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Buffy's instincts had never led her astray. On occasion, ignoring them had certainly made a bad situation worse, but not ignoring them always made a bad or good situation better. Which was why she was both annoyed, irritated, and confused when she kept finding herself standing in front of Spike's crypt. If she needed information, yeah, sure, she could excuse that, but to find herself here when she needed cheering up, or when she was in a good mood and wanted to stay that way? It didn't make any sense. It never did. Still, didn't stop her from kicking the door in anyway.

It was a habit, and apparently far overused as a dramatic entrance because Spike didn't even bother getting up from his recliner where he was sprawled and smoking and watching.. soap operas. God he was so weird. Even weirder, though, was that she could no longer smell a cigarette without thinking of Spike. Without imagining the way it clung to the leather of his coat or mixed with the alcohol on his tongue when he kissed her. Without hating herself for imagining him at all.

"Ooh, the Slayer. Invading my home. Again. What a surprise," Spike drawled from around his cigarette as she took her time approaching him.

It was a sad thing to realize that she knew the crypt as well as her own home, knew the proper placement of every stone column and vase and spiderweb. Her fingers traced the edges of the sarcophagus as she watched him, the way his chest expanded and deflated with every pull on his cigarette. Even as she watched, the credits rolled on his small television and he heaved himself off his chair, exhaling a cloud of smoke. The TV clicked off and then he was turning to face her, flicking his cigarette into the darkness behind him. "And what supposed wrongs have I committed today, luv, that have brought you to my door?"

"I don't think you've committed any wrongs today, Spike," Buffy replied with a smile, forcing a bubblegum-cheerfulness to her voice as she circled him. As far as she knew, that was. Not that he was causing much trouble these days anyway. Not that that was why she was there.

The line of his shoulders, the slope of his spine, the iron cables of his arms, were all tense, waiting to see what she would do next, what she would say next. She came to a stop in front of him and tilted her head up to look him in the eyes, smiling at the way the muscle in his jaw ticked. She hated that she liked that too. "In fact, I think you've been a rather good boy this week."

There was a rush of air and then Buffy was blinking at empty space. She tilted her head down and found Spike on his knees, hands palms-down on his spread thighs, head bowed. The mere sight of it was enough to send something rushing through her veins that she could never quite figure out, only that it was the same feeling she got when she knew she was about to have a really good fight. And it was same feeling she got every time Spike kneeled for her, ever since the first time.

"We can't keep doing this, Spike- I can't keep doing this," Buffy said tersely, fingers compulsively tugging at her clothes, as if the evidence of yet another ill-advised quickie with - ugh- Spike was written all over her blouse and skirt. It didn't help that he kept reaching out to touch her, hands helpful but touch distracting, even when he twisted her skirt that last millimeter into place, buttoned the last button of her blouse, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Branding her with his freezing skin and the scent of cigarette smoke. "Stop touching," she snapped, slapping his hands away.

He laughed at her but stepped away regardless. "You know, Slayer, you keep saying you don't want me but night falls and here you are again. Why d'you keep fightin' it?"

Buffy huffed as she bent down to zip up her boots. She kept fighting it because it was wrong. Not just who but also what. And yet… she couldn't stop herself from coming back. She couldn't stop herself from returning to him and the things he did to her, the things they did together. So if she couldn't stop, then she needed to set at least guidelines. Guidelines that were, shamefully, more for her than for him.

"If we do this, if I let this happen, we do this my way," she said slowly, thinking it through even as the words left her mouth.

"What, you want me to call you 'mistress' and wear a collar, Slayer?" Spike snorted from behind her, the sound of his lighter flaring to life followed by the snap of the ever-present silver zippo. "Be your little doggie to play with until you get bored?"

She whirled to face him, crossing her arms and scowling. It was harder than it should have been to keep her eyes from tracing the marble lines of his body as he reclined against the sarcophagus, unabashedly naked. "And if I said yes?" she shot right back, just another spiteful bite at his malleability for her.

It disgusted her, the way he was so willing to go alone with whatever she wanted, that she'd fallen to his… charms? his charisma? his… something. It made her nauseous every time she looked up from the fallout of yet another meeting to find her body wrapped in his. It ignited the spark of her self-loathing into a roaring blaze, that she hated everything he was and yet, she kept finding herself back in his arms with no idea how it happened and even less ideas of how to keep it from happening again.

Spike's hand paused in the air, raised to pull his cigarette from his lips. He didn't move his head, but his eyes slid toward her, pinning her in place for a long, breathless moment. And then his head did move, his chin leading him at a tilt before his body followed on the axis of his hips. That strangely predatory way he had of moving that made her heart thrum in her chest, made her blood heat, made her ache where she didn't want to ache. One barefoot step toward her, then another, and for all that she felt like prey, she couldn't move, couldn't make herself force whatever was going to happen next to happen sooner. Which might have been a good thing because she might have tripped over her own feet when Spike, eyes holding hers, finally pulled his cigarette from his mouth… and sank to his knees.

Buffy couldn't remember how to breathe, not until Spike finally looked away, bowing his head and baring the back of his neck to her, leaving himself entirely vulnerable, and then air slammed into her lungs so quickly she almost choked on it. And- well- he hadn't left himself entirely vulnerable. He was still a vampire, still had that supernatural strength, those supernatural reflexes, could turn on her on a dime. But he was leaving her his exposed back, where she could shove a stake through at any time, something she'd been threatening him with for years but had never followed through with.

"What are you doing?" Her voice was higher than she wanted it to be, but she was still having trouble remember the basics of inhale - exhale - air in - air out.

"If this is what I have to do to get you to stay, then I will." In contrast, Spike's voice was quiet and subdued, barely a ripple in the still air, and still, it made her jump. "You want a dog, then you have one, Slayer. You could drive me out to the bloody Grand Canyon and leave me there and I'd follow your scent right back home to do it again."

Her heart was a battering ram against her chest. Her mouth was dry. Her mind was blank. Her hand… her hand shook as it settled on the nape of Spike's neck and her feet slid her into the V of his spread knees. Spike's head lifted, just a little bit, and she could see, just for a moment, the way his long eyelashes fluttered before closing, before he pressed his face to her stomach. It wasn't the thought that a vampire was so close to her, that he could shift at any moment and rip her apart with his fangs, that had Buffy's stomach muscles quivering and her breath shaking in her throat, but rather that she had a master vampire submitting himself to her of his own will. That she had Spike, the man - er, vampire - that fought her and bitched about it at every turn… kneeling silently at her feet.

