Drusilla had a secret.

When she was human, just shy of her eighteenth birthday, she'd lain down with a man. Not willingly, no, not the good Catholic girl she'd been then. She'd been ever so sinful, ever so trusting, since the man she'd lain with had been her mummy's older brother. Shortly after, on the day of her eighteenth birthday, her mother found out.

That was when the visions began. At first, it was only little things. Her father's missing wallet, her mother's favourite shawl, her sister's cherished porcelain doll... Drusilla could find them in the blink of an eye. But later on... dreams of fires, bright and blazing, consuming the local pub turned out to be true. She saw it sometimes weeks, days, hours, mere minutes before it happened.

At the age of twenty-one, when she predicted the vampire attack on the mayor three towns over, her parents called in the pastor to perform the exorcism (not that she knew what vampires were -- she'd only known what she'd seen, and what she'd seen had been demonic.) Father Lowell had brandished a large crucifix, made of two steel bars welded together. He had heated it, then burned it into her back.

Her agonized screams, and her parents frightened faces still haunted her to this day. Even now, as a vampire, the scar remained, like a morbid tattoo; the large cross was fixed right between her shoulder blades. It wasn't lethal to her - she'd had it before she'd been reborn, so how could it be? - but Angelus and Spike had made certain never to place their hands on her back. Ever.

That was a bit daunting, as she continuously had backaches while she'd been ill.

Obviously, the exorcism hadn't worked. Just a year later, she'd had another vision - the penultimate one - a crash. And later, the news had spread - there had been a cave in and one of the mines had collapsed. Two men had died. Mummy and Daddy had fought. Daddy was worried for her, terrified that his little girl was being possessed. But Mummy remembered the incident with her brother, and Mummy knew that Drusilla had been traumatized. Mummy wanted Dru sent to an institution. Daddy thought Dru would be better off going to the more conventional pastor that had taken Father Lowell's place, and confessing her sins.

Daddy was wrong.

The night she'd gone to confess had been the night that she had unwittingly met Angelus, and thus sealed her fate. Perhaps if Daddy had listened to Mummy, her meeting with Angelus never would have come about, and she never would have been doomed to an afterlife of utter lunacy.

But that was neither here nor there.

She did love her darling William - she did. His demon was begot of hers, how couldn't she love him? But he was better off without her. She didn't possess the facilities to care for him the way he deserved to be cared for. She was strong again - she could take care of herself now. William knew that. But William still didn't understand her fixation on Angelus, and she couldn't help that, couldn't make him understand. In the long run, she and Spike didn't belong together, and she'd tried to tell him that as best she could.

As he was still, in some ways, her sweet, darling, wicked Spike, she offered him a minor consolation -- healed him, slowly, little by little with the right herbs and the right spells. His blossoming interest in the little Slayer was rather... weird, to say the least. But that was a case of the pot calling the kettle black, because just as Drusilla could not help her dark attraction to her Sire, Spike couldn't help his interest in the tiny Slayer.

And so now, Spike could walk again. Was likely plotting with the Slayer and her group against them. More than likely still thought of Drusilla as his, and was even more likely planning her miserable death for abandoning him for Angelus. And it made her dead heart ache.

But it was better this way.

She couldn't help the way she'd been created.

So Drusilla had a rather large secret on her thin, diminutive shoulders. She had to keep Angelus from finding out about Spike, at least not until the proper time called for it. Unless Spike blew it, which was what he was usually prone to do, being so forward and ambitious and all. But the pretty, vicious Slayer would keep him in line. Things would end just the way they were supposed to, whether Spike liked it or not.

After all, Drusilla was psychic. She, if anybody, would know.

Buffy was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. Since it was such an uncharacteristic change from her usual quips and witticisms, Willow was reasonably nervous. Oz was doing his best to relax her, but the analogy his brain was making wasn't helping things along much -- a quiet Buffy was like a hyper-active Oz. Such things did not occur in the normal universe.

Giles, of course, was worried as hell, but was trying to chalk it up to Buffy missing Angel. Xander thought so as well, and he was in a foul mood because of it, which in turn put Cordelia in a bad mood.

Little did they know.

Any lingering feelings that Buffy might have had for Angel had disappeared altogether. Poof. Gone.

All that was left inside her was Spike.

All that was left was a man who hated her, who wanted her dead, but still got irrationally jealous, or irrationally psychotic, or just plain irrational altogether whenever a man who was NOT him was involved with her (mostly Angel).

