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Come Alive

Come Alive
By NautiBitz

Title: Come Alive

Author: NautiBitz (

Show | Pairing | Rating: Buffy the Vampire Slayer | Spike/Buffy | NC-17/M (not for kids)

Summary: Mid-'Afterlife', Buffy wants to get away from everyone. Spike and his motorcycle seem the perfect escape.

Timeline: Season 6, 'Afterlife' -- after she beheads the evil consequence of her resurrection and before the sunny scene in which she tells Spike that she was in heeea-ven.

Originally Published/Completed: June 2002

Genres: Romance, Smut, Deleted Scene, Short

Length: 1,439 words

Awards Won: "Best Short Fiction" from the Immortal Moonlight Awards, "Best Short Story" and "Best Smut" from the Spuffy Awards, "Best Short" and "Best PWP" from the Shadows & Dust Awards, "Best PWP" and "Judge's Choice" from the Shades of Grey Awards, and more. See 'em in all their shiny glory here.

Author's Note: I wrote most of this in my head as I drove home from Cape Cod in summer '01, when all I knew of Season 6 was that Spike would have a motorcycle and that Buffy would be coming back. It wasn't until I rewatched 'Afterlife' nearly a year later that I was inspired to complete it. Thanks to Rabid and Rilla for beta and support.

Distribution: Links only, please. Do not reprint. Do not post translations. Thanks!

Disclaimer: You know the drill. 20th Century Fox Corp owns everyone but me.

Rights: I do not own these characters or the worlds they inhabit. However, the text I have written is not YOURS to paste into your own fic in any way, shape or form. That is called plagiarism, and it is not cool. Not that YOU would ever do that, because YOU are awesome. Obviously. :)

Feedback: Makes me feel alive.

She's watching him leave.

He's leaving. Mounting his motorcycle with a swoosh of his coat and stepping down hard.

Her friends are talking at her again: Are you okay? Are you okay?

And suddenly, she runs... in his direction. Her feet pound the ground.

He turns, spots her, a question in his eyes.

She jumps on the seat, clasps her arms around his middle. "Go," she says. A whisper in his ear. A command.

The engine roars and vibrates between her thighs. He goes.

She hears her name shouted from far behind. Could be Willow... maybe Dawn. Doesn't matter. Whoever it is, they'll survive.

He's smart -- doesn't ask questions. Doesn't stop to talk. He doesn't even go where he'd meant to. He just keeps driving.

Her hair whips around from the wind and stings her face. She remembers childhood road trips. Her first genuine smile flickers behind him.

He takes the mountain road, up winding inclines edged by steep cliffs. A misjudged curve could see them airborne, but he's precise. Below, beneath, the lights of Sunnydale get twinkly and small.

On the ocean side, the half-moon follows them.

He's rounding another corner, bearing his weight into it. As he straightens out, she loosens her hold around his waist and sneaks her palms up his chest.

His mouth opens slightly.

She feels buzzed, brazen. His muscles twitch beneath his t-shirt. Her second smile is pressed against his back.

He's nearing an overlook. She breathes into his neck, "Here."

Spellbound, he nods once and veers right. Motorcycle wheels unearthing moss, he skids, stopping just short of the precipice. He cuts the engine.

Low hanging hibiscus and thick sugar pines frame a view of the moon and sea.

Mesmerized by the landscape, she untangles herself from him and walks to the cliff's edge. The odor of ocean and rich foliage hits her. She peers down at the crashing waves, booming into jagged rocks below. So far away, yet the sound they make might as well be the only sound in the world.

Except this: Behind her, he cocks his head and says, "Hey."

There's a hint of worry in that tone. Worry that she'll jump.

She turns to him. His face is close now, inches away, lit a beaming blue by the moon. Questioning, worrying.

Worry is the last thing she wants from him.

He says, "Buffy--"

And she clasps her mouth over his.

He is stunned, but he's not stupid. He kisses her back.

She's grateful for the silence, but now she's distracted by his tongue. It's gentle yet persistent. Wet. Arousing. She slips her hands around the back of his head; he links his arms under hers and pulls her closer.

She kicks off her shoes and one flies over the edge, tumbles down the cliff. She doesn't notice -- she's busy pushing leather lapels apart, sleeves down his shoulders.

He breaks away, steps back. Levels his gaze with hers as he shrugs off the coat and spreads it on the grass.

She accepts his outstretched hand. Steps across the coat's inner lining until he impatiently tugs her close and their mouths meet again. They fold and buckle to the ground.