"What do you mean?" She didn't mean to ask it. At least, she didn't think she meant to ask it. She wasn't exactly closeted, she'd heard of things that she sort of wished she'd never discovered, she knew exactly what he meant, but her mind was frozen, couldn't comprehend it. Under her hand, the muscles of Spike's neck shifted as he tilted his head up to look at her. Not for the first time, and probably not for the last, his hooded eyes froze her.

"It means, Buffy, that I'm yours."

She'd avoided him for a good week after that, but then she'd ran into him on patrol, trying to stop some demons or other from stealing some thing or other. When she got held up with one while another escaped with the goods, she'd just shouted "Spike!" and pointed after the departing demon. When he returned a minute late, with a severed head and the burlap sack, she'd straightened from her own demon corpse and had jokingly praised, "Good boy." He'd dropped to his knees right then and there, head bowed. Her calming heart had begun racing again and she felt that same adrenaline that preceded a fight flooding through her. He hadn't said anything, and she couldn't either, not for a long minute, and when she finally told him, voice thick in her throat, to go home, he'd only said "Yes, Buffy," gotten up, and left, all without looking at her. She spent the rest of the night in constant confusion.

The second time she'd said it had been on purpose. She'd been training alone in the back of the Magic Shop when Spike had stopped by and offered her a sparring partner. High on energy, she'd accepted, and they battled it out until she tired and finally called a stop, bouncing in place and shaking out the aches in her limbs from where his hits had landed. Grinning that boyish grin of his that he always seemed to be wearing when he fought, Spike had tossed a towel at her and instead of "Thank you," Buffy had found another pair of words on her tongue instead. She held them there for a moment before releasing them into the air, and then she'd said "Good boy." Spike was immediately on his knees, head bowed, and Buffy stopped breathing. She stopped thinking too, and she'd left him kneeling on the mats in the back of the Magic Shop.

The third time she'd said it had been on purpose too, and she still felt a little nauseous about how she'd used it as a test, even if she only felt nauseous about the possibility that her friends could have figured out exactly what she was doing. Since she said it right in front of them. Spike had come by a Scooby meeting at her house, and after he'd informed the group at large and they'd begun discussing it loudly amongst themselves, he'd settled against the wall next to where she was lounging in the doorway. She'd looked him dead in the eye and said "Good boy." There had been a clunk and then Spike was sinking to the ground, dragging her eyes with him. Xander had ruined it a moment later with a snapped "What are you doing, Spike?" to which Spike had waved his lighter and said "Dropped my zippo." He'd looked up at her then, for the first time from his knees, and tensed to stand, but didn't actually do so until she'd nodded. That was the moment she knew for sure how serious he was about his offer, how solidly she'd known he'd stick to it.

That had been the last time she'd tested him in public. Now she saved her "Good boy"s for letting Spike know she was in the mood to let him touch her. And from the second she said it, she knew that the only thing he'd do until she let him go was whatever she told him to do. She never had to worry that he would argue or resist or anything of that nature; if she told him to do something, he did it, no questions asked. The mere thought of it still made her heart skip and her belly flip, but she got the same feelings from the thought of her friends finding out that she'd been screwing Spike, with an added dash of nausea to boot.

Sometimes, she wondered if Cordy thought the same way about her relationship with Xander in the very beginning. But Xander was a human with a soul and Spike was a monster without one. A monster who, for the moment, was under her complete control. Control that she was about to, temporarily, forfeit.

"I think…" she said slowly, stepping into the space between his legs, forcing his face into her belly. She settled her hand on the back of his neck, amused herself by playing the the fine curls at his nape, the soft hairs not trapped by the gel he used. A shaky exhale filtered through her clothes to the sensitive skin of her belly and she had to force herself into stillness. It helped seeing the way Spike's fingers were digging divots into his thighs, to know that he was so affected already. If nothing else, being with Spike was one hell of an ego boost.

"I think you've actually been good for a few weeks now," she finally continued. Spike knew better than to talk, but a soft hum vibrated her tummy, making her twitch, and he nodded so minimally, she might not have known at all if her fingers weren't resting against his neck. "I think that might deserve a treat." She said it like it was for him, but she knew exactly what he'd do with his treat, and in the end, it would all be for her.

She'd offered it to him only once before. Another sort of test, and the confirmation of a hunch at the same time. She'd been tense, on edge, the entire time, waiting for him to throw it in her face, make her really regret it, but he hadn't. He'd gone above and beyond, and it was the closest she was ever going to get to a spa day, really. But better.

Spike jerked and the steady, unnecessary rise and fall of his shoulders faltered. For a moment, she thought he would speak, or turn his head up to look at her, but he just waited with that infuriating patience for her to speak. She wondered what it said about her that she had a willing slave, that she hated him with all her heart, but that she couldn't help but crave the way he loved her. She still wasn't entirely sure what he felt was love, it seemed ludicrous, that a soulless demon could feel at all, but she'd seen his emotions. If he could be angry, if he could be passionate, interested, sad, then why couldn't he feel love? But that was a traitorous thought. One she'd already forbidden herself from thinking of. Not that that mattered because she wouldn't be thinking at all soon.

"Until sundown," she said quietly, looking down at the top of Spike's head pressed to her stomach, steady breathing fanning across her skin under her shirt, "you can do whatever you want to me."

Under her hand, Spike stopped breathing.


"Until sundown, you can do whatever you want to me."

It had been offered to him once before. Just the once. He never thought he'd be offered it again, and his mind whirled with the possibilities, but he was half-afraid he'd hallucinated the offer. He'd already forgotten how to work his lungs, and he tried to restart them as he tipped his head back to look up at her. She was staring down at him with her eyebrow raised, her expression mocking. Bitch.

"I can do anything to you?" he echoed, digging his nails into the denim over his thighs. "Anything at all, pet?"

Buffy, beautiful bitchy Buffy, pursed her lips for a heart-stopping (if his heart could stop again) moment, and then she nodded. The demon rioted in his skull and he had to close his eyes a moment to keep it from taking over.