All that was left was a man that had come on to her, and hadn't killed her at her most vulnerable, who had gotten her drunk (or had tried to get her drunk, anyway), and was sorry about Jenny's murder. A man who hated Angel, who was in love with a woman who had betrayed him, who had kissed Buffy in the grass, and armed himself literally to the teeth with hurtful retaliation barbs when her words lacerated him. This man who had followed her into a deserted hallway and had proceeded to go down on her, like it was the one and only thing that he had ever wanted in his life. This man... who still wasn't back yet, who was possibly the only man on earth that could decipher Drusilla's psychotic rambles, and whom Giles was currently cursing to within an inch of his unlife for not being there when it was imperative to find out some information about a big fucking rock.

She really hated that stupid rock.

Good God. Spike had gone down on her. Spike! Had gone down on her! He had actually been on his knees with his face buried between her legs, licking, sucking, sliding his unnaturally long tongue inside of her and holy shit it wasn't even decent for a demon to have a tongue that sinful...

Buffy suddenly whimpered, allowing her head to drop and bang down on the table. And then she whimpered again, this time for good measure, and also for the owwie that had resulted in her being stupid enough to let her head hit the table in the first place.

"Buffy!" Giles barked in alarm. He rushed over to her, placing a hand on her back as he bent down to her level. "Are you all right?" he asked worriedly, looking at her with warm, caring, "tell your father everything" eyes. Although she could detect a faint hint of panic and "what do I do, what do I do?!" there as well.

She stared up at him, smiling weakly. "I'm fine, Giles, really." Yeah. Like what was she actually going to tell him?

"Giles, Spike just went down on me in the hallway earlier, and I think I want to fuck his brains out later. You know. Just to see where things lead."

Oh, that would go over REAL well.

"Are you certain? I could make you a cup of tea, chamomile is your favourite, correct? Do you need sleep? I could take you home if you'd like, we don't have to continue anything tonight, not if you're ill, dear."

His eyebrows narrowed fretfully, and it was in that moment that Buffy realized how much this man cared for her - like she was his own flesh and blood.

The thought made a genuine smile appear on her face. She hadn't heard a peep out of her father since she'd last seen him at the end of her Los Angeles summer; the thought of Giles-playing-Dad was too sweet to not allow. "Absapos-o-tively," she replied. "Nothing wrong in Buffyland. No worries."

Giles sighed in obvious relief at her perky response, but stood up with his head slightly tilted. "You're sure?"

Buffy nodded, making 'shoo' gestures. "Yes, Giles, now go back to cursing Spike with weird British words that I don't wanna know the meaning of, and solve the mystery of that stupid rock."

He rolled his eyes, but walked away from her smiling.

Buffy grinned at his back, then sighed and waited until everyone (who had jumped when she'd hit her head) had looked away. She twisted left and right, stretching her back and then crossed her arms over the table, laying her head down over them.

She felt a little better now, sure. But she wouldn't feel completely better until Spike was back.

And hopefully, he'd be back soon.

He was breathing.

He shouldn't need to breathe. It was unnecessary. He was undead, and it was pointless.

But there was something about her that made him want to defy conventions.

Buffy.

He groaned softly, closing his eyes.

How could he have never felt this way before? With anyone? Not that he'd had much experience with human women since he'd been turned. Drusilla had been his one and only for so long that it was almost a slap in his face to consider that she wasn't anymore.

That Buffy might be.

It terrified him.

It terrified him.

He, who could laugh in the faces of thousands of people with dead bodies strewn at his feet and blood smeared over his face; he, who had committed a bloodbath worthy of the centuries and guaranteed to mark his name in this history books for ages to come, simply to protect the one he had loved; he, who had escaped with barely a scratch on him from a mob in Yorkshire, who had stood up to Angelus before the lunatic had been driven crazier by a soul and the love of a pretty girl --

No. Not pretty. Not a girl, either. She was a woman. A beautiful, amazing, spectacular woman. And he had no idea how she'd done it, but she'd brought him under her spell.

He was hers. In every way that the souled poof might have wished he was.

And it scared him to death.

"Gah!'

Luckily for him, he didn't scare that easily.

A lazy smile appeared on his face. And what was he afraid of exactly? Being the Slayer's footman/lapdog/lust slave?

Pffft. If the Royal Ponce could do it while he was souled up, then Spike could do it, too -- without that prancy little soul. He didn't need a soul. He'd never needed one.

