Author: Kendra A. (kendraangelusslayer@yahoo.com)

Pairing: Willow/Spike

Rating: NC-17. Definitely.

Disclaimer: Willow, Spike, Buffy and Tara belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, UPN, Mutant Enemy, and all those other folks. Needless to say, they’re not mine; please don’t sue.

Feedback: Feedback for me is like chocolate for Buffy—I sure as Hell don’t deserve it, but I LOVE LOVE LOVE it.

Author’s Notes: I started this on a whim in early May of 2001 and I’ve only gotten this far, seeing as I have bigger priorities (for those, read my postings of “Morning” and you’ll see what I mean—THAT is a big fic). I don’t think this is really going anywhere, but I just wanted to get some feedback from y’all and try my hand at writing smut. 

The drive to LA was silent. Willow drove, as she did not want Spike to kill her with his reckless driving, although she doubted he would want one of Buffy’s gang to die. True, he’d told them so many times how they were at the top of his to-kill list, but she could see in his eyes that he had changed his mind. His love for Buffy had changed him, made him closer, perhaps, to humanity.

She remembered the barely-unshed tears in his eyes when she’d made the sad trip to his crypt to tell him of Joyce Summers’ death; really, she knew that he must have cried when she had left him alone. But she had never imagined seeing him so heartbroken as when he’d collapsed to the ground before Buffy’s dead body. They’d all cried, but his tears, more than anyone else’s, made her ache somewhere deep inside.

She was going to miss Buffy so much.

“I need you, Will. You're my big gun.”

“I'm your…? No, I-I was never a gun. Someone else should be the gun. I, I could be a… a cudgel. Or, or a pointy stick.”

“You're the strongest person here. You know that, right?”

“Well ... no.”

“Will, you're the only person that's ever hurt Glory. At all. You're my best shot at getting her on the ropes, so don't get a jelly belly on me now.”

Buffy, while she had had her faults, had been Willow’s best friend in the world. The countless nights they’d stayed up in their dorm room, trading secrets and laughing and painting their toenails for no reason at two o’clock in the morning. 

Willow remembered the time they’d talked about sex. For real, what it felt like. They’d promised each other that the conversation would be serious, and for once, it was. That had been the time Willow had asked Buffy what, exactly, Angel had meant by his, “Well, actually…” concerning her—and her doppelganger’s—sexuality.

Buffy had not shied away from the question. “I think he mean that somewhere, deep inside maybe, you’re bi. Or gay, or something. I think that when we become vampires, we maintain our personalities and our memories and what makes us us.” She’d glanced up at Willow then, from the floor where she was painting her toenails a strange shade of pastel blue. “What do you think, Wills? Are you gay?”

Willow, who was sitting on Buffy’s bed, picked up Mr. Gordo and worried one of his disturbingly pink ears between her index finger and thumb. “I don’t know, Buffy,” she’d replied honestly. 

Buffy grinned, sensing her nervousness. “Okay, Wills, if you had to choose one gal to screw, who would it be? Would it be me?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

Willow returned the smile, tossing Mr. Gordo at Buffy but missing purposefully so as not to mess her friend’s nailpolish up. “Nah, Buffster. I go for natural blondes.” 

Willow adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, blinking back tears as she relived her memories of Buffy. Her best, best friend, who was dead, and Willow had never told her that she was sorry. Sorry for being so cold, sorry for letting Tara near Dawn—she should have realized. Sorry for not figuring out a spell sooner, sorry for everything.

Spike, who sat behind her, studied the redhead’s heartbroken reflection in the rearview mirror above her head, knowing he was safe from the same scrutiny. 

She and Buffy had seemed so distant to each other lately. Spike wondered if perhaps Willow worried that Buffy blamed Tara, and essentially Willow, for Glory’s capture of Dawn, and if Buffy worried that Willow blamed her for Glory’s wrecking of Tara. It was quite possible that they’d be caught up in their little paradox for a while, and he’d assumed that once they’d finished Glory off, all would be forgiven.

