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Author: Ameeya
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: S.3, during Lover’s Walk.
Summary: Spike returns to Sunnydale to kill the Slayer. He’s just too drunk to do it properly, and ends up getting himself into the deep without even realizing it. Perhaps worst of all, he has no memory of his actions the next day.
Disclaimer: I don’t own ‘em; I’m just playing. Please oh please, do not sue me.

He’d come here to kill her.

Spike stood partially secluded among the library stacks, his eyes focused on the Slayer’s every move. Every bounce. Fuck, every pant. He hadn’t known what to expect when he arrived, and if he’d had a plan, he’d forgotten it by now. All he knew at the moment was that she was bouncing. God, she was bouncing. Or rather jumping. She was jumping rope; her tits were bouncing, her pony-tail was flopping, and Christ, she was making him hard.

He’d come here to kill her. That was the plan. That was what he told himself he was going to do. Kill her, make her neck his chalice at long bloody last, and return to his regularly scheduled life. Perhaps he’d even crawl on his hands and knees and beg Drusilla to take him back—further the humiliation even more. After all, she’d said that all she saw when she looked at him was the Slayer. If he returned to her with the Slayer’s blood in a vial around his neck, she could no longer rely on the he-doesn’t-love-me-anymore approach to her bouts of infidelity.

Buffy was as good as dead. She was jumping rope and bouncing; in a few seconds, she’d be cold on the floor, her blood washing down his throat. He was sure of it. Sure that as soon as he started moving, she’d be nothing more than a memory, and then his fucking reoccurring nightmare of the past few weeks would finally be over.

He was going to do it. He was going to kill her.

And yet, all he could do was watch.

It was crazy. God, he knew it was crazy. After all, she was the reason Dru had left him. She was the end-all cause of his misery; the proverbial thorn in his side. His plan had been simple: get drunk, get Slayer, get revenge. Tonight was supposed to be the night he repaid all debts. The night he settled all scores. He craved resolution; he needed solace. Perhaps killing her would win Dru back, and perhaps not. Either way, he was certain that he wouldn’t look back on killing Buffy as the moment it all went wrong. Oh no, bathing in her blood was the only way at this point to turn his life around.

He’d tracked her scent to the library; found her alone, oblivious, and blessedly vulnerable. Two of her chums were in the lab, putting together some sodding awful potion, the Watcher was nowhere to be seen, and Angel was halfway across town, buried head-first in some eighteenth-century bore of a read.

Granted, it wasn’t as though Spike hadn’t had the Slayer alone before. He had—only the world had been ending. It wasn’t now. The world was still here and he had her all to himself for as long as he wanted. And with as blissfully ignorant as she was at the moment, he could do any number of things to her for hours before anyone thought to call a search party. She wouldn’t have time to scream for help—not with as fast as he moved when he had his eyes on the prize.

His eyes were on the prize, all right. He couldn’t tear himself away from the prize. The toss of her hair, the bounce of her breasts, or anything that did everything to accentuate her femininity and nothing to ostensibly remind him that he was supposed to hate her.

Rather, his first thought was: I haven’t had a woman in weeks.

The Slayer, though, wasn’t a woman. She was a girl. Just a girl. And as much as he repeated that to himself, his cock wouldn’t listen. No, Buffy had had his cock’s attention from the very start; seeing her now, and running on both alcoholic confidence and the knowledge that he had nothing left to lose, seemed to do little more than accentuate said attention of the one part of his anatomy that hadn’t known any love in a long time, aside his left hand.

The same disobedient hand that was currently running down the front of his jeans, his fingers cupping the bulge pressed insistently against the zipper. A long, guttural moan crept through his throat, and all rational thought abandoned him. Buffy’s tempo with the rope hadn’t slowed—she was likely too much in her own world to pay anything—even turned-on vampire whimpers—any mind. Spike sucked in a breath and slowly dragged the zipper down, stifling another excited growl when his thick cock jumped into his waiting grip.

Fuck.

She was panting hard, now. Her speed kicked up a notch or two, and she began performing a few of those fancy criss-cross maneuvers that he’d seen girlies do on a whim in teeny-bopper movies. Spike bit back another moan, his hand tightening around his cock as his strokes intensified.

She’s magnificent.

That had to be a drunken thought, just as wanking off to her aerobics had to be a drunken action. Dreams he could excuse, as they typically consisted of him fucking her into the ground before sinking his fangs into her delectable throat. He never seemed to be able to see those dreams through, though; something always awoke him before he could snap her neck or watch the life fade from her eyes.

She was nearing the end of her workout, he could tell. Her jumps were becoming more forceful, the small grunts that escaped her lips more emphatic. His hand sped up as well, pumping his cock hard now, his eyes glazing over.

Magnificent.

How warm would she be, he wondered. Angelus had always said that was the high point of fucking the Slayer. She was wonderfully warm—gripped him like a glove, he’d said. A low growl tickled through Spike’s throat and something startlingly akin to jealousy spread through his veins.

Mine.

