sighed and crossed her legs. She removed her utilitarian footwear and began working on her knotted toes.

"Here." Spike stepped to her and held out his hand.

"No, you already wrenched my foot enough, thanks."

"You're bloody doing it wrong." Spike's critical tone was undone by his kneeling at her feet with one hand held out patiently.


"Slayer, I already passed up the chance to munch on your precious self earlier, any brain cells left in there at all? Give me your soddin' foot."

"I'm completely insane." Buffy muttered to herself as she put her foot into Spike's hand.

"Don't flatter yourself, love." Spike smirked and began working over her beleaguered arch and metatarsals in a thorough and competent manner. Buffy leaned back in the chair, her feet hadn't felt this good in a long time.

"What are you doing here?" Spike fished casually.

"Juggling pies," a blank expression occupied her face. A hint of a smirk touched his upper lip. "Shut up," Buffy demanded weakly.

The massage was repeated on her other foot. Buffy's mind drifted and she actually closed her eyes. Spike is massaging my waitress feet. Spike is-- Her eyes snapped open.

"Don't think this gets you struck off the 'Totally Evil' list," Buffy warned with a glare.

"Never even entered my mind," Spike grinned at her. At the moment his mind was quite delightfully occupied. Faint traces of a lotion she had spread on her skin hours ago filtered their way to Spike's nostrils. Under the scent of lard, sweat, pastry dust, egg salad and cigarette smoke was the delicate waft of old fashioned roses and the call of something powerfully feminine.

Remnants of her aroused defenses from their recent interaction spoke directly to him. Well, mostly just the heat of rage and disgust and a general pissed-offedness, but heat is heat, and a heated slayer smelled delicious.

Buffy floated on the surprising luxury of Spike's cool muscular grip. Those were the hands of a man on her skin. She breathed deeply, simply enjoying something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Her eyes finally opened to find Spike looking at her. His face was oddly calm without even a trace of the standard 'Baddest Badass in the West' countenance he always showed her. He glowed in the strange shadowed light of her room. His piercing eyes pulsated with blue flames, looking eerily like a neon sign. His smooth facial contours shone like curved glass tubing filled with luminescence; an otherworldly entity plopped into this sleepy town.

The room looked shabby and wan compared to his glinting leather refracted form. Never before had her anonymous room felt so empty as when this shimmering dead man illuminated its want.

He was hauntingly beautiful amid the Goodwill refuse of her room. Buffy had seen paintings in her mother's art books that were eerily similar to this scene: a resplendently still dead boy kneeling on the faded carpet.

She felt suddenly self conscious and lacking. Buffy Summers: pie juggler and pariah in polyester, hiding in an anonymous motel. Then he rolled his lips at her with teasing animation and the moment was lost.

"I have to have a bath," she said plainly, removing her foot from his hands and hoping against hope he'd take the hint and leave. Spike stood and removed his long coat.

"Fine, I can go for a bath."

"Yeah, right." Buffy huffed derisively as she stood up into a wall of muscle. Spike grabbed her forcefully around her biceps. Suddenly those strong hands that had brought her relief and unexpected pleasure were now piercing her arms with something Buffy could not decipher. Was it need? Murderous vengeance? Loneliness?

"What do you want?" Buffy asked failing to control the slight hitch in her voice. Her palms spread flat against his chest but they were not exactly pushing him away. They seemed only to acknowledge a boundary that was not to be crossed, and yet the sweat of her hands that beaded against his chest threatened to melt through flesh to the bone. Her voice wavered at his proximity and her fatigue. There was something softer in his expression as he gripped her than she'd never seen in him before.

Quietude overtook Spike as he stood inhaling the soft scents of the tired slayer in his hands. What did he want? He began to mull that question over in his mind as he studied her hairline and the curve of her cheek. Choice required careful consideration. He tilted his head and regarded her.

She was only a shadow of what he once knew. He remembered a saucy ego driven maniac all wound up in suburban righteousness, the perfect faux sheep in pastel mini skirts and frosted lipstick. The one who continually infuriated and hardened him with her tantalizing wiles.

Now it seemed only the color palate was unchanged. Where was that saucy bitch? The one worthy of his obsession. She made him pace in the daytime when sleep mocked him. This girl in front of him, the one embracing small town numbness had a whiff of a future hausfrau about her, wide hipped with screaming children yapping at her heels.

It was a vision that made Spike wretch.

The future was already decided. He was sure of that. Her future lay in his grasp and under his fangs. A slayer didn't take her marbles or dollies or whatever the hell this one played with and run away. It was just not done. She belonged to him and not to some deeply tanned fruit farmer who tipped her extra and twisted his lips around a toothpick.

Belonged. Yeah, that's what he meant, and here in this sad little room he truly felt it. She belonged to him. There was an order to things. Even a damned creature like Spike knew that. The big picture starred bona fide hero types like the Slayer but he also was a player. There was no denying that. Cosmic order was reliable and reassuring. It made the evil that much sweeter for its certainty.