"When does it start?" he managed to ask around the tingling in his gums, his fangs excited to come out and play.

"Now," she said quietly. The word was barely out of her mouth before Spike was on his feet again, fast enough to make her blink in surprise.

"You're gonna regret that, Slayer," Spike warned with a grin, unable to contain his excitement. His mind was already racing with everything he was going to the do to the bitch that loved to grind his heart under her heel, but he didn't miss the way she didn't even blink when he swept her into his arms, strode over to the hole in the floor, and dropped down into his bedroom. And he definitely didn't miss the way her heart sped up when she spoke again.

"I regret everything about you, Spike," she said haughtily.

He smirked as he set her on her feet next to his bed. "You can lie to yourself all you like, sweet, but you can't lie to ol' Spike." He stepped in close and dipped his head to breathe in her pulse, loving the way she shivered at the brush of his lips over her neck, and raised his hand to press the flat of his palm to her sternum. "Your heart can't lie to me," he whispered against her ear.

She huffed but didn't argue again, and when he pulled back, she was looking obstinately away from him. He didn't need her eyes for what he was going to do to her though. His fingers dragged a slow line down between her breasts and over her belly until he hit the hem of her blouse, and then he grasped it with both hand and pulled it up. She might not have been looking at him, but he couldn't drag his eyes from her face as he pulled her shirt up and over her head. He still couldn't look away when he dropped it to the floor, or when he wrapped his arms around her to unclasp her bra. Only when that too hit the floor could he wrench his eyes away.

Spike honestly loved his Slayer's body. She was tiny, like they all were. Slayers were like scorpions - the smaller they were, the deadlier they were, and Buffy might not have been the smallest, but her tenure spoke to the toxicity of her existence. Every day he saw her, Spike could feel his demon rotting away, and he wasn't sure what was being left in its place. It wasn't William, that was for damn sure, and it certainly wasn't human, but it was…. it was something.

"Have I ever told you how gorgeous you are, pet?" he murmured, tracing his eyes over her curves. Her small waist only looked smaller under the span of his hands, and she shuddered in his grasp as he dragged his palms up her ribs. He drew to a stop only when his thumbs underlined her breasts, the heels of his hands brushing the sides of them as his fingers curled around the sharp lines of her shoulder blades. The heat of her skin was slowly warming his, and he wanted to curl up against her until he was all 98.6 degrees again.

"Only every time I let you touch me," she scoffed, arms raising as if to cross them over her chest before his arms got in the way and she dropped them again. As if her blood wasn't tainting her cheeks from his flattery.

"I'd tell you more often if you'd let me," he said, continuing the glide of his hands up her shoulders and neck into her hair. "But you hate how much I love you so this is the only time I can tell you how much I love the way your hair feels against my fingers." He let the golden locks slide through his hands before he buried them back in at the base of her scalp. "I love how soft your hair is, how it shines in the light, how it glows in the sun."

"You can't go in the sun, Spike," she said. It was almost a snap, but it was too tired. A deflection, to keep herself from giving in.

"Doesn't mean I can't watch you when you're in the sun, Goldilocks. Could watch you be in the sun all day long."

She scoffed again, not for the last time, and closed her eyes, her chin tilting up in that way she had like she was challenging him. He never told her how much it looked like she was inviting him to sink his fangs into her neck because she'd definitely stop.

"Love your mind too," he continued, shifting his hands to her temples, her hair still wrapped around his fingers. "Can't say you're exactly book-smart-"

"Hey!"

"Don't 'hey' me, luv, you know it as well as I do." It took everything Spike had not to kiss the pout from her mouth. "Don't need to be book-smart though, d'ya, Slayer? No, you think with your heart." He let one hand fall back down to span her chest again, his fingers resting against the slope of her breasts, the beat of her blood under his palm strong and steady. "You've stayed alive this long because of your heart. It's as much of what you do as what you are." He bent his knees just enough to press a kiss in the space between his thumb and forefinger, right over the pound of the organ under her skin. The way her breath caught in her throat made him want to sink his fangs into her chest, to taste her heartsblood from the source.

He resisted temptation and pulled away, tracing his fingers down the thin lines of her arms until he could take her hands in his, raise them up to his face. "Can a man be in love with his woman's nails?" he asked with a grin and she shot him a predictable glare.

"You're not a man Spike and I am not your woman," she snapped. God, did she have to do this every time? She came to him time and time again, gave herself to him, gave himself to her, and still, every time, it was as if they'd never touched, as if he was forcing himself on her.

"Hush, baby," he scolded quietly, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her tight against his body, against the erection trapped in his jeans. "If I'm not a man, then what's between my legs?" She didn't answer him, didn't look at him. "And you are my woman, even if only for today. Even if for only right now. You're my woman and I'm your man, and even after you leave, I'll still be yours." A tremor went through her body and she closed her eyes again, her jaw clenching.

Fuck, but he wished she could let him pretend, just once, that she wouldn't leave when all was said and done. What was the harm in pretending, just for a little bit, that she was his? A surge of anger made him reckless and he suddenly pulled back and shoved Buffy harshly away. Her arms pinwheeled as she stumbled back until she tripped backwards onto the bed, falling onto the satin sheets in a splay. She immediately propped herself up on her elbows, as if keeping him in her sight was worth anything. Her pulse was a pounding drum, her eyes wide in her face, and her lips parted, words on the tip of her tongue before she snapped her mouth closed again, swallowing whatever she'd been about to say. Spike didn't doubt that whatever it was wasn't going to be anywhere close to constructive.

Spike prowled towards her and she responded like prey, shifting backwards and further onto his bed, towards the headboard. It wasn't a chase in the proper way, no running needed, but it got his fangs tingling and his adrenaline up to see her pulling away from him, to see the way her small breasts rose and fell with her quicker and quicker breaths, the way the soft green of her eyes was slowly eclipsed by her pupils. When he put a fist on the bed next to her small feet, her breath hitched and her heart skipped a beat in her pretty chest. He smirked as he brought up his other fist, and then one knee, then the other, slowly crawling up onto the bed and over her. He paused over her waist and, keeping his eyes fixed on hers, dropped his mouth to the space between her bellybutton and her jeans.