He kisses her neck, her collarbone. She coasts her hands up and down his back. They fumble with buttons and stubborn fabric, rush to kiss everywhere they can while they can -- like teenagers. Like a first time.

Like the only time that matters.

She rolls him onto his back and straddles him. Kisses him hard. Pulls off her unbuttoned shirt. No bra.

As she struggles with her jeans, her breasts bounce over his face, teasing him. One nearly gets close enough to suck into his mouth.

She briefly dismounts to wrestle the jeans down her legs and off. Gasping, she returns to kiss him again. His hands run up her sides, he cups a soft breast, squeezes. She moans in approval. He squeezes harder, nipple between fingers. One hand slides down to her ass. Naked and smooth.

Simultaneously, they reach for his belt. She yanks it out of its loops and flings it aside. He unzips.

She takes his erection in her hand. No time to waste. Cranes it up, positions her pelvis forward, sinks down.


Their eyes meet. Her eyelids close. His do not.

She's a blue angel, impaled on his cock. Brow knit, back arched, fingers gripping his thighs. He reaches out to touch her hips to make sure she's real.

And she is. Astoundingly real. She rides him urgently, forcing friction with his loins. He can smell the sharp, intoxicating scent of her warm nectar, its overflow coating her inner thighs, his pubic hair, his abdomen.

Eyes closed, the blue angel moves in time with the pounding surf. Violent. Hard. Her pony tail is coming undone.

She grits her teeth and slumps forward, kneading his chest muscles, bowing and contracting her torso. Breath heavy, hot on his skin. Hair long and loose. It tickles his cheek.

He wants to show her that he's more than this. He spins and pins her down, onto her back. She whimpers at the loss of contact, the loss of him inside her.

He covers her gasping mouth with his own, sucks in a nipple, bites her navel, then lifts her ass in his hands to lap at her gleaming pussy. She wiggles against him and cries out: it's too much. She stops him, tugs him forward. Looks into his eyes.

He nods. Gets his pants down to his knees and plunges into her again. His booted toes dig into the soil.

She holds on to his shoulders as he grunts into the crook of her neck. He straightens his arms, arches his back, moving faster, chin upturned, teeth clenched. They undulate together like the torrential waters below. Drowning, gasping for air, she silently begs him for release.

He thrusts, propelling her along the silken lining of his jacket until her head hangs over the cliff. He secures a hand on either side of her, gripping the cliff's edge. Won't let her go.

She opens her eyes, sees the moon and ocean upside-down.

He fucks her like this -- she observes the upside-down world until the scenery blurs and ceases to make sense. The moon shines through her eyelids; white light surges through her. She spasms as the bolt of an orgasm takes her body by surprise.

He takes one look at her, coming in his arms, and sobs her name in deference, in love, in eternal grief as he tremors out his own climax.

She digs her fingernails into him. Holding on. She can't stop. It's still got her -- still cresting through her, still making her shout. Her inner muscles pulse and wring his cock; without warning, he comes again. Groans along with her for the final wave.

Panting, trembling, they glance at one another guiltily. She's still gripping his shoulders.

Spike looks at his hands and releases fistfuls of grass and moist soil. Buffy lifts her head.

"Here, um--" he moves back to urge her toward him, away from the edge.

She sits up and shakes the dirt from her hair. A downward glance, and she's suddenly aware of her nudity -- she covers her breasts with her hands. Her eyes dart towards the motorcycle, where most of her clothing has landed.

He leans back, snags her blouse, hands it over. She puts it on. One of the buttons is dangling and it won't close.

While she fiddles with that, he guides one of her feet into her underwear. Then the other. She doesn't stop him. It feels nice. His hands glide up her legs. His eyes meet hers as he brings the cloth to her hips. She has to sit up to a kneel to get it all the way on.

There's a cold wet spot on the crotch from before -- it's quickly drenched with the warm fluids that are seeping out of her now. His and hers. She wishes for a tissue.

He wants to kiss her. She turns away.

He sighs, pulls up his jeans, zips up. Finds his belt. Shirt. The crashing waves ring in his ears.

She shimmies on her pants, scanning the ground for her missing shoe. When it occurs to her that it's gone down, she sits, dangling her feet over the cliff's edge, and catapults the remaining shoe into the ocean.

He sits beside her.

She takes in a deep breath. Doesn't look at him. Just at the glistening waves reflecting the light of the half-moon.

Slowly, as she exhales, her head falls onto his shoulder.

He smiles.

She smiles. That's three.

This is one way to come alive.







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