He'd always held himself in the highest regard because of his capacity to love. Other vampires loved, also -- but their love often turned sour and was worth little more than cow's blood when it came to survival. Spike put love above everything else. He had before he'd been turned, he had while he'd been with Drusilla, and he did now, with -- with...

God Almighty. Wait.

Love.

Love?! With... with The Slayer?

No.

No. Never love. Just lust. He didn't think he could handle the pressures of being in love again. Not after... not after what she had done to him.

He didn't truly care that Drusilla had read his mind. When he asked her to keep her mouth shut, she would. And all the more, she could use the situation to her advantage. Since Dru didn't want him anymore... since she wanted... Angelus... now, the information that she had gleaned from him would help her make certain to keep Angelus out of their way.

At least until the right time.

And until that right time, he would bide his time.

But he needed to curb his infatuation with bouncy blonde shampoo commercial hair, and bright, sparkly green eyes that he could swear brought his heartbeat back, and, and...

He could keep his mind away from Buffy. He could. And would.

He tucked himself back in to his jeans and zipped them back up again, untucking his shirt and letting it hang over any... marring evidence of what he'd been doing. Then he turned and walked down the hallway to the library, a pair of green eyes dancing around in his mind.

He should really get back before Buffy worried.

He had decided by now that it was only a matter of time before Angelus took his chance and made for the rock. At least now, though, because of Spike, they had a heads up that the obelisk was involved in Angelus’s intended catastrophe.

Now if they could just figure out how to prevent it.

Good Lord. He certainly hadn’t expected anything like this only a year after The Master. The main thing he’d been concerned with had been just getting Buffy back to normal after the trauma of her death. He hadn’t counted on the growing relationship between Buffy and Angel, he hadn’t expected to feel so much hatred for that bastard when he had killed Giles' beautiful Jenny, he had never anticipated that the bastard in question would attempt the end of the world, nor that his very own Childe would betray him.

And that was the shocking part. Spike had completely rallied against his own family. He had betrayed his blood Sire in order to get revenge on his former lover, and instead of going to another, more powerful evil to take them out, he had gone to the White Hat's side for assistance, despite knowing how certain people in the group must’ve felt about him.

Giles couldn’t understand the blonde vampire. Spike’s girlfriend had betrayed him with the Sire that she hadn’t seen in less than a century, and ignored Spike, who in turn had spent the last century taking care of her and who had been confined to a wheelchair and had essentially worshipped the psycho.

Worshipped. Spike had worshipped Drusilla. He had… he had loved the dark woman, actually; deeply, mentally and physically loved her, and she had betrayed him through her own insanity and obsession with the man that had molded her into what she was today. So what was Spike to do? How could he ever compete with that? Obviously, the most dominant thought in his mind had to be revenge.

But it was only one of the thoughts in his mind at the moment.

Giles had seen the way that Spike had looked at the Slayer. On one hand, he was fuming – there was no way that he would allow yet another vampire to involve himself with this remarkable girl that Giles privately called “daughter,” no matter what the circumstances. But on the other hand, he was inexplicably pleased. Because not only did it mean that Buffy was moving on from Angel – but it meant that she might be moving on with the person Angel and Angelus disliked most.

And at that thought, his shoulders slumped. Because he remembered seeing how the Slayer herself had stared at Spike. And he knew very well that it would be Buffy’s decision to make. If he interfered in any way, Buffy would do the opposite of what he wanted, no matter what she wanted, just to spite him.

So what could he do but simply… back off?

Well, bugger.

He took a deep breath and reread the letter he had received from the curator of the Sunnydale Museum of Natural History. It seemed that a large stone obelisk -- the one Drusilla had Seen, and the one they were hunting for -- had been found beneath a housing development, and was awaiting study. The curator had contacted Giles after hearing that the Briton was a known historian in Sunnydale, following his stint as the curator of the British museum. The Sunnydale curator, a Doctor Doug Perren, had sent the letter in the hopes that it would entice Giles into helping to identify what exactly the stone was.

This was their chance.

And more than anything, if it saved lives -- if it saved Buffy's life in particular, and gave her the chance to develop this... thing... with Spike... to be happy for a change...

Giles would just have to take a chance as well.

No matter what the cost.

Buffy was Action Girl. She took great pride in this, because it was generally her habit of taking the initiative and running off half-cocked that tended to save the day from something or another.