In the silence of his room, the small gasp Buffy let out was music to his ears, a beautiful harmony to the racing of her heart and her blood, as the muscles in her taut belly contracted away from his mouth. Spike just smiled and shifted a little lower to take a corner of denim in his teeth and tug until it came unbuttoned and the zip dragged down. He rose back up to his knees then, to pull her jeans and her underwear from her legs, and she just stared silently at him, eyes still wide and mouth still parted, even after she was completely bare to him. He'd long since memorized every line of her body, but that never stopped him from refreshing his memories every time he got to see her like this again. At her sides, her fingers fisted the sheets, knuckles whitening the longer he looked.

"Relax, pet," he chuckled. The soft curve of her hips always seemed to fit in his palms just right and he let himself trace the lines of her hip bones with his thumbs for just a moment before he abruptly flipped her onto her belly, smirking at the noise he surprised out of her.

"And how exactly am I supposed to relax around you?" she snapped, folding her arms under her head on top of his pillow; he'd be smelling her on it for days.

"No worries," he assured her, though she was hardly assured judging by the tension in her back, especially when he leaned over her to tug open the drawer of his nightstand. "I'll take care of you."

She snorted but settled tentatively into the pillow of her arms, tensing right back up when Spike drizzled cold massage oil onto her bare back.

"Sorry, luv, didn't know I'd need to warm it up first," he apologized a tad bit dryly.

He was certain she would have snapped a sassy response if he hadn't followed his apology up with the press of his fingers into the tense muscles of her lower back and the only thing she responded with was a low groan. It was the first and only sound he got her to make as he settled into the massage, carefully working the tension out of his Slayer's muscles as she breathed steadily under him. Even as he worked, even with the allowance he'd been given, he kept waiting to be reprimanded for his erection, pressed as it was to her ass beneath his jeans, but she still hadn't given any indication she'd noticed it by the time he'd shifted down to sit between her legs in order to massage them, one at a time.

In fact, she didn't seem to notice anything at all. Buffy's breathing was slow and even, her heart beat firm and steady. Spike expected she was asleep long before he finished his foot massage, but the second he reoriented, crawled up over her and settled his body weight along her tenderized form, she spoke.

"Time's a-wasting," she murmured, voice soft and sleepy. He wondered if that's what she'd sound like when she was going to bed for the night, or just waking up in the morning. He'd give anything to find out, but he wasn't ever going to be given the chance, he knew that. Not to find out for real. This was the only thing he'd ever get that would come close.

"Hush, sweet," he whispered, tightening the cage of his arms just to feel her body wrapped in his. "It's not a waste to me." She tensed again, only for a moment, before relaxing under him and he settled more comfortably over her, letting his lungs work in time with hers.

It wasn't a waste of time but time was wasting away. He could feel it in his ever-present awareness of the sun's location. Could feel it in the way the sun was slowly sinking closer to the horizon. Still, he let himself have that moment for 60 of her breaths before he slowly lifted himself up, and he let himself trail his hands from her shoulders down to her feet one last time before he rolled her onto her back. Buffy flopped over, easy as could be, her hair a halo on the dark red of his pillow, her arms on either side of her head, eyes half-lidded and oh-so-dark. He hadn't been looking for it before, but now he let the scent of her arousal wash over him and fill his lungs.

"Gorgeous," he whispered. Blood flushed her cheeks and she closed her eyes, chin tilting away from him. It made his smile a little bitter, just to see her reject his compliment in her own bitchy way, even as she derived flattery from it. Just as she derived flattery from the way his hands molded her. Not into his shape, but into hers, into the way she should be.

This time he started the massage at her feet, working his way slowly up her legs. She hadn't done it when he'd had her on her belly and was working his way done, but on her back working his way up, the farther up her legs he got, the more they relaxed open. Not by much, in fact, it was barely noticeable, but by now, Spike was an expert in Buffy's body language, and he could read the plea in the way her knees bent just a little, the way she ached to be touched in how her hips shifted. The thought of what he was going to taste was an ache in his throat and an itch in his gums, but it wasn't time just yet.

Spike very carefully avoided the thatch of curls between her thighs, skipped right over it to knead his way up her belly to her breasts. Which honestly probably didn't need massaging, but Buffy seemed to enjoy it anyway, and what else did he exist for but to please her? Her chest arched into his hands and he indulged her a little, staying there longer than he'd planned, and not moving on until she let loose a little hum in the back of her throat. When he finally slid his hands past her collar bones to her neck, she tilted her head back to give him room, but cracked an eye open to watch him.

He could snap her neck. He could be done right now, be free to grieve her and move the fuck on, let another Slayer finally be called and release him from the torment of her existence. But if Drusilla had taught him anything, it was that a part of William still lived on in Spike. It was in the way Spike loved, the tenacity and the longevity with which he loved. What he'd felt for his dark goddess was nothing compared to what he felt for his Slayer, and he'd loved Drusilla for over a century. Killing Buffy wouldn't free him from loving her, it would only trap him in grief until he met the sun for the last time.

Realizing he'd been staring at his hands around Buffy's neck, Spike looked up and found her still watching him through half-open eyes, waiting. "Not gonna hurt you, pet," he said softly. She blinked at him, and then closed her eyes again.

"I know," she said simply. And that was all she said. As if he had never threatened to kill her. As if she had never threatened to kill him. As if she had never told him with all the conviction her scorpion's body could muster that she was sure he would go back to his old ways if he ever got that sodden chip out of his head. She hated him and she fought him, but when the chips were down, she trusted him with her life.

Clenching his jaw tight, feeling a muscle in his cheek tick, Spike carefully massaged the muscles in her neck before prying his fingers from her throat. She didn't even bother opening her eyes again. Or say anything at all. He forcibly ignored the spike in his temper and moved his hands to one arm, massaging his way down. She surprised him when he was digging his thumbs into the soft insides of her forearms by speaking again.

"Manicure."

He paused and looked up at her. She'd never had any kind of safeword before, and she didn't seem like she was using one now, but what she'd said hadn't made any sense. "What's that now, pet?"

"That's what they do when you get a manicure," she said, her voice soft, almost a slur, but still coherent. Like she lacked the energy required to speak more clearly. "It reminded me I need to get one again."