He was important and necessary, and he was ready to prove that to her.

Chapter 5

Spike drew nearer and nearer to her. Even like this she was magnetic. He felt his own arousal crackle in her midst. Killing could wait, that need was no longer foremost in his thoughts. The prowl was a succulent delicacy all on its own. Suddenly the possibility of fucking a slayer thundered through his body like a siren's call. She was pathetic to be sure, but her scent told him the truth. This one was ripe for the picking.

"What do I want?" he said gently as his lip whisper touched her temple. Spike had been rigorously trained in the warfare of seduction. Darla and Angelus had been rigorous taskmasters. "Interesting question, love. Seems to me it requires some thought." His eyes pierced hers with an inviting gaze.

Buffy wriggled slightly in his grip as she started to tremor internally. A gentle deep voice. The faintest touch of lips. The presence of a man. All of these things had been forcibly banished from her mind.

She felt her heart between her legs, the slow growing beat of desire. Then the heat of shame at what had aroused her suffused her mind: death in leather skins, an immaculate dye job and banal black fingernails. It was death wearing the likeness of a man with a low sultry voice of pure animal seduction. Spike inhaled audibly, crinkled his nose and grinned with satisfaction, knowing he had aroused her.

Full points to Spike for possessing the ghost of testosterone past.

"Don't," Buffy turned away in embarrassment and tried to push him off. He caught her head with his cheek and lowered his mouth slowly and deliberately. Steady calm lips tickled against her blushing cheek, stalking her lips with purpose.

"Don't what, love?" he soothed with expert precision. He was a talented spider and knew how to rein in a tasty morsel. "Don't this?" he asked rhetorically as his arms encircled her back. "Don't this?" he tilted his growing erection into her pelvis.

Buffy caught her breath. "Don't this, Slayer?" he moved his hands to her bottom, cupping her closely. Buffy opened her mouth to respond and he briefly covered her lips with his. "Or was it that?" he whispered into her stunned face, teasing her with seduction.

He looked upon her with an expression of conceited fascination. In her exhausted state she replied not with fury but with a tinge of pink on her blushing cheeks. It had been a long time since he'd seen someone blush so delicately and more than a lifetime since he'd caused someone to react in such a manner. There was a sweetness to her honest response that touched him. This was not a slayer in his arms, but a girl who had been wounded and left untended.

Aware of her own awakening arousal she shifted against him uncomfortably. He felt so solid beneath her fingers. She looked at his chest and the front of his throat as her head began to spin. "What was the question?" she asked through her haze and raised her face to his. Soft lips covered hers again, raspberry-blueberry lips with a trace of whiskey and a scant whisper of blood. It wasn't that unpleasant a combination.

Sinuous flesh sampled her lips, pursuing and retreating, asking and answering. For Spike it was a practiced rhythm, a polished artistry. Buffy pursed her lips in response just as he withdrew.

"Oh that's nice, Slayer," his voice vibrated at a deep level. "Maybe we should be asking what it is that you want, love." He looked at her lower lip and sampled it. Her upper lip trembled in response. "Don't worry pet, I don't leave things unfinished."

He kissed her upper lip and then covered both lips again gently. An image of Drusilla's mouth appeared in Buffy's mind. These are the lips that kissed that, for like, a century...oh god. Spike's tongue traced the outline of her bottom lip.

Her lips tasted of sweetness remembered, a plump tangle of sun ripened fruit, all melons and mangoes; the haunting effigy of swollen flesh on the vine, craning and bruised for its readiness.

He tasted her strength also. The slayer aura was a forbidding and alluring elixir but there was something else he couldn't place. It was almost the taste of fog, an opaque thickness rolling off of her tongue and lips. It was permeating her, a density of unknown nuance and tempo.

Spike was quite taken by the soft warmth of the Slayer's lips and the heated promise of what lay beyond. He tried to think if he'd ever kissed a human for this long before. He couldn't remember ever doing that. The bulk of his experience had been fang centric: biting, sucking and chewing, but kissing had its merits. Merely teasing and tasting the slayer's lips was worthwhile all on its own.

Never did Spike anticipate that kissing his sworn enemy could be so delicious, but then he always did gravitate toward the dangerous end of the spectrum. Angelus had punished him severely many times for such conspicuous behavior but things had changed. Angelus was tucked away good and tight in a hopefully enthusiastic hell dimension and Spike was free and clear to roam and make merry at his leisure. Leisurely, yes he would be leisurely. He would be quite thoroughly leisurely with this one.

The image of lying chained and spread-eagled as Drusilla skewered him with sharpened rebars while she berated him for allowing Angelus to be taken from her was fading fast. Maybe they truly did need a break.

Their tried and true formula of reprisals and retribution was beyond hackneyed. It was merely a dog-eared script they clung to, not knowing any other possibility. There was finality in her tone during that grotesquely unpleasant torture session, and Drusilla had been uncharacteristically clear headed during it all. Spike figured he could always track her down in Brazil for a little comeuppance if he chose to.