But Willow and Buffy had never had time alone to talk, and Spike intuitively guessed that Willow was beating herself up for it. “Don’t, pet,” he said quietly, just enough for her to hear him.

Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Don’t what?”

“You’re beatin’ yourself up inside, aren’t you?”

“I-I-I really don’t w-wanna talk about this right now, Spike. I might run us off the road.”

“So pull over. You’ve got to have a peace of mind when you talk to the Pouf. Otherwise you won’t be able to tell him and I’ll have to, and he might stake me before I’m able.”

“Uh, okay,” Willow replied softly. “How long will this take?”

“I don’t know, luv,” came the almost-purred answer. “How wrecked are you?”

“There’s a motel the next exit,” Willow explained. “So, uh, if you wanna stop there—"

“’S fine,” Spike said. “Right lane, then.”

The next five minutes were spent in silence, except for the insistent tapping of the rain on the little car’s roof and windows. The motel was small and cheap, and run by a white-haired middle-aged sleepy-looking man who yawned their room number to them and slid the keys across the counter.

Spike let Willow putter around for a bit, making coffee in the new and shiny machine on the dressing-table on the wall across from the bed, before he made her stop. “You’ve got your coffee, Red. Now sit down and tell me about it.” He patted the bed next to him.

She sat down cautiously. “Why are you being so nice, Spike?”

“’Cuz the Slayer would’ve kicked my arse if I wasn’t,” he replied with a vague smile. Tears sparkled at the corners of his eyes.

“I guess you kind of know how it feels,” Willow said, stirring her coffee with a spoon. “You loved her too.”

Spike’s eyebrows raised ever-so-slightly. “’You loved her too’? Is there something more to this?”

“I wasn’t in love with her,” Willow clarified, not bothering to get impatient. “But I loved her. You’ve been a vampire for so long, Spike, I don’t know if you can remember what it’s like to have a friend.”

He frowned. “Hey, I was with Dru for a century—"

“I know,” Willow interrupted. “But she was your lover, not your friend. And a difficult one to be with, too.”

“Well, we both know what it’s like to date loonies,” Spike lashed back.

Willow sighed. “I wasn’t trying to be mean, Spike,” she said sadly. “But it’s hard to continue loving someone when they hardly even know your name anymore.”

“Dru always knew my name,” Spike muttered.

“I know, Spike,” Willow said patiently. “But didn’t you sometimes find that you had to remind yourself to love her? That she was so beautiful, and sometimes she looked at you and knew who you were—like really did—and perhaps the next day she’d wake up a little saner and you’d hope it was for real—" With barely a warning, Willow began to cry.

Spike gently took her coffee cup and placed it on the bedside table. Then, recalling hastily from the time he’d comforted Buffy, he lightly placed his arm on her back and rubbed his hand in smooth circles. “I tried so hard to love Tara, Spike,” she sobbed hopelessly. “She would hit me or throw things, but it wasn’t her! Sometimes she’d look at me and say my name and I would see her eyes and know that if I could just find her the way out…”

There was a box of napkins on the bedside table. Spike held it under her bowed head, and she giggled in the middle of a sob and pulled a tissue out to blow her nose loudly.

Spike couldn’t stop watching her. Her short hair kept getting in the way of her face, so he pushed it behind her ear. Willow was so sad, and he suddenly remembered exactly how she felt.

He’d felt the same way in Brazil, with Dru.

Suddenly her ravings hadn’t seemed so sweet, her lack of understanding so endearing. She’d wanted so many things—girls, dresses, dresses with girls in them, jewels, men with jewels on their fingers. She’d even wanted a computer, which she’d destroyed immediately by punching the brain of the thing itself in and claiming it made her feel hot inside.