Spike worked his way down to her wrists and her fingers, lifting her hand up to look more closely at. "Look fine to me, luv," he finally said, laying her hand gently back down on the bed to start working down her other arm.

"What would you know about it?"

The tight press of his eyes closing as he searched for his patience had no effect on the firm pressure of his fingers, but he thought that sometimes she was trying to provoke him into a bad mood. Into wanting to hurt her. Couldn't she just play nice for one sodden day?

But maybe, just maybe, if he kept letting her in, one day she'd see him as more than a monster.

"Took care of my mum when she got sick, pet," he said softly, not looking at Buffy as he worked down her wrist. Still, he could see the way she jerked and could feel her stare. "Right proper lady she was, always looked her best, even on her deathbed. Made sure of that. Took care of Dru for a century too." The hand in his spasmed and Spike tightened his grip. "None of that now. No use getting jealous when you're the one refusing to call me yours. Especially because I was the one that had to see and hear and smell you with your tin soldier for months. Not when you're the one still going on trips to L.A. to see your true love and I have to smell him on your skin and taste him on your lips when you get back."

He forced his fingers open, to let go of her hand, but her fingers curled around his. "You know I can't have sex with Angel," she said, aiming for either harsh or bitter and missing by a mile.

Spike tugged his hand free and sat back on his heels. "Lots you can do without him shagging you, luv. Case in point," he said as he shifted backwards and parted her legs to lie between them, curling his arms under her thighs to lift them onto his shoulders. It brought him face-to-face with where the scent of her arousal was thickest, and he paused for a moment to breathe her in deep.

It was a scent he got to smell all the time, even when they weren't shagging, but it was at this distance that it was most potent. He always wondered if she knew how turned on she got during a fight, or if she just repressed the feeling of it. Even if she did, he could still smell it, had always been able to taste it on the air when they went toe-to-toe. It had been addictive from the get-go, and he feared the day when he would find out that he wasn't going to be able to taste it again.

"I-I donn't do anything with A-Angel," Buffy stuttered out as Spike nuzzled her.

"Kissin' ain't nothin', sweetheart," Spike murmured, unwrapping one arm from around her strong thigh to bring his hand between them and slide two fingers into where she was already soaking wet. She could proclaim disgust until the sky fell, but her body couldn't lie to him. "If it were, then you woulda told your friends ages ago that you've been kissing me."

"It's not the same," she gasped, hips undulating to fuck her self on his unmoving fingers.

"Whatever you say, luv," he deflected, finally starting to move his hand to meet her rhythm, bringing up his thumb to rub gentle circles over her clit. She gasped and bucked at the touch, and Spike turned his smile into the inside of her thigh.

One of the few things he wanted most in this world was to sink his fangs into his Slayer's sweet neck, leave her scarred with the mark of his ownership, show the whole world that she was his. But her neck was already scarred. Marred by the Master's fangs and Angel's and Dracula's. This place, the inside of her tender thigh, so close to what she guarded so strongly, so intimately, was all his, the smooth silkyness of her skin interrupted only by the scarred imprint of his fangs.

"Did you just… bite me?!" Buffy asked incredulously, lifting herself up onto her elbows.

Her cunt was still trembling around his fingers from her orgasm, her heart still racing, the taste of it like lightning on his tongue. Spike licked his lips and then leaned forward to lap up the blood beading up from his mark.

"You said I could do whatever I wanted," he shrugged, meeting her eyes as he laved over the mark again. Tasting her blood like this was like pop rocks and he couldn't stop. It was hard enough to pull away when he had his teeth in her, before he couldn't stop drinking. Not because he wanted to drain her, but because he couldn't get enough of her blood. He wasn't even sure if its addictiveness derived from her being the Slayer or just because it was hers.

"I didn't think-" she started but he cut her off.

"Then that was your lack of foreplannin', wa'n't it, Slayer," he snapped, irritated to have his buzz ruined. Irritated that she was ruining her own buzz. "Did think I'd gone human with all my playin' nice? Blood will always be what I do, and I have never stopped wanting yours. Reasons why might've changed a bit," he conceded, "but doesn't mean I've stopped wanting it. 'Sides, didn't take enough to hurt. Just a taste. You won't be feeling any side effects."

The marks were already closing and he licked the last of the blood away, leaving the inside of her thigh glistening from his saliva but clear of blood.

"Don't-" she started again, and he cut her off for a second time.

"Don't you go making commands now, missy," he warned, pressing a kiss to his already-scarring mark. "You offer this to me again and I'm going to bite you again. Just 'cause I've had a taste of you here 'n' now don't mean I'm going to come sniffing around for a snack whenever I've got a craving, but you offer this to me again, I will be tasting you."

He wondered if she remembered that. His promise. He lifted his head to see over the undulating line of her body meeting every thrust of his fingers, but her head was thrown back, her chest heaving with forcibly steady breaths, which were the only sounds she was making. Unlike her frequent, vocal cries while she was shagging her tin soldier, Buffy had never once been vocal with Spike. He could never figure out if it was part of her 'you disgust me' routine or because a part of her knew she never needed to tell him what she wanted in order for him to give it to her.

He could feel the rise of her orgasm in the way her pretty cunt was spasming around the push and pull of his fingers in shorter and shorter bursts. The way her hips were rolling up to meet his thumb over her clit more frantically. The way her heart beat faster and her breaths deepened but shortened. The way the scent of her arousal thickened and her blood sharpened. He didn't change the pace of his thrusts or of his thumb, but he didn't need to; she was driving herself right to her peak. The moment she tipped over, when she inhaled long and deep and just… stopped, her breathing freezing in her chest, Spike carefully sank his teeth into her thigh and the artery below her skin.

The taste of Buffy's life blood burst over Spike's tongue, spiced from her orgasm, and for a long moment, nothing else in the world existed. He came back to himself with a snap when her breath left her in a long, shaking exhale, her walls fluttering around his fingers as she melted down into the bed, boneless. He hadn't been pulling at her artery, had just let the blood pour over his tongue from the pressure of her hummingbird heartbeat, but now he took one slow pull from her. Not enough to make her dizzy, just enough to keep the memory of it alive for a few days, before he finally retracted his fangs and let his face return to its human form.