She often turned up there seeking a certain Fungus demon named Phil who was a particularly attentive listener. Brazil was a possibility, but later, much later.

Spike's cock jumped at the sensation of the slayer in his arms deepening their kiss.

Chapter 6

That was all it took. Spike grabbed her hard and thrust his tongue into her mouth. Soon their tongues entwined with an urgent need. It was no longer combat or games but a difficult want.

Buffy's tongue grated over his trying to wrest something from him. The sudden thrill to taste death filled her head. She searched his mouth repeatedly. It was a cavern of echoes and absences. Enamel and soft palate. She wanted the taste of blood, to sample the darkness of this specter surrounding her; infiltrating her. She wanted the taste of death from the tongue of this killer.

When she opened her eyes white blond hair and blue eyes were all she could see. Not brown, not soft but searing. She closed her eyes again and he was there. Brown eyes looking at her from across the room. Nothing else but his soulful confused brown eyes, watching her do this thing: sup from the mouth of this miscreant.

Buffy pushed Spike away from her and their lips separated with a tremendous smack. She held his black t-shirt bunched in her fists. "What's wrong with me?" she mumbled, unaware that she had voiced her question. A sly giggle touched her ears.

"Nothing pet, I think you're doing just fine." There was acid in his seductive voice.

Why hadn't she thrown him through the wall? Why was she standing there considering what she was considering doing with this abomination in her grasp? Why wasn't he dust out the door?

A troubling primal beat claimed her body and her focus. She was being occupied by something dark and ancient. It was a blistering desire to engulf him, to take him whole to the bone. This unexpected feeling shamed her deeply.

Angel's phantom gaze burned into her skin but she wanted this one in front of her. This smug-faced bastard who was toying with her, putting thoughts into her head and making her knees tremble.

Suddenly she wanted Spike to pay for her misery. She wanted him to suffer as she had, but she also wanted to be punished. There was a smoldering need within her to be punished. She wanted the horrible darkness to smother her, to reduce her to ashes. But she also wanted his lips on her; his fingers on her and the hardness pressed to her hip buried deep inside her. A buzz tingled between her legs accompanied by a flare from Spike's nostrils.

Breaths surged from her mouth as she juggled her twin desires: to kill him and be done with it or to fuck him in a messy horrible frenzy. She bit her lip to keep it from trembling. A quick glance at his face betrayed his preference. A hard swallow gulped down her throat as she saw his eyes sparking with lust.

The choice was made; the consequences be damned. She already knew what hell was: a mismatched motel room in a quiet friendly town. Why not act as damned as she felt, as empty as that lonely main street after midnight? It wouldn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Her mind filled with the innumerable horrors of this meaningless world, the unworthy orb she sacrificed Angel for. She wanted something in her mind other than that guilt and sorrow. She wanted Spike to take that burden. She wanted to shove that choking weight down his throat.

Spike's mind filled with the delicious promise of the warm and yielding slayer in his grasp and the signs and scents of delights to come. He felt strangely honored to be in her company.

He sneered at her and reached to unzip her uniform. "Take off that bloody plastic dress." Spike drew the long zipper down her back. The frilly apron was tugged off and discarded on the desk on top of his duster. This was soon followed by her dress, pulled off over her head as she stood there in a stupor. He tugged his t-shirt off in one motion.

Buffy stood before him in mismatched bra and panties shaking with panic and desire. Spike hissed a quick breath at the vision before him. Her golden skin was sprinkled with bruises, reminders of their dance in the alley. She looked resplendent, a dazzling flesh jewel of swelling shades pooling under her soft skin. Spike slowly bit his lower lip as he drank in her soft curves caressed by his personal signature.

Her eyes clung to the expanse of his chest. The taut musculature beneath his parchment skin snaked over his body like a hardened dirt road. Her eyes drifted over his abdomen and belly button and further down to observe hands unclasping his belt buckle. Spike removed it from the fabric loops, folded and snapped it between his fists.

"I don't know, Slayer, but something tells me you may be an adventurous girl." He dropped the belt and undid his jeans snap. A well muscled hand casually caressed down over his covered bulge. She followed his actions with her eyes. "See something you like, pet?" His eyebrows flared over his whisper.

Two pale hands carefully untangled her tight bun. Twelve bobby pins fell from her tethered hair along with any fragments of resistance she may have thought she had left. Buffy's hands rested on his hips as his fingers gently massaged her scalp. She closed her eyes. The brown eyes were gone. Her eyes opened again with effort. Rational thought made a final weak bid for dominance.

"But you hate me...and I...hate you..." She struggled to complete that thought as her voice dwindled to nothing.

"So what?" He looked at her with hunger. "There's not much better than a hate fuelled fuck. You'll see. The more you hate, the harder you come." Tilting his head to observe her, Spike licked along the blunt edges of his upper incisors and rolled his lips into a smile. "And Slayer? I think we may rip the roof off of this place," his soft giggle burrowed into her mind as her arousal accelerated.

They were both on the same hate filled page.


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