She was his slayer. He knew that much. If nothing else in this crazy world made sense, Spike knew that Buffy was his slayer. His to bleed, his to kill, his to fuck.

His head jerked up. “What the hell…” he murmured, though his foggy mind didn’t care to explore the thought more than necessary.

God, that was entirely the wrong image to conjure while his hand was pulling his dick. Buffy on her knees, her mouth open. Buffy’s lips surrounding his head. Buffy’s tongue tracing his length. Buffy’s hands squeezing his balls. Buffy on her back, her hands framing her pussy, her fingers stroking her clit. Buffy guiding his cock to her sopping entrance. Buffy’s nails scratching his back as he fucked her raw.

She’d lick his neck and tug at his earlobe with her teeth, then she’d whimper his name as she spasmed and drenched his cock.

Spike growled loudly and came, his spendings ending up on some dusty book that likely hadn’t been checked out in years. He swallowed a whimper and leaned his head against the book stack. God, he hardly ever came so hard when he wanked off, and while he was admittedly more boisterous than usual, masturbating in public was hardly a shining example of just how much of an exhibitionist he could be when prompted.

The library was silent. He didn’t realize just how silent it was until he tucked himself back into his jeans and zipped up. Spike lifted his head and peeked around the book stack. Buffy wasn’t jumping rope anymore. Rather, she was staring hard in his direction—not seeing him, thanks to the shadows, but she’d definitely heard something. She’d either heard something or sensed something, and now he has back to where he started. He’d come here to kill her, and yet he was at a loss.

Only now, there was no time to mull his options over.

Buffy frowned and stepped forward, her chest heaving, her body pink with exertion and glimmering with sweat. Human sweat wasn’t generally something Spike found appealing. Rather, he found most human things, aside from their propensity to bleed, rather disgusting. So why was it that her scent was tantalizing, and the image of her after a hefty work out did little more than make his cock harden all over again?

Christ, he wanted her. And that was only mildly disturbing. Which in and of itself was extremely disturbing.

Buffy reached for a towel that she’d left draped over the library check-out counter. “Hello?” she asked, frowning as she dabbed the terrycloth across her brow. “Angel?”

It was all he could do to refrain from shoving the book stack over. Instead, Spike bit back another growl and did his best to ignore the jealousy that flared in his chest.

She rolled her eyes. “Angel, look, we can give up the whole stalky thing. I told you, Giles is out of town this weekend. He has some weird retreat thing to go to. There’s no Wrath-O-Watcher coming up. Besides, I told him I’d be seeing you anyway.”

Spike snarled again and slinked further into the shadows. Daft bint. And here he thought she’d at least be able to tell the difference between her honey-pie and the one that had come to kill her. Weren’t slayer vibes supposed to be impeccable?

It wasn’t until Buffy started up the stairs of the veranda that his anger gave way to a fleeting spot of panic. And panic wasn’t exactly natural for Spike. If something unscheduled happened, he improvised. He always did, and it hadn’t failed him thus far.

Only he’d come here to kill her, and now, for whatever reason, he wasn’t so sure that was what he wanted. The only thing he was sure of was that he’d never get this close again—never get a chance like this again—and would be kicking himself come morning if let her slip through his fingers and he went home.

Since he didn’t know what he wanted to do—kill her, fuck her, or both—the most reasonable solution was to incapacitate her until he made up his mind. Which was why, when she rounded the corner, he wasted little time throwing her into the wall with a growl.

Buffy knew it a second too late. Slayers relied on every second, and she knew it a second too late. She was pressed against the wall, his chest at her back, and fuck she felt so good against him that he nearly tore her sweats off and got at least one of his urges out of his system right then.

“Spike!” she spat contemptuously, wriggling against him.

“Finally got the name right,” he growled. Then he fisted her ponytail and slammed her head against the wall. Once, twice, and then she fell limp against him.

Spike blinked and glanced down at her. He didn’t know how it happened, but suddenly he was holding a very unconscious slayer. Buffy’s head rolled back onto his shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing, he had scooped her up into his arms.

That hadn’t been part of the plan.

No, knocking Buffy out had not been part of the plan.

A slow smile spread across his lips as his eyes raked over her body.

This was a definite improvement.

Chapter 2

Her head was throbbing. Her head was throbbing, and she couldn’t move. Her legs were in shackles—honest-to-god shackles—and her hands were cuffed above her head. And, perhaps strangest of all, she was on a bed.

Okay, so maybe being chained up was the strangest part of the scenario, but she knew for a fact that her bedroom had no chains. At least no chains that could be easily attached to her mattress.

And even if she did have chains that could be easily attached to her mattress, there was no explanation on this earth that could ease her discomfort at being shackled to a bed, her legs spread wide apart, and a headache the size of Lake Tahoe. Well, at least she was clothed. Being clothed and chained to a bed was infinitely better than naked and chained to a bed.