He'd aimed this bite carefully, just a little off of a complete overlap from the first mark, so that it would scar even thicker, be even more noticeable. He left his fingers in her and his thumb over her clit, barely there, the softest of pressures, as he leaned forward and lapped up the blood lining his second mark. Her walls spasmed around him and her thighs on either side of his head twitched with every swipe of his tongue, lessening as her heartbeat calmed and her skin closed. He pressed one last kiss to his mark before he straightened and pulled his fingers from her cunt to push them between his own lips, lick her taste from his skin.

"Gross," she muttered from above him. Spike opened his eyes to meet hers and pulled his fingers from his mouth to wipe them along her thigh. She wrinkled her nose at him.

"'Gross' she says," Spike said, half-mocking. "As if I wouldn't be happy to spend every night between your legs."

Buffy stared at him for a long moment. "I don't get why. It's not like I enjoy doing the same for you." She'd tried it, once. Tied him to the bed and sucked him until he came, but he'd been able to see on her face that she hadn't liked it while she was doing it - which made it harder for him to even get into it, and afterwards she'd wrinkled her nose and barely swallowed without gagging. He was still surprised she hadn't just spit it onto his floor.

"Don't gotta, luv," he said with a shrug. "I like what I like and you like what you like and I won't make you you do what you don't want to. I go down on you because I can't get enough of your taste and because I like making you come on my tongue. You don't have to want the same."

Her mouth opened and closed a few times, brow furrowed like she was confused, didn't know what to say. She probably didn't. She was all righteous and convicted until she was faced with the depth of his devotion and then she was always at a loss for words. Usually he liked to let her flounder, let her try to excuse away what she did or didn't feel for him, unconvincingly, so he could call her a liar and she could fluster more, but the sun was getting closer and closer to the horizon and he was running out of time. So he did what he did best: he leaned forward and started to eat her out.

Everytime he did put his mouth to her cunt, she acted as if he'd never done it before. As if no one had done it before. Dear old Captain Tall, Dark, and Brooding hadn't had any time before he went dark side, if Angelus' braggadocious retellings of the loss of the Slayer's virginity had any value. And Captain Cardboard hadn't sounded like he had been much a fan of foreplay, or in-depth foreplay. At least, not since Spike had taken to listening. But this wasn't the first time Spike had put his mouth to her, either of his own volition or by way of her command. Still, she acted as if he'd never pressed a kiss to her clit or pushed his tongue between her folds before now.

Thighs that could probably crack his skull clamped down on either side of Spike's head, and fingers that could bend steel dug into his hair, disrupting the gelled curls. They pushed and pulled and tried to direct him, but Spike stayed stubbornly in place, ignoring the pain of her persistent desperation. He wound his hands back under the legs over his shoulders and put both his hands on her belly, trying to keep her down, but she just kept rolling her hips into his face. Every other gasp from her throat was a half-breath of his name - "Spi… Spi… Spi…" - like she couldn't find enough air in her lungs to form both syllables. It only made him grin and settle more comfortably in place.

There were so many things about being undead that Spike loved, like drinking blood, fighting, killing, following through on every little impulse without society holding him back. But one of the things that topped that list was getting to eat out his Slayer. She hadn't let him, the first few times they'd shagged. He'd already have his fingers in her and he'd try to pull away from her mouth only for her to drag him right back, again and again until he gave up. He'd tried every time after that, only to be rejected constantly, until a few weeks in she finally snapped "What are you doing?" and he snapped back "I'm trying to go down you, you sodden bint!" An answer that had surprised her enough that she hadn't tried to stop him when he took advantage of her apparent shock and finally made it to his goal.

He honestly loved going down on Buffy. He'd always enjoyed going down on women because he'd always been a pleaser and he liked the instant feedback, of knowing how much he pleased. Not to mention, a woman who felt good about the foreplay did great during sex. Even if he just ate them afterwards. Buffy he actually cared about though. Always wanted to make her feel good and happy after she'd spent her day(s) worrying about her slaying and her life and the Scoobies. He wished that he could make her understand that he all he wanted was for her to be happy and alive, preferably at his side. But until then, he could satisfy himself with this, with the push of his tongue into where she was most sweet and the flick of it against where she was most sensitive.

Desperate, unintentional little sounds fell from Buffy's mouth as her undulations grew frantic, the smell of her impending orgasming blooming in the air. Spike shifted to accommodate her bucking - like a bronco, she was, and maybe one day he could get her to sit on his face and ride him like one - and the shift of pressure at his pelvis reminded him that he was achingly hard, trapped in his jeans and pressed to his bed. His hips jerked down, chasing the friction of the sensation and growling at the frisson of lust that shot up his spine. Buffy made a sweet, choked off sound and came over his tongue, her legs shaking around his head, her fingers tight enough in his hair that it made him growl again at the pain of it. When it made her jerk and start to shake, it took Spike a moment to figure out why.

He'd completely forgotten the reaction his Slayer had to the rumble of his growl near her cunt. Spike may as well have dropped a vibrator on her clit from how she reacted to it. So once he started, he just couldn't stop. He was addicted to the way she writhed against his mouth, the way the scent of her blood turned to spiced rum, the way her heart beat in his ears. He drank her up like he was a starving vamp just released from entombment and devouring the first humans he saw.

Spike fell into a rhythm, gently licking and sucking and growling, keeping his Slayer riding high until she stopped subconsciously fighting him, until her fingers in his hair eased their tight grip and her thighs parted from his head. She kept twitching with every bit of stimulation to her clit, but she just breathed and let out soft, sweet little moans through it, her head rolling back and forth on his pillows, spreading her golden locks all over the red silk. It had taken her almost all afternoon, but she had finally relaxed for him. Satisfied, Spike finally let the tension seep from his jaws and let himself luxuriate in the taste and feel of her.

When Spike had first come to Sunnydale and promised to feast upon the Slayer, this wasn't exactly what he'd had in mind. Not even the first time he laid eyes on her behind the Bronze and felt the first stirrings of lust at the sight of her, or the first time he fought her, that night at her school where he grew hungry for her power. And yet, out of all the plans he'd made in his unlife, that one was both his worst failure and his greatest success. Still, a feast was a feast, no matter what was on the menu, and it was here between her legs where he got a piece of a Slayer in the way no other vampire before him would taste, and no vampire after him.