But she hadn’t asked for Angel or Angelus once they’d left California, and it was that which kept him going. The reminder that for once, she wanted him, and he loved her. He had to love her, because he always had.

“I know how you feel, Willow,” he said softly, and she looked up abruptly.

“You said my name,” she murmured.

“Do what?” he asked blankly.

“You’ve called me ducks, red, luv, pet, witch, and even Will once or twice,” Willow continued, amazed. “But you’ve never called me Willow.”

Spike shrugged, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Slip of the tongue, I guess.”

She looked at him, her eyes blazing, for one long moment. “Yeah,” she said finally. She turned to pick up her coffee again and the moment had been lost.

The rain continued to patter down on the roof of the motel.

***

When Spike woke up the next morning, the blinds had been pulled and the curtains drawn over them, and the bed next to him was cool and empty, the sheets over it rumpled. When he cocked his ears he could hear the shower going in the bathroom, and soon Willow stepped out, wrapped in only a towel. She bent to her overnight bag, which she’d dropped on the floor next to the bed, and looked up to find Spike staring straight at her.

“Oh! Uh, hi, Spike,” she stammered, immediately looking back down and pulling the towel up over her cleavage as she rummaged for some clothes. “I didn’t know you were awake, otherwise I’d’ve—"

“It’s fine, pet,” he said calmly, enjoying watching her blush. “Go ahead, change, I don’t mind…”

She snorted. “Yeah, right. I’ll be right out of the bathroom, if you wanna use it.” She got up, clothes tucked under her arm, and turned for the bathroom.

A trillion thoughts whizzed through Spike’s brain.

He knew he loved Buffy, but right now he was lonely. Willow was lonely too, like she’d practically slapped him over the head with last night, and she knew she didn’t love Tara anymore.

Here he was, half-naked in a motel room where nobody could find him, in the presence of an extremely lovely, extremely naked woman.

It didn’t take him very long to make his decision.

Before Willow could reach the bathroom, Spike’s hand was on her shoulder. “Wanna come back to bed, luv?”

Her breath caught. “W-what? Spike, what are you doing?”

He kissed the curve of her neck. “Don’t you want to make the pain go away?” he asked. His arm traveled around her body to her breasts, where the towel was folded over and her tightly clenched hand kept it closed. “I know that I can help you, just for a little while.”

Willow could feel her heart speeding up, and she struggled to breathe normally, to think rationally. “Sp-spike, we can’t…”

“Why not?” he asked casually, letting his tongue flick out and lick away apple-scented drops of water that dripped from her wet hair.

“T-Tara,” she whispered, refusing to let her legs buckle. “And Buffy.”

Spike sighed against her skin, making her shiver. “You don’t love Tara anymore,” he told her quietly. And he was truly sad when he reminded her, “And Buffy’s dead.”

“I don’t think we should,” she continued, closing her eyes.

“Just for a little while?” Spike almost-begged, placing his hand over hers and moving her unresisting thumb away from the fold of her towel.

Willow lifted her other arm and loosened her towel until it fell to a sad, damp pile at her feet. “Just for a little while,” she agreed breathlessly. She turned around, pressing her body to his, and let him kiss her.

His lips were smooth and cool, and he seemed to steal the air from her lungs every time his lips met hers even for a second. One hand tangled in her short, still dripping-wet hair, and the other hand seemed content to rest on her hips, just above the curve of her behind.

Her own hands were far from idle as she slid them down his thighs, hooking his boxers with them. “Off. Now,” she murmured against his greedy lips, and he gripped her shoulder as he lowered his hand from her hair to pull his boxers down.

Somehow, they managed to land on the bed, and Willow opened her eyes. Spike had not opened his, and he was kissing her all over her face, nuzzling her chin every once in a while. He peppered her cheeks with kisses almost desperately, every once in a while returning to her mouth until her lips were swollen and it was almost impossible for her to breathe.