Her mind began to run its replay, and she suddenly remembered the furious growl of a blond vampire and the wall he’d slammed her into. Buffy’s eyes flew open and she twisted with a gasp, though the movement did little more than strain her already sore muscles. Spike. Spike had been watching her in the library. He’d watched her while doing something. And he’d managed to capture her by, well, running her into a wall, of all things cartoonish.

She’d known that a vampire was near. Hell, that was what her tinglies were for. She’d known that she wasn’t alone for several minutes before she decided to stop, because it had felt like Angel. Or rather, the presence had been familiar to her, and that only happened with Angel; therefore, she deduced that it had to be Angel, else it would have felt like something else. And even if she’d been slightly disappointed that her ex had lapsed back into his lurking-in-the-shadows routine, she could understand if he felt it was necessary. After all, things had been rather difficult and strained between them since he came back from Hell. He didn’t know how to act, and she didn’t know how he should act, so they’d kept their distance. Only…not really.

It was all so very awkward.

Not as strange, though, as confusing Spike’s vibes for Angel’s. Did that mean that she didn’t know Angel’s vibes anymore? Or did it mean that vamp vibes weren’t vamp-specific? She didn’t know; she just wouldn’t trust those vibes again.

Because right now? This wasn’t working out for her. She was shackled to an unfamiliar bed—really shackled. The chains attached to the cuffs around her ankles were stretched so tight that she couldn’t move her legs at all. The links around her wrists, while granting a little more wiggle room, were similarly too strong to break.

She was being held by a captor who knew slayers, and was familiar with slayer strength. She was being held by Spike.

But then again, she already knew that.

Why am I even alive?

The last time she’d seen Spike, he’d been carting an unconscious Drusilla out of the mansion. He’d left her to Angelus, despite their arrangement. Granted, that hadn’t really surprised her all that much. She’d figured, making the deal, that he’d bail the second that Dru was no longer a factor—once he saw a way to grab her and make a run for it.

He’d told her that night that he’d never return. Only now he had returned. He’d very much returned. He’d returned, knocked her out, slayer-napped her, and had her tied to a bed. Yeah, he’d returned. And judging by the drunken clashes coming from the other room, Buffy guessed that Dru was currently marketed as an accessory sold separately.

As her headache began to wane, the incoherent ramblings coming from the other room started crystallizing into actual words.

Though really, that didn’t make the situation any better.

“Right brilliant bit of thinkin’ you did back there,” he muttered. She didn’t need to be looking at him to know he was pacing. “So, mate. You got yourself a slayer.” He paused, and when she thought he might be peeking in at her, she slammed her eyes closed. While she had no idea what his plans were, something told Buffy that it would be best to feign sleep as long as possible.

He was silent for a long time. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn’t be sure if she was imagining things or if he was actually doing the staring thing. However, judging by how close his voice was when he spoke next, she figured she hit closer to the mark with the second guess.

Spike swallowed hard, and her blood raced. “Right,” he said. “Right. You got yourself a slayer.”

Then she heard something that sounded suspiciously like a zipper being lowered, followed by a long, guttural moan.

Oh God.

He wasn’t…

“Slayer…” he whimpered, then gasped. His labored breaths became pants. His whimpers became mewls, and it hit her just seconds before he reached completion where she’d heard that sound before.

Earlier tonight. In the library.

Oh God. He’d been doing that while she worked out? Spike had…oh God.

“Buffy,” he moaned. “Oh fucking…sweet slayer…”

Oh. My. God.

There wasn’t an inch of skin that wasn’t red with shame. So he’d kidnapped her to do evil, dirty things to her? Well, that was certainly surprising. While Spike had always appeared to be many things, a sexual pervert wasn’t one of them. Then again, that might explain why he was masturbating and not touching her inappropriately. Not thrusting his icky Spike-shaped male parts into her practically virginal body. Not doing things that she’d have to stake him for. Because, really, kidnapping her and masturbating while she was chained to the bed was reason enough.

“Bleeding fuck,” he sighed, tugging his zipper back up. Then he was close—oh God so close—and she was certain that either her breathing or her heartbeat or a combination of the two was going to give her away.

It didn’t, though. At least he didn’t mention it if it did.

“So now I got me a slayer,” he said softly, his tone slightly giddy. “Question is…” He trailed a cold finger down the side of her neck, then over a breast, stopping to circle her nipple. “What do I do with her?”

She knew that tone. Her father often used it when he was either coming off or going on a bender. So she’d been kidnapped by a drunken slayer-killer who thought enough of her to masturbate as she lay unconscious, chained to his bed. Today was so not her day.

“Should kill you.” Spike lowered his face to her throat and bit lightly at her skin with blunt teeth. Buffy inhaled sharply, fighting every instinctual nerve in her body to keep from thrashing and bucking. It wouldn’t do her any good. Not now. No, Spike definitely had the upper hand.

Very definitely.

Well, two upper hands. Both of which were suddenly very interested in her boobs.

I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. I’m gonna wake up and be in my room. And Spike…oh my God, I’m being groped by Spike.