Spike lost track of all time as he feasted, as he lay between Buffy's legs and languorously ate her out, tonguing her clit and lapping between her folds, fucking her slowly. He let himself enjoy the taste of her, embedding the memory of it, knowing that this could very well be the last time he got to do this. He wanted to bite her again, feel that lightning of her power rip through him when her blood burst across his tongue, but he couldn't pull himself away from her cunt. At least, not until he felt the sun dip below the horizon, tearing him from his daze, and then it was too late.

"Until sundown, you can do whatever you want to me." And now it was, his allowance spent. Resisting the urge to snarl and growl, to dig in and never part from her, Spike forced himself to quiet the purr rumbling through his chest, to shift back just enough to press his face to the coolness of his sheets and pull his hands from Buffy's belly to fist them in the sheets. His time was up. No more tasting, no more touching. He inhaled, slowly, and let it out just as quickly, and waited for his Slayer's next instructions.

 

Buffy was floating on cloud nine. Her entire world was a daze of pleasure and danger, her awareness of the fact that a vampire was so close to her just as strong as her body's response to what he was doing to her. It left her feeling like an electric eel, charged up and squirming. Until he stopped. Until he stopped and he didn't start up again and the cool press of his hands left her skin.

It took more energy than it should have to lift her head and open her eyes, and when she did, Buffy found Spike's head right where it had been, only that he was now face-down on the mattress instead of face-first between her legs. And his hands were fisted in the sheets on either side of her hips, tense enough that they would be white with strain if he'd had the blood flow to support it.

"What. Are you doing?" she managed to ask, her throat parched, her tongue dry. Her voice was an unattractive croak, but Spike didn't seem to notice.

"Sundown, pet," he said, voice muffled from where his face was still pressed to his mattress.

For a long moment, Buffy couldn't remember the significance of that. Her brain was mush and her limbs were jelly. She could barely think and she could barely move, and she didn't want to do either, but Spike wasn't moving and though she'd come countless times, it wasn't enough. She wasn't satisfied. She needed more.

"Come here," she demanded, trying to tug on his hair and more or less failing with her weak fingers. It was such a strange weakness. She was as helpless as she'd been during that test of the Council's, and yet she'd never felt so powerful. Strange that it was a master vampire that could make her feel like that. "Get your jeans off."

Spike didn't say anything, and there was a long beat where he didn't move, but then he sat back on his heels and undid his jeans, his fingers sure and steady whereas Buffy could still feel hers shaking. Along with the rest of her body. She watched as he shucked the denim onto the floor and crawled up her body, the marble lines of his arms framing her shoulders and keeping him propped up. Suddenly, she couldn't stand the way he was looking down at her (reverent) and she rolled underneath him onto her stomach. It put him at her back this time, leaving her feeling vulnerable, making her ever-present vampire-proximity-alarm start shrieking, but she felt no fear. Not from Spike. Not even when his lips brushed her shoulder or scraped the curve with his blunt teeth.

"Fuck me like you mean it," she found herself saying. The word felt vulgar in her mouth, unfamiliar, but she couldn't very well tell him to 'make love' to her. Well, she could, but she didn't want to feel it. Not now. Not ever again, if she could. Once was enough, the feel of him pushing slowly into her, his slow kisses and gentle hands, memories that haunted her. She didn't want him to be gentle. She wanted him to be rough. To remind her who she was with, who she was doing. What she was doing.

"Yes, Buffy," he said softly behind her, above her. It was the last soft thing she got from him.

Iron fingers at her hips hauled her roughly up onto her knees leaving her with the soreness of fingerprint-bruises. She clenched her jaw against any noise at the sudden movement, but she lost her resolve a moment later when one hand briefly left to, presumably, guide his length between her folds, before returning to yank her back onto Spike's cock. A grunt left her throat at the sudden intrusion, but Spike didn't stop. Either because he was following her command or because he knew she could take it, Buffy didn't know.

There was no pause, no breather to let her become acclimated to the feel of Spike inside her again before Spike pulled out and pushed back into her again, and again, and again. The ferocity of his thrusts made the fists Buffy had curled into his sheets not enough to keep her steady, and she threw a hand out to brace herself against the wall at the head of his bed, biting her tongue against the noises she wanted to make as he lit her body alight. She nearly bit it through when he pushed a hand around the curve of her waist, down her belly, and between her legs, the soft pad of one finger pulsing against her clit, making her push back into his thrusts.

Buffy almost jumped when she felt something between her shoulder blades before she realized that Spike had bent over her, was pressing his forehead to her spine, steady breaths little breezes against her overheated skin. She clenched tight around his length and his pace stuttered, his finger pressing just a little too hard against her clit and making her clench and shudder again. The feel of his forehead against her back shifted, and she could barely make out the sound of the bones in his face transforming against the slap of their skin, but she knew his demon had taken over his face. If not because of that, but because the nip of his teeth against her shoulder blade when he lifted his head was too sharp to be human.

Despite the blaring of her Spidey sense, she knew there was no threat of death here, not while she was in Spike's care. Buffy started to push back against every one of Spike's thrusts, began to give as good as she was getting. As if they were equals. They weren't, they would never be. Not even in bed, when they should have just been two bodies. Even if her instincts weren't reminding her with every breath who she was with, she could never forget. Not with the cool feel of his skin against her, feeling like it was getting colder the warmer she got. And not with the superhuman grasp he kept her in place with, with an ease none of her human partners had ever been able to accomplish.

And yet…

His name started to fall from her lips on every exhale, every jarring thrust, the feel of him filling her up somehow exceeding the constraints of her skin. ("Spike, Spike, Spike, Spike.") She could feel him, in her chest, in her mind, taking up the space that was reserved from the people she actually loved. Not the people that she… had frequent hate-sex with. A group with exactly one member.

Spike was echoing her, little "Buffy"s and "pets"s and "luv"s and "sweet"s breathed against the liquid length of her spine. If she didn't know better, they would have sounded like prayers, like pleas, the grip of his fingers around her hip getting tighter and tighter the faster he moved, the more desperate he became, chasing his pleasure. And the more desperate he became to finish, the more desperate he seemed to be for her to finish,
the pulse of the finger against her clit the like a vibrator being turned up, pressing more and more quickly and more firmly, pushing her at higher and higher speeds to the edge. Despite the hours Spike had already spent between her legs, she was already trembling and hungry for release again, knowing that this would be the last and most intense of the night.