Unfortunately, this tendency also happened to get her shit-deep into trouble, on several occasions. This was why she had Willow.

Willow was Buffy's logic. If the Slayer was debating something with the group, and her eagerness to fight was displaying itself before them, Willow was the one who tapped Buffy on the shoulder, gave her a Resolve face, and told Buffy to sit her ass down and listen to reason before she went off and got herself killed. Not that Buffy always listened, but it was handy to have someone willing to be the voice of reason hovering over you sometimes.

But this was precisely why Buffy couldn't talk to Willow at the 'mo. Divulging the fact that she was having some very lusty feelings, and some very more than lusty feelings for the sexy blue-eyed vampire that was developing the bad habit of following her around would only help in making Willow panic.

And that was something that Buffy really didn't need right now.

Who else could she talk to? Xander?...

Bwahahaha! No.

Cordelia? Pfft. Same as above, with a "tactless bitch" tacked on to the end of it.

Oz... Hmm. Well, Oz didn't really talk all that much. When he did talk, it was usually to contribute some sort of information to keep Giles's head from exploding, or to calm Willow down in the midst of a panic attack. Otherwise, he usually just blinked a lot. So if that helped any, given the amount of 'blinking' that Oz did toward Spike when the latter was in the room, it was safe to assume that the werewolf liked the vampire.

So she had that in her favor, at least.

But Giles? Out of the fucking question.

She was fighting a losing battle. And yet, she still kept fighting.

What was Spike to her? She would off herself in disgust if she ever thought that she could use someone for revenge. But she certainly wasn't using Spike for revenge -- well, not anymore, anyway.

But she knew that, deep down, despite the cruelty that she blasted into his face, that he did mean something to her. She liked him. And he was important to her. That was all that mattered right now.

There was just no time to sit down and suss out why he meant so much to her --that would take a few weeks, and they barely had days left before Angelus finally made his move. Maybe, when this was all over, she'd take some quiet time and do a little thinking on HOW important he was to her, but she was racing the clock, and she just couldn't come to terms with everything right this very second.

In fact, there was limited amounts of time for even thinking right now.

Zero hour was coming closer and faster than ever before now. She wasn't completely ignoring Giles, but she could hear him muttering about how they may have gotten a lead of some sort at the Sunnydale Museum, and how he would be checking it out tonight.

And then, all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She sat up, turned around in her seat, and stared at the door. The others, noticing this, stopped what they were doing, and copied her, mostly in confusion.

A beat passed.

Then, just as the others turned back to their work, Spike pushed through the library doors.

And Buffy's heart leapt into her throat. She drew a deep breath, and turned back around to the table, focusing on the large tome in front of her, but not before she'd gotten a good look at him.

His chest had been rising and falling, telling her that he'd been, oddly enough, breathing. And his shirt had been curiously untucked.

Actually, she was going to stay away from that one.

Damn, but he looked hot, though.

Buffy mentally groaned. God, she was just supposed to be getting over Angel, so she could fight and kill Angelus. And now she had the hots for Spike, in a major, major way.

Ugh, what the hell was it with her and vampires?! She was supposed to be killing them. KILL-ING THEM. Period. She was not supposed to fuck, then kill the one, and she was most definitely not supposed to dream of fucking... and fucking... and fucking the other one.

She wasn't sure if the reactions of her base instincts when she thought of Spike were a good thing or not.

And she wasn't exactly sure where her subconscious thoughts stood at the 'mo, but she was pretty sure that they were somewhere along the lines of "DON'T KILL SPIKE!"

Hmph. Just because she didn't follow orders -- often -- it didn't mean that she couldn't. And, quite honestly, she could happily comply with this order, even if she wasn't quite sure about how she felt towards him.

Shit.

How she felt about Spike? No earthly clue. He was certainly more than she had expected. That he could feel all the roiling emotions -- anger, jealousy, sympathy, and even love -- that could make a person ... human ... It was so surreal. It was stuff that television shows were made of. Or, more realistically, life on the Hellmouth.

Buffy had no delusions about this... relationship. It certainly wasn't love she felt toward Spike -- and she knew better than to think it was love on his part as well. Also, Buffy was fairly certain that she would be giving in to him soon -- Spike would fuck her eventually, he had made his physical attraction to her all too clear. She herself had given him the green-light-go the minute he'd gone to his knees before her.

Most of all, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that there would be no resistance when it did eventually come down to sex between them. And she would certainly welcome it.