His breathing had suddenly turned ragged. He was licking at her throat, his hands palming her breasts as his thumbs stroked her nipples through her thin camisole. There was something incredibly raw about an overly amorous Spike. And she had to wonder, for a minute, if he wasn’t mistaking her for Drusilla.

Just as she had to wonder why she wasn’t more pissed off than she was.

Probably because you’re not convinced that this isn’t a dream.

“Fuck, but you’re pretty,” he purred, his tongue flickering over the Master’s bite mark. “My pretty little slayer.”

His own words seemed to snap him out of whatever spell he was in. The next thing she knew, Spike had torn himself from the bed and was pacing again. Or rather, it sounded like he was pacing again. She wasn’t brave enough to risk opening her eyes. Not just yet.

If she opened her eyes, two things would happen. One: Spike would see she was awake, and things would likely get much worse. Two: she would see that she was still as she had been, that she really was chained to a bed in the burned-out factory, and Spike really had been getting up close and personal with both her and her girl parts just a second ago. Those were two realities she would really like to put on hold as long as she possibly could.

“Sodding miserable chit!” he snarled. “Oughta jus’ kill you. Oughta rip your bloody heart out for what you’ve done to me!”

Right. Sense was being made there. It wasn’t like she’d ever done something as crazy as, oh say, this. Still, drunk Spike was better than sober Spike. Drunk Spike could make a mistake. Drunk Spike would make a mistake, and then this brief stint into nonreality would be over.

“Need…Christ, I gotta get outta here.”

Whoa…wait.

Leave? As in…leave? He was going to leave her here?

Buffy strained against her bindings. Yeah, those were really strong chains. Really strong.

And Spike was leaving? That was so not of the good.

It took a few minutes of silence to summon the courage to open her eyes.

The damn vampire had actually done it. He’d actually left her behind.

Buffy gasped loudly and made several futile attempts to sit up. She pulled at her restraints, attempted to kick her legs; tried anything that would loosen the grip. But no—some cognitive, rational part of Spike’s drunken, idiotic brain had thought to make sure that his bindings were tight enough to hold her.

She was trapped.

God, she was trapped. In the factory. And Spike was gone. He might get drunk enough to forget about her. Or worse, he might not.

He might not.

And then it happened. At last, it happened. The haze was over, and reality stepped in with a vengeance.

Buffy had finally woken up.

Author’s Note: Okay, so…ummm, extremely nervous about this chapter. I just want to remind everyone that it is Season 3 Spike, and therefore he is evil. Not to mention drunk. He is very, very drunk.

If my planning goes right (and please don’t hold me to it) this is about as angsty as I intend to go. The fic itself is described (in my head, at least) as a fluffy fic, bordering on comedy. However, I didn’t want to shorthand the characters…at least not so soon in the story. I’m sure I’ll take them plenty out of character later, but for now, I’d like to at least try to maintain the pretense that I know how to write Spike before he gets bitten with the Buffy-lovin’ bug.

Having said that, I have major, major issues with non-con, which made very this incredibly hard to write. So, be prepared…some of this may be perceived (and likely will be) as non-con. But hopefully, the fluffiest non-con you’ve ever come across.

Thanks to my betas for talking me through it.

“Schlaaaayer!”

Buffy tensed, her eyes flying open. While she hadn’t been sleeping, she’d taken an honest stab at it, hoping she’d be lucky enough to wake up on the other side of this with the middle conveniently cut out. Her mind, though, was too chattery to sleep, and every time she found herself drifting, the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach would lurch her back to consciousness.

Now Spike was back and—from the sound of things—very, very drunk.

“Still here,” he said shortly, stumbling slightly as he crossed the threshold into the small room. Her muscles were killing her, but it didn’t stop her from struggling helplessly against her restraints. “Wha’s this? Not crafty enough to slink away, are we?”

“Spike…”

It wasn’t as though she meant to sound all pleady and breathless; Buffy truly hated helplessness, and not being anywhere near the zone of control had her panicking.

“Dunno what’s keepin’ you here,” he retorted, his eyes glazing over as he raked her body with long, lustful looks. “Thought slayers were s’posed to have super strength.”

“Spike, you’re drunk.”

“I’m very drunk,” he corrected, stumbling over to her and shedding his duster. Oh God, he was shedding his duster; from the way his hands went to the hem of his tee, it seemed that wasn’t all he intended to shed. “An’ I intend to get drunker.”

She paused, fighting off the initial swell of mirth that climbed up her throat. “Spike, you’re so drunk you’re quoting Gone With the Wind. You really wanna be letting me go right about now.”

“Yeah. That’s what I wants to do with you.” He plopped down beside her, his left hand settling on her leg, fingers caressing her inner thigh. Then his head was dipping toward her, and he inhaled appreciatively. “Christ, you smell fantastic. You always smell so bloody fantastic.”

Buffy pursed her lips. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and she felt her body reacting against the will of her mind. It was humiliating—he was sniffing at her, touching her, and all she could do was tremble. She was terrified and furious; combined with mortification, the urge to kick and scream was near unbearable. But she couldn’t kick, and screaming would do little more than anger him. And while she had little to no practice with diplomacy, it seemed to be the best alternative. “Spike,” she said softly. “I really need you to untie me.”