Buffy groaned and sank down to her elbows, but it was Spike's hold on her hip that kept her up on her knees. It didn't stop him from pressing kisses up her spine, between her shoulder blades, small little brushes of his lips that made Buffy shiver. She wished her reaction was because Spike was still in vampire face - she could feel the touch of his pronounced brow every time he bent down, and the lightest scratch of razor-sharp teeth - but she knew well by now that that was always her reaction to what Spike did to her. He might have been an incompetent bad guy, and vampire, and just about everything else, but Buffy, unfortunately, couldn't even say he'd been a bad lover. He was good at what he did to her. Maybe too good.

The hand at her hip dropped away, but she didn't fall down, her body caught pushing back into Spike's thrusts like the pull of the tide. A split second later, the hand that had been at her hip was threading through her hair, a tight grip at her crown carefully angling her head away from her shoulder, baring her neck to the danger of Spike's fangs. But she knew he wouldn't bite unless she let him. No, all he did was press kisses to unmarked skin of her neck and shoulder, kisses with lips and kisses with his teeth, little presses of his fangs, like he couldn't help but set them to her skin, even if he wasn't going to bite down.

For some reason, all three vampires that had tasted her blood before Spike had always bitten the same side of her neck as each other. The Master had been the first to embed his mark into her skin, and then it had been Angel, and then Dracula. Spike though, he had never touched that side of her neck, not if he couldn't help it. He didn't touch the scars with his fingers or with his mouth, either to kiss them or to overlay them with his own mark. No, Spike was only ever interested in the unscarred side of Buffy's neck. Sometimes the thought she understood why, that possessiveness of knowing that someone belonged to you, that you had left your mark on them in a way that couldn't be confused by someone else's.

The words were out of her mouth before she'd even registered that she was going to say them.

"Bite me."

The steady slapping rhythm of Spike's hips against her rear end stuttered, the hand in her hair and the one between her legs spasming, making her jerk at the bolt of lightning it sent zinging up her spine. But it was only a split second of surprise, of hesitation, and then she felt the pinch of fangs at her neck.

She'd assumed that, after having Spike bite the inside of her thigh twice, that him biting her neck would be as far from intimate as it had been the last three times she'd had a vamp at her neck. She was wrong. He was as gentle and careful with her carotid artery as he was at with her femoral. The razor-sharp instruments of death pierced her flesh with a flare of pain that washed away a moment later as he took a deep drink with a low groan and delicious heat spread from his mouth. Apparently that pain and heat were all it took for her to come undone, for the numbness at Spike's fingertips to spread through her limbs like a heat wave.

Breath shuddered out her throat and she could feel the way her body spasmed around where he was still pounding into her. The jaws at her neck tightened and he slammed into her, hard enough that it felt like she would bruise from it, and stopped. He didn't move but his hips flexed as he came inside her, seed that could never again serve its purpose filling a uterus that would never serve its purpose. An unstoppable force meets an immovable object. Or something like that.

Behind her, Spike's teeth carefully pulled from her neck and she heard the bones in his face shifting back to their human shape before his tongue laved up her neck, cleaning the blood from her skin. She wondered how noticeable the scar would be, if there would even be one. The bite he'd given her on the inside of her thigh had scarred, but she was half-certain it was because he'd wanted it to. Would he want the one on her neck to scar? How would she explain it to her friends if he did? It was a clean bite, nothing like the ravaged scars of the Master, Angel, and Dracula. God, what had she done? What had she let him do? What had she told him to do?

"Buffy…" Spike whispered against her neck, pressing a kiss to the spot of soreness leftover from his bite.

"Don't-" Buffy started and choked on her words for a moment, on the weight of what she'd done. "Don't say anything."

She heard the click of his jaw snapping shut, could feel the tension gathering in the limbs around her, could practically hear that muscle in his jaw ticking. But he didn't speak. Normally, she knew he would would get pissed at her and either start a fight or leave, but right now, he was still hers and would do anything she said. Well, he was always hers, but this was the only time he'd listen without a fuss. Slowly, he started to pull away from her, but she couldn't suddenly couldn't handle it - another guy leaving right after sex, even if it was a guy she didn't like and shouldn't be having sex with anyway.

Buffy's hand snapped under her body to grasp Spike's wrist, to keep his hand where it was, his fingers against her clit. It put extra pressure on the sensitive nub and she curled in on herself for a minute at the overstimulation like white noise across her skin, Spike sucking in a harsh breath behind her when she did, hips jerking forward again as she clenched tight around where he was still half-hard.

"Lay down and go to sleep," she managed to get out, her voice scratching through her dry throat.

There was another pause, and then the arm around her waist tightened, pulling her down when Spike tipped onto his side. She settled into his body, his fingers still on her clit, his length still inside her, keeping them connected. There was shifting behind her, out of sight, but he made no move to pull away, to pull out. Buffy concentrated on evening her breathing, trying to fall asleep, trying to leave her mind empty, trying not to think about why she didn't want him to pull out, why she'd told him to bite her, why she was even still here or why she kept coming back to him.

As Spike's breathing got slower and slower, Buffy tried to keep her mind clear from everything except for the reminder that Spike wasn't human. That he was nothing more than a neutered monster without a soul, and he didn't know how to love. He never could. Nothing he felt for her was real, only a delusion he was forcing upon himself and upon her. But right before Spike stopped breathing entirely, he pressed a tender kiss to the back of Buffy's head, arm tightening and pulling Buffy even closer to the hard wall of his chest before it fell still.

The gesture was so soft and sweet and unexpected that it made Buffy's heart skip a beat and wiped all the arguments she'd been making with herself as to why she shouldn't ever do this again from her mind. By the time she was finally able to regather her fragmented thoughts again, Spike had been corpse-still and silent for some time, though the bar of his arm around her waist hadn't budged. In the silence of Spike's room, Buffy tried to remind herself why she hated Spike, and why she could never sleep with him again, but with the memory of that kiss fresh in her mind, her arguments all fell… a little flat.

FIN