But as far as feelings of the non-lusty variety? Love? Not love? Intense physical and mental connections? Wasn't that two of the main bases for love right there?

Not love. Not yet. She couldn't say not ever, because it was starting to look pretty likely. But most certainly not yet.

No.

Her mind formed the notion that, at present, all she and Spike were to each other was comfort. Spike could numb her body with pleasure, chase away the dark thoughts plaguing her, and most importantly, he could teach her. It was the late nineties, and she knew the things to do; she just needed the "hows" -- and Spike was more than willing to help.

Unfortunately, she didn't exactly know where she stood with Spike. Was he fascinated by her because she was a Slayer? Because she was a distraction from Dru? Or because, as a guy, he liked sex, and he knew as well as Buffy did that she'd eventually give it up to him?

A passing fancy.

Just a fun time to be had.

It hurt.

She hadn't heard the words out loud, but all the same... they sounded so eerily haunting, echoing over and over in her mind.

No. No, she was fairly certain that Spike couldn't possibly love her -- but didn't he care about her? At least a little bit? She wasn't really just a fun time to him.

Was she?

Oh, god. That settled it. She couldn't care less how much she (or rather, her body) wanted the comfort that he could provide for her so easily. And she didn't care how much he could want her, and the big "duh" that was his reaction to how much his body wanted inside of hers.

She couldn't care less how much she was starting to see parallels in their situations, and she REALLY couldn't care less about how it was making her sympathize and ... care... for him.

This thing between them absolutely had to be stopped before it completely unraveled her.

She was terrified of what would become of her if it did.

"More."

Her back slammed violently into the wall and she gave a great cry as her hands scrabbled for purchase against him. She most certainly was not content to be the attackee here.

Yeah, she'd slipped up again.

Of course, she couldn't really help it. She'd been adamant about ignoring him, about following her stance on what the relationship between them could and could not be. Buffy had left the library with the full intention of patrolling, going to sleep, waiting for Giles' call in the morning about the curator, and above all, ignoring Spike.

And then, on her way out the library's double doors to the cemetery (Peaceful Memories, this time), he had hurried up behind her, swung around in front of her, and simply looked at her with those brilliant blue eyes. Those eyes that could put the ocean and sky at the horizon to shame.

Out of her four original goals, she had half-completed one, and blatantly ignored the others. Half-way through her patrol, Spike still following along behind her like Peter Pan's very adamant shadow, she had come upon two new vampires. And when she had dusted the both of them, still breathing heavily from the fight, Spike had made his move. He'd pounced on her and dragged her along with him to the cemetery wall, his mouth and chest and hips and legs pressing against her at all angles.

Needless to say, any protests she might have made had been silenced.

So, yeah, she'd screwed up and let him wreak havoc so delightfully on her hormones once again, but in all honesty, how could anyone blame her? Especially if they had ever looked into those eyes, or tasted that mouth.

The fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous (she mentally giggled at the image of a woman walking past him and being so astounded by his looks that she crumpled to the ground at his feet) and unbelievably sexy was just the plus part of the equation.

She threw herself forward and set to work on swallowing him whole, kissing him greedily with all her pent-up frustrations. His hand wrapped itself around the back of Buffy's head, her hand in turn burying itself in his soft hair as he pulled their lips and bodies more firmly against each other.

"Spike," she gasped into his mouth, and he thought he had never heard such a sweeter sound in all his years. He responded instantly to her lower body's slow grind against him, as he tackled her back more firmly. He growled, and the vibrations he caused, he noticed proudly, nearly had her weeping from her arousal.

He momentarily lost interest in her mouth and moved down to worship her neck when her head fell back against the wall. "Beautiful," he snarled, running a hand beneath her shirt, "Buffy, my Buffy, minx, my bloody beautiful, brazen, clever, hot little bitch, you're mine!"

Flashes of white light appeared behind her eyelids as he talked to her, as he mapped every favourite bit of her skin with his tongue. His voice was... sinful, and he smelled so good, and his words were so... decadent. And the thought pulsed through her mind before she'd actually had time to finish processing it: How can I make him feel the way he always makes me feel?

An answer to that question came at her faster than the question itself.

Strangely enough, it seemed like a fair cop.

She lowered her hands down to his waist and unbuckled his belt quickly, because she knew she would chicken out if she didn't do it right that minute. She barely registered Spike's cool hands sliding around inside of her shirt as she undid the button and lowered the zip. Looking up at him, she pushed his face up, then quickly pressed her lips to his.

Then she dropped to her knees.

Never had there been a moment when Spike had ever been truly blessed than the second he felt her wet little tongue on the tip of his cock. He let out a soft little whimper, then backed her up so that she was pressed to the wall. He lightly placed a hand on the top of Buffy's head and looked down at her, longingly waiting for what she planned to do next.

He really didn't need to wait for very long. Buffy took a deep breath and swallowed any nervousness she had before sliding her lips around the head of his dick and straight down the length of his shaft, like she'd known how to do this, knew she was made for this, for him, for years.

For all she knew, it could be true. To say that a relationship between two mortal enemies (above the Hellmouth, of all places) was impossible was discrediting the weird (and yet strangely reassuring) magical oddity that was Sunnydale.

And yeah, Sunnydale did have a weird habit of pushing weird people together.

So no. A relationship between herself and Spike? Not remotely impossible.

She wanted this.

Her head bobbed up and down over his shaft and she reached below to tentatively stroke her finger lightly across the soft, stretched skin between his sac and cock.

Apparently, this was a good thing to do. Spike howled.

Buffy's tongue stroked lightly along his length, and her hand stroked the part of him that, to her, remained reluctantly outside of her mouth.

Well, it wasn't like she hadn't tried to get him all the way in. It was just that her mouth was so small, and his cock was so... not.

His taste intrigued her, she thought as she flicked and dipped her tongue into the slit at the head of his prick. It certainly took some getting used to, since this was the first time she had ever done this to a man -- or, for that matter, had ever wanted to do this. His cream didn't actually have much of a taste at all, but it was cool, like his body, and if she had to assign any specific tang to this magnificent man, then the only one she could decide on was... sugary. He was almost refreshing, like her tongue was poking at little drops of fresh water to sate a desperate thirst that was bound to come to her.

It would just take a while for it to actually get to her.

Spike, from his point of view, was reeling from the sensations coursing through him. This was probably the only time in his life -- unlife -- whatever -- that coherent thought did not attach itself to his acceptance of oral pleasure.

Buffy was young enough. The only sexual experience she'd had, had been with Captain Hair-Gel, and here he repressed a wince of sympathy for her. It was bad enough that the Poofter had given the poor girl a rather... lacking education, but for him to lose the soul that kept him from reverting to an assaholic psycho-sociopath on top of it?

There were just some things that no one should have to suffer. Least of all his mortal enemy. 

Fortunately for Buffy, Spike was very kindly, and very willingly taking up the torch. Not that he really needed to pick up the slack. He was well aware of the fact that this was the first time she'd ever had a cock in her mouth, but Jesus H. Christ, if this was only her first time, he most definitely wanted to be there for the second. And the third. And fourth -- actually, pretty much any other time after that. Apparently, Buffy had great faith in the saying, "You can do it if you put your mind to it."

She was putting her mind to it, all right. She was putting her mind, her mouth, her tongue, her throat, and her hands ALL to it.

His hips lightly began rocking against her mouth and, after taking a quick breath, she looked up at him. Spike was panting, gasping heavily, his forehead resting forward on the wall, his eyes closed and his teeth clenched, as if by not looking down and fully acknowledging by sight that Buffy had her mouth full of nice, thick Spike, it would stop his body from climaxing too quickly. His hands were fisted in his hair, his elbows on either side of his head; this was obviously his idea of keeping restraint, so he didn't completely lose it and just altogether skull-fuck her.

Not that she would have minded much at this point.

The sight of him so barely in control renewed her efforts, and her motions accelerated, determination to make him completely lose any bit of control he thought he might have still had claiming her actions. She would make him come, she would make him come spectacularly, or she would bloody well asphyxiate trying.

Spike groaned, pulling his hands away from his hair and slamming them palm down into the wall. His fingers dug so hard into the cement of the mausoleum that small amounts of stone crumbled into dust around Buffy's head. His hips picked up, retaliating against the speed of Buffy's mouth, and he was content with the knowledge that despite how hard or fast he went, he wouldn't hurt her. And she was allowing him to plunge his length this hard and fast into her mouth, willingly.

God, she was perfect for him.

He had honestly never met a more perfect woman. And that thought almost hurt, because he'd been so certain for years that the most perfect woman in the world for him, his salvation and his reason for existence, had been Drusilla. But this... his feelings for the Slayer -- for Buffy -- only proved that Drusilla most certainly wasn't. His affections for Dru paled in comparison to what Buffy did to him, and how she made him feel.

He was finally letting go.

Finally.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that he almost didn't hear Buffy's words: "Give it to me, Spike," she whispered. "Let me taste you." Her voice lowered. "Let me drink you down."

He hadn't thought his cock could get any harder. But, as was the usual result whenever he was around Buffy, he had guessed wrong. The sheer wantonness of her words, the audacity she'd entertained to say those things only solidified the inevitable reaction. His back arched and the rest of his body seized up, his cock twitching desperately for its near-completion. Then he gave a hair-raising (and quite frankly, arousing) howl, and bucked his hips once more as he flooded her mouth. And when he'd spent himself, he slid bonelessly to the ground in front of her.

She gave him a tiny, satisfied smile, lazily licking her lips and staring at him with heavy-lidded, arousal-laden eyes.

But Spike knew better. Because despite the fact that her senses were raring and her juices were flowing, from the bits of her eyes beneath the lids that he could see, something akin to terror and apprehension were opening the floodgates to her uncertainty. He could practically read her mind -- her thoughts were just projecting her fears that loudly.

Bloody bastard -- Angelus had really done his job all right. He'd really spun a number on this one. Angelus had made Buffy so afraid and uncertain of anything even remotely related to sex that she could barely look Spike in the face in order to keep up the wanton sex kitten routine that she so desperately wanted to pull off for him.

Quite obviously, it wasn't working.

Well... he couldn't undo what his idiot grandsire had done to her; but he could certainly do his best to make her forget about it and reassure her now.

Not hesitating for a moment, even when his demon rose to start the token protest, he lunged toward her. Spike chuckled to himself when he heard her squeak, then lost himself all over again as his lips came down on hers.

It certainly put Buffy's present fears to rest -- not to mention, lodging her in a daze. Spike's kiss was shattering, possibly the most powerful thing that she had ever been a part of in her entire life. But it was more than that: it showed her that, no, she hadn't made an utter fool out of herself; no, she hadn't overstepped any boundaries that she hadn't been entirely aware of; and (most importantly), yes, she had made sure that Spike had definitely enjoyed her little endeavor.

It seemed that the Big Bad liked being dominated. And, what's more, the person he most specifically liked being dominated by was Buffy -- the Slayer and the girl combined.

Well, hey --  worked for her.

Her arms rose up around his neck, giving her best attempt to climb on top of him. Naturally, she promptly overbalanced, fell backwards, and pulled him down with her, somehow managing to not knock both of their heads into the wall.

It was, to say the least, definitely an interesting sensation having his already hard again cock pressing against her stomach.

Wait. Holy shit. He was still hard?

... Had Angel been like this? Or was she just adjusting to her own horndog levels with Spike? Maybe when she'd first been with Angel, her sexual stamina hadn't quite kicked in yet; but now that she was having lots of kinky fun fooling around with Spike, her stamina had pistoned?

Well, whatever it was, it was affecting Spike, too. She knew full well when he could smell her arousal -- after all, the ass had never failed to tell her every time they fought. So maybe now she had some sort of weird sex connection to Spike, which endowed Spike -- pun intended -- with no refractory period?

He began growling and purring alternately, throwing himself with incredible ease to both sides of the spectrum: on one hand, he was nuzzling and kissing her neck like a playful, affectionate pet. On the other hand, he was crossing the perv line with his bare cock, still glistening from her mouth, hanging out of his jeans and being very determinedly (and lewdly) ground into her covered crotch.

Okay. So maybe Spike was just perpetually horny. Not like it made any difference. He seemed determined to, at the very least, thank her for her very appreciated oral check-up. And at the same time, he was also trying to tell her how good it would feel if he was actually inside of her, and not half dry-humping her, like he was now.

His lips pressed down to hers, and she responded eagerly, her fingers playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. His hips arched and dipped faster as they kissed, and he pulled his mouth away from hers long enough to growl softly, "My Slayer.... my Buffy... my beautiful, soft, violent Buffy..."

And she was his. He was right. She knew damn well that this was it for her. There would be no more men beyond him.

Spike was the only one. He was slowly and methodically ruining her for any other man, and she was letting him. Because here, now, forever -- she really couldn't give less of a damn.

She was his, and he was hers. And that was all there was to it.

Spike groaned, his thrusts coming more quickly now, as he felt her beginning to writhe from her imminent orgasm. And when Buffy came, she did so with a wail that could rival an ambulance siren.

She went limp beneath him, and he collapsed over her, his face buried in her hair. Her hands, still clutching his biceps (and which, frankly, were the only parts of her body than hadn't gone limp following the fantastic la petite morte), lightly began rubbing his arms and shoulders while she attempted to come back to herself. Spike, meanwhile, entertained himself by making every affectionate mark on her neck -- short of biting her -- that he thought was possible.

"You know how wrong this is, don't you? On so many levels? I mean, not just for me, but for you, too?" Buffy asked softly.

Spike's initial answer was a low, rumbling growl -- one that was evidently angry and annoyed. "Do I look the type to give a rat's ass what's wrong or right, luv?"

She looked up at him meekly. "Shouldn't you be? You're a Master. Angelus and Drusilla are your Sires. You come from one of the most famous and fearsome vampire lines in history. You'll either be the greatest that the Order has ever seen, or the Order will throw you out on your ass for even having the gall to be seen with me.

"Me, on the other hand: I'm a Slayer. It's my stupid 'life mission' to kill vamps. Am I the only one on the face of the stupid planet in the history of Slayers to be with vampires? I keep being taught how wrong it is, how vampires are just one big evil, and need to be killed, but what about you? What about Ang -- " She stopped, not just from her realization, but the threatening growl being issued from Spike's throat. "Oh. I guess I can't use him as an example anymore," she murmured to herself. "Sorry," she added, smiling sheepishly at Spike.

Buffy looked up at him. "Are you a hybrid? Why are you so different from other vamps? Their main thought process is wake up, kill, food, kill, food, go to sleep. What's yours?" Her hand reached up to twine into his hair. "Tell me, Spike. Please?"

He growled for a third time, though this time with some amusement, and rolled over on top of her. "At the mo', it's 'get the Slayer to shut the bloody hell up!'"

Buffy rolled her eyes but smiled and tilted her head to kiss him. "You're different from the rest, Spike. You kill, but you kill only for food." She frowned thoughtfully. "As far as I know." 

Spike glanced sideways at her and decided to never -- ever -- let slip about that orphanage he'd massacred. Then he shook his head, blinked, and went back to listening, because suddenly her words had become very interesting. 

"... And you fuck," she said, her hands trailing a searing line of heat down his chest, "but you don't just fuck for pleasure. And instead of having six or seven ho-biscuits following you around, you've been with one person for over a hundred years. You're the King of fucking monogamy."

She peered up at him, curious to his reaction -- then she smirked. "You're weird, Spike."

He made a disgruntled sound and started to protest, but she jerked him close and kissed him long and hard before he could utter so much as a squeak. "And I still want you," she finished. She gave him another wide grin. "Hey, it's not like I have any room to talk. I am way weird."

And he couldn't resist. He gave a deep belly laugh, running a hand up her arm. "But just weird enough for me, eh, pet?"

She nipped his jaw lightly. "Perfectly." Buffy turned her head to his to launch yet another kiss, but stopped dead when she finally took in their whereabouts. "Um, Spike?"

He quirked his head to the side. "Eh?"

"Can we go somewhere other than the icky cemetery? Please?"

Spike frowned. "I dunno... it's got an oddly quasi-homey feel to it... I kinda like it." He grinned at Buffy's slack-jawed face. "Fine, we'll go. Wench."

And so she'd done it. She'd given him back a semblance of life, the life she'd first stolen from him that cold London night one-hundred-and-eighteen years ago.

And now to turn her mind to more important matters. Her dearest Angel would be ascending soon, and they needed to find their little guest in order to make it possible.

They just had to get to it before William and his little Slayer did.

In the coming days, most especially the coming hours, they would all have a role to play. Spike in pretending that he was still incapable of walking; Drusilla herself in pretending that she'd had nothing to do with his speedy recovery -- at least in front of her Sire; the Watcher in pretending that his main concern was for the world's safety and not his desperate need to avenge the death of the pretty dark-haired gypsy-witch; Angelus would continue to pretend that the Slayer hadn't affected him as deeply as she had; and the Slayer would pretend that it was all a matter of business between her and her new lover -- at least until her friends discovered their relationship.

And meanwhile -- the end of the end would be drawing ever near.

Nothing that the Slayer could do about that.

Hmph. She may still have had most of her human emotions intact, but Drusilla was still insane and evil.

It was expected of her, after all.

+seven+ || +five+ || fog home || the naughtiness