He ignored her, and for the second time that evening, his sensuous tongue found her throat, licking at the vamp mark she’d been branded with a year earlier. Never before had the mark been an erogenous zone, so she was quite surprised at the pleasured gasp that tore through her throat and the rush of wetness between her spread thighs.

Spike inhaled and shuddered against her. “Naughty li’l schlayer,” he murmured, nipping at her neck as the hand on her thigh brazenly slid upward until he was cupping her clothed pussy. “Mmmm…”

Shock filled every inch of her body. Well, shock and the most potent rush of lust she’d ever experienced. That was sick. She was sick. He was touching her in that way, and her body was reacting to it. She was reacting to him, and he was touching her as only one man ever had before. More than that, she was chained to a bed, no one knew where she was, and he was drunk. She was chained and he was drunk, and she was in no position—aside from screaming in protest—to fight what he was doing to her.

“Show her,” Spike murmured defiantly, his lips trailing southward. He dropped kisses as he went, pausing to tease her nipples. In a blink, he’d torn her sweats and panties as far down her legs as he could, and tore the material away before she could hope that he’d unchain her legs to finish the job.

It wasn’t until she felt him dotting kisses along her pelvis that astonishment and self-loathing faded into true panic. He was going to—oh God, he was. Her first time experiencing this shouldn’t be terrifying. Shouldn’t be forced. Shouldn’t be with a vampire she hated. The dreamlike atmosphere vanished again, and she was left with the biting smack of reality.

“Spike, no,” she whispered, her urgent tone in direct counterpoint to her treacherous body—the same treacherous body that had stretched beneath him invitingly, her hips lifting in want of his mouth. Her mind was at war with her arousal; this was violation. It shouldn’t feel good—but God, he was nuzzling her and it did. And she didn’t want it to feel good. She wanted anything but to feel good about something so fundamentally wrong. She needed him to stop now before she betrayed everything there was about being female. “Please. You can’t do this. You hate me. You don’t wanna do this. I don’t taste good—God, I’m sure I don’t taste good. Please!”

While her mind and mouth objected, her body welcomed him. She was seriously hating her body right now.

This was something she’d wanted with Angel, in the fantasy future she had planned—the one where they eradicated the clause of his curse and had the chance at a crime-fighting life. He’d offered to do it their first and only night together, but she’d been too terrified and nervous to let him. In the months since she’d lost her virginity, she’d opened herself to experiencing any number of things that had seemed taboo at one point.

Okay, if she was totally honest with herself, the Angel part of the future equation was more out of lack of options. His behavior since returning from Hell had been understandably distant, and she wasn’t stupid enough to think that things could ever go back to being the way they once were. God, at this point, she wasn’t even sure she wanted that. Angel as a soulless killing machine had robbed her of her innocence in ways that no amount of violence or slaying or apocalypses could ever have. No. Going back to Angel wasn’t an option. She’d seen him as she’d never wanted to, and it would never be the same.

However, her girlish mind hadn’t quite been willing to let go of the fairytale, and thus, all her fantasies about the future she could never have had starred Angel as the male protagonist. There were things that she wanted to experience someday, and yes, the female dream of pro-cunnilingus boyfriends was one of them.

Spike nuzzled her pussy, his fingers massaging her skin through her curls. “Show her,” he murmured again, his tongue lapping at her folds. Buffy threw her head back and screwed her eyes shut, determined to feel nothing—enjoy nothing—and let him get whatever he needed out of his system. All she needed to do was get through to morning—or to a point where he was confident enough in her complacency to make a mistake and let her go.

She was determined to not enjoy this, no matter how good it felt.

“Slayer,” he growled, sucking her clit into his mouth. Buffy inhaled sharply and pulled at her restraints, her hips thrusting upward. He purred approvingly, spreading her pussy lips wide with two fingers. “My schlaaayer.”

“I’m dreaming,” Buffy gasped, arching into him again. “I’m dreaming I’m dreaming I’m dreaming.”

Spike’s tongue curled around her clit, his wandering fingers imploring her opening. God, this was so humiliating. Women were not supposed to react to coerced sexual acts like wanton hussies. She was not supposed to react to Spike like an under-sexed porn star. And yet, she found her legs were straining the chains to open wider for him, rather than close. Her pelvis thrust determinately against his mouth, and the moans that scratched at her throat were definitely not in protest.

“My slayer,” he repeated, his tone primal. His tongue abandoned her clit the next second, his eager fingers stretching her pussy lips again. Then he was lapping at her exposed skin, suckling at her, and at last, plunging into her tight, wet hole. Her eyes shot open at last, latching onto the attentive blond head between her legs, and Buffy trembled so hard that the bed rocked against the wall.

“Oh God,” she moaned. Reason abandoned her completely. “Oh my God.”

“Show her…show her. Covered with you. Covered.”

“Wha…?”

“My schlayer.”

“No…oh God, please…”

“Mine.”

He captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger and began massaging her rapidly. Ecstasy split her veins, and she trembled hard around him. Her body exploded into a thousand tiny spasms, and she cried out hoarsely. For a few seconds—a few, glorious seconds—nothing around her mattered. Nothing at all. She was drowning in pleasure and nothing else mattered. Nothing.

And then it happened. Spike slipped his tongue out of her pussy, filling her with two fingers as his thumb settled over her clit. He rubbed her attentively as his mouth moved to her inner thigh, licking at her tender skin with a purr.

Awareness shot through her. Buffy gasped loudly and attempted to sit up. “Spike—no, you can’t—!”

Her words were wasted. The next second, his fangs pierced her skin, sending her spiraling down a second orgasm. He feasted on her, growling and drinking his fill. And when he finally retracted his incisors from her flesh, she was too weak to fight him.

“Mine.”

Buffy blinked. She was numb all over.

Spike growled and slammed an angry fist into the mattress, his tongue sliding over her bloodied skin again. “Mine,” he insisted. “Say it!”

Defiance rose and died. At some point, she had simply stopped caring. “Yours,” she agreed, her voice small but satisfied. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry for him. He could have her blood—hell, even her body—but he wouldn’t have her tears. Not tonight. “Yours. Whatever. Just please…let me go.”

Her demand wasn’t out of desperation anymore; rather necessity. She’d been taken from a world guarded with rules—many, many rules. She might be a novice to the whole sex thing, but she was certain that what had just happened should not have given her the pleasure it did. She should not be trembling with the aftermath of an orgasm—let alone two. His fangs should have terrified her. Everything that had just happened should have terrified her. Instead, she was terrified of herself. She’d just experienced something that women dreaded, and she’d enjoyed it.

God, she was disgusting. And even knowing that didn’t change anything.

Again, Spike ignored her. Instead, he purred in delight and licked her clit again before pillowing his cheek against her thigh. And then he stilled, two fingers locked inside her. He stilled.

And slept.

His mate was crying.

Spike was barely awake—barely aware of anything. His senses and instincts were on autopilot. His conscious mind was completely absent, and only the demon was present. And all the demon knew at the moment was that his mate was crying. Crying and struggling beneath him. He sensed her displeasure at her tears, her fear and repulsion. He felt her disgust, both with herself and with him, and the awareness made him want to weep.

Instead, he groggily rose to all fours, his hand going to the clasp on his jeans. He didn’t know how he knew, but something told him that those new to a vampiric claim often craved a physical bond to soften distress. It was the best way, especially with the new sensations spreading through them, to soothe fears and concerns.

His cock was erect, which did little to surprise him. The rich scent tickling his nose always made him hard. He rumbled several encouraging growls and nuzzled her throat, his eyes remaining shut. She was his mate—sight wasn’t needed for this. All he needed to do was calm her. Calm her for now by giving her the physical connection she craved.

His tongue darted out instinctively and lapped up her tears, the head of his cock sliding sensually against her slick opening.

But this wasn’t about pleasure. Not now. Pleasure could wait.

Spike nipped at her neck and purred soothingly as he slid inside her. So warm, he thought, curling his arms under her shoulders, his head resting against her breast.

So warm.

Perhaps tomorrow, he’d think to question her near-virgin tightness. The strange presence of a heartbeat. The tears that refused to stop flowing down her cheeks. The whimpers that itched at her throat, and the foreign heat radiating from her body.

Right now, though, he’d done all he knew to do. He’d done what was needed to calm her.

So he rested.

Author’s Note: I so appreciate all the comments/reviews on this fic, particularly the last chapter. I’m gonna try to get this revved back into the fluffy/comedic light and not do the “expected” thing when it comes to non-con…but at the same time, treat the non-con for what it was. However, I do think it’s important to note that, while Buffy was hurt by Spike’s actions, she was more terrified of her own reactions. It was the only way I could talk myself into doing non-con. Trust me, that scene was specifically for plot purposes. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.

Again, thank you so much!

Every nerve in his body was on fire; he was swimming in warmth. God, there’d never been a feeling like this. Never in all his years, and he’d been around for quite a while. There were a few things he knew immediately, even if he wasn’t completely awake. First, he was balls-deep in the hottest, tightest pussy he’d ever felt. Second, the woman beneath him was very definitely human. Human, warm, wet, and wiggling.

It was quite possible that he’d never been this hard before. Spike moaned, rotating his hips as he began to lazily thrust inside her. His head was throbbing from the effects of more alcohol than the entire Barrymore family line had ever seen, and memories of the previous night came in a series of broken fragments.

Not a surprise. And even though his drinking rarely got so out of hand—he usually stopped before he lost control of himself completely—Spike saw little reason for concern. Obviously, the night had worked out well for him. He was in a bed, he was in a woman; the natural conclusion was, his carelessness hadn’t cost him his life. Rather, it seemed he’d had a right decent time.

Now if only he could remember it…

The woman beneath him gasped and whimpered and arched. Spike lowered his mouth to her neck, favoring her sweet skin with long laps of his tongue. “Mmmm…” he murmured. “So sweet.”

The words shocked the hell out of him. He’d long ago stopped trying to fill his sexual void with nameless women, especially since their faces seemed to turn into the Slayer’s rather than Dru’s. But even more than that, Spike wasn’t one to go for meaningless sex. He could do it, sure—and when he did, he did it with gusto—but a century had schooled him well and although he’d love to, casual fucking didn’t do it for him. He’d already had his revenge fuck. Well, in all honesty, several revenge fucks, but it didn’t take long to realize what he was missing. It didn’t take long for said revenge fucks to become anything but a reminder of how alone he was. And nothing—absolutely nothing—about those nameless, faceless women had been sweet.

The one beneath him tasted sweet, and Christ, she felt like Heaven. She was moaning and squirming, thrusting up against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath hot against his skin. The whimpers scratching at her throat were driving him mad. There was something about her—he knew, even without opening his eyes, that time had yet to jade her. That was another thing about the few women he’d been with since Dru, and even Dru herself, that he hadn’t thought to question until now. Women who were no longer impressed by sex, who performed as though it were a routine to a dance they wished over long ago.

He didn’t take it personally, though he did relish the satisfaction of their surprise once he made them come. Bet that hadn’t happened in years. But in the end, they were just using each other, and he couldn’t give a damn if they got off or not.

How did he manage to get so drunk and find a woman like…

“Spike!”

His eyes flew open.

Oh my fuck.

A long, trembling whimper tore through Buffy’s lips, her eyes fluttering shut as she trembled beneath him. Spike gasped along with her; the pace of his thrusts increased. God, she felt so sweet, and he couldn’t keep himself from fucking her. Not when she was so hot. When she had been looking at him like that.

“You’re awake,” she hissed through her teeth, though he couldn’t tell if she was strained with pleasure, or outrage.

“Oh my God.”

“You’re telling me.”

Spike stared at her for a long minute, then his head fell to her shoulder, and he moaned. He forced his hips to a standstill, his cock slipping out of her pussy with reluctance that nearly tore his body in half. He immediately lamented the loss of her warmth, and shivered as though he could, after a century, finally feel the cold. “Oh my God. Slayer…I don’…how—”

It all came back in a rush. The library. Buffy jump-roping. Buffy’s luscious tits bouncing. Buffy chained to a bed. Buffy sleeping. And then—and then…nothing. There was nothing but a blur. He remembered a bar. Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol…and then nothing.

Only very obviously not nothing, as he’d awakened with his cock inside the Slayer’s succulent pussy. That was definitely not nothing.

“Oh for the love of Pete!” the Slayer all but growled. “Spike, please…don’t make me…God, don’t make…”

He blinked stupidly. “What?”

“I…I’m…” She was blushing furiously, which intrigued him until he realized what she was about to say. She was close. Fucking Christ, he had the Slayer close to coming. She was close and she didn’t want to say it—hell, from the look of things, she didn’t even want to think about it. She was mad as hell, though he couldn’t tell if he was on the receiving end of her anger, or if she was irritated with herself.

She’d seduced him. That had to be it. Little vixen had seen him stumble into the factory, very obviously drunk off his arse, and she’d seduced him to escape. Fuck, if he wasn’t so bloody horny, he might have to punish her by not getting her off. As it was, his cock was only too happy to slide back inside her.

“Slayer,” he growled, fangs descending. The gasp that scratched her throat only fueled his enthusiasm. She looked torn between ecstasy and humiliation, and God if the combination didn’t shoot another bolt of lust straight to his dick. “So hot.”

“Shut up,” she hissed through her teeth, her eyes falling shut. “Just shut up and do it.”

“Do it?” He grinned nastily, grinding his hips against hers. “The Slayer afraid the Big Bad’s gonna make her scream?”

“Shut up.”

“Come on. You wanna scream for your Spike.” He dropped his mouth, teeth clamping on her earlobe and giving it a good tug as he slid a hand between their thrusting bodies, his callused fingers finding her clit. The gasp that spilled from her lips was worth a thousand of these mornings, hangovers and all. “Tell your Spike how much you love this.”

He saw tears pricking at her eyes, but pushed his concern aside. For God’s sake, she’d asked for this. What did she expect? Candles? Roses? Sweet kisses and a promise of commitment? Had she forgotten who she was dealing with in her attempt to seduce her way out to freedom?

“Come for me, kitten.” He rubbed her clit fast, his other hand tugging her camisole down until her tits were exposed to his hungry eyes, and his wandering lips immediately navigated southward until he had a mouthful of Slayer-breast. “Come on. Come for Spike. Wanna feel your pussy squeeze me into the next sodding life.”