Willow was so overwhelmed with him she could barely respond beyond gripping his biceps tightly with her fingers and trying to make him really kiss her. Finally she regained enough sense to grab the back of his head with one hand and guide him back to her lips. He calmed down just a little, enough to stop his frenzied teasing and to explore her mouth. His tongue darted out to sweep along the inside of her upper lip and then across her bottom row of teeth.

Slowly, hesitantly, Willow shifted on the bed and spread her legs for him, praying he wouldn’t suddenly be struck with some sense of nobility and change his mind. She almost had a heart attack when he stopped kissing her and leaned her forehead against hers, breathing hard. “You sure, pet?” he asked, and kissed her nose.

She smiled. “Of course.”

The grin on his face was infectious. He kissed her again, and moved so his knee was in between her legs. One hand moved from where it was pressed into the pillow next to her ear to the juncture between her thighs. She gasped sharply when he drew his thumb along her slick lips, testing her. His hand moved up again, and he never stopped kissing her as he spread her legs with his knee and slowly entered her.

It hurt.

Willow gasped a little and he stopped, worried. “Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s just…”

“Been awhile?” he asked, the corners of his mouth curving up.

She giggled slightly. “Yeah.”

They lay there for a little while as she adjusted to the feel of him, and then she arched up and kissed him lightly on the mouth. 

“You okay?” Spike’s voice was husky.

“Mmm-hmm,” she hummed against his lips, and he pressed his lips to hers almost harshly has he began to move within her.

His frenzied kissing began again, but Willow was too caught up in the feelings he was causing to care much. He was nuzzling her nose, her cheeks, her chin, her neck and kissing her tightly closed eyelids and attacking her mouth, and she was able to respond in kind.

She arched her hips up to meet his and caught his rhythm, gasping along with their thrusts. He found her mouth again and slid his lips to hers, nibbling a little on her bottom lip as they moved. He was saying something, and it took her awhile to realize it enough to listen.

“Are you almost there, baby?” She nodded and dug the tips of her fingers into the tightly corded muscles in his biceps, breathing hard.

“Almost… ah…”

And then suddenly, she snapped. She came with a gasp, the euphoric feelings of pleasure overriding her usual screaming tendencies.

Spike thrust a few more times and slid into his game face, breathing hard. Knowing he hadn’t come and pretty sure why, Willow clutched the back of his head and pushed him forward until his lips were just above her neck. “It’s okay, Spike,” she whispered. “I want you to.”

He did not ask her if she was sure. He licked her neck and then he slid his fangs into her, and the taste of her sweet blood threw him over the edge. 

To her surprise, the bite was far more pleasurable than painful and pushed Willow into another orgasm. She bucked up to meet his last thrust and then fell back to the sweat-soaked mattress, pressing Spike’s face to her neck.

It took a while for them both to calm down. Willow felt like she’d just sprinted ten miles and could not breathe, and Spike was caught up in a demon/human battle of wills to not drain Willow.

Her blood had a vintage tang. There was something about it that called to him more than anything else ever had, and it was hard to pull away. The thing that decided him at last was the aching in his head which meant he was beginning to hurt her, and for some reason the thought of that was suddenly repulsive to him. He lay on top of her for a while, bracing most of his weight on his forearms, licking at the slowly bleeding wounds on her neck as she sighed contentedly.

Spike slowly lowered himself to the bed next to her, keeping one arm firmly tucked around her waist, still kissing the bites on her neck. <Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine…>

Willow sighed contentedly and turned to face him, sliding her hand along his arm and pulling herself closer to him. He wrapped both arms around her and crushed her to his chest. She smiled and kissed him right below his collarbone.

“It’s daylight,” she speculated tentatively. “I guess we’re just stuck here all day then, aren’t we?”

He glanced down at her, caught her unsure gaze and smiled comfortingly. “Yeah,” he agreed quickly. “I s’pose we are. Whatever shall we do?”

TBC? Tell me what you think and we’ll see. : )