He said it more for her sake than out of desire. In all honesty, Spike didn’t want her to climax so quickly—he wanted to enjoy this, draw it out, because he knew it would never happen again. It was a realized fantasy that he’d never again get to taste. So when she finally cried out and trembled around him, drenching his cock with her juices and biting a lip to keep from screaming his name, he couldn’t hope to hold on. He suckled on her nipple a second longer before releasing her with a wet slurp, massaging her clit speedily as his eyes took in the sight of her.

God, she was a glorious creature when she came.

“You’re gorgeous,” he gasped, his voice near reverent.

And somehow, the Slayer managed to ruin that moment with a well-timed glare. “Shut up,” she spat.

Fucking bitch.

Spike snarled and dove for her throat, but his fangs decided to bite into the pillow instead. God, she was squeezing him mercilessly, her beautiful body in spasms as he spilled himself inside her, his growl of completion lost in a sea of goose down feathers.

It took several minutes for him to come back to himself. When he opened his eyes, he found his head pillowed at her breast. Her very-much heaving breast. A long moan rumbled through his throat. He felt spent, but his cock was on a very different train of thought. Staring at her ruby nipple gave a bloke ideas, and when he began to harden within her for round two, it was only her sharp, panicked gasp that had the power to send him spiraling back to reality.

The Slayer was staring at him, horrified. Horrified, and gloriously bedded. God, she was edible.

“Don’t,” she said shortly, ruining yet another moment. “Don’t. Just get out of me.”

“Slayer, never let anyone tell you that you don’t know how to romance a fella.”

“I mean it. Get. Out. Of. Me.”

Spike rolled his eyes and obliged, biting back a whimper when his cock was suddenly deprived of her warmth. “Don’t see what you’re so brassed about. You’re not the one that woke up with a hangover.”

“I swear to God, you’re counting away the seconds until you’re dust.”

His hands came up. “Oi! I just did what you asked for, you stupid bint. An’ after that, don’t you think it a mite rude to start makin’ death threats? It’s not like shagging the Slayer was my number one priority when I came back here. Fuck if I know what—”

God, the stupid bint looked ready to cry again. Women were so bloody fickle.

“What?” he demanded.

“Let me up. I wanna go home.”

“Yeah. Two seconds after you’ve threatened to stake me.” He rolled his eyes and jerked his jeans up. “Sorry, luv. You’re good, but not that good.”

He regretted the words the second they escaped his lips. The Slayer’s face crumbled completely and she dissolved into tears. And he didn’t know why, but the sound of her crying tore at him from every feasible angle. The next thing he knew, he was approaching her slowly, his hand diving into his jean pocket for the key to her shackles.

Stupid bird’s guiltin’ me into letting her go.

But guilt wasn’t on the menu—at least it shouldn’t be. However, he couldn’t deny the twist of something that took command of his body. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her brow, and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Didn’t that just beat all?

She was twisting so much by the time he knelt at the foot of the bed that it took several minutes before he had one ankle free. But it only took a second for her to kick him across the room.

Ungrateful li’l…

“You stupid bitch,” he growled, fighting to his feet. She was still crying, only she’d turned over—best she could—closing her legs but showing him her ass, which really wasn’t in her best interest, but he wasn’t one to complain. “I’m tryin’ to help!”

“You’ve done enough.”

“What? You want me to apologize for shagging you? Sorry, Slayer, but you asked.”

There was an angry pause at that, and she twisted to face him, her legs remaining stubbornly pressed together. “I didn’t ask for last night!” she screamed. “I didn’t ask for that.”

A very, very still beat spread through the room.

“What?” he replied slowly. “Wait a mo’. Start at the beginning. How’s it that I ended up in bed with you in the bloody first place?”

Buffy stared at him, then shook her head incredulously. “You don’t remember?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “Believe me or not, that doesn’ change anything. Near as I can figure, you wanted outta here so bad you put that scrumptious body of yours to use. Not a bad ploy when a man’s drunk, but—”

“Me?!” she shrieked. “You forced—”

The word stopped him dead, an ugly, heinous accusation that made even him shudder. He was many things—many cruel, nasty things, but a rapist wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t Angelus; he didn’t need to get his jollies off in order to, well, get his jollies off. He’d tortured girls till they cried and begged for death, sure—living with Angelus for twenty years, pre-soul, there hadn’t been much choice. His Yoda, after all, demanded that he be an obedient student.

Of the many terrible things he’d done to women, though, rape was simply inconceivable. Most female blood that stained his hands post-Angelus had been at Dru’s jealousy. She’d see a girl, make a snide accusation toward his nonexistent wandering eye, and the next thing he knew, she had dinner in a Victorian dress.

He hated to be a cliché, but really, violence against any woman—save those with a sacred calling—had never been his thing. There was something about his upbringing that refused to be shaken by violence and hatred—some residual William factor that kept popping up. It didn’t keep him from inflicting pain without bias, of course, but when possible, he avoided drawing blood that wasn’t male.

Fuck, he hadn’t even offed Cecily, and God knows, the bitch deserved it.

So Buffy telling him now that he’d forced himself on her…well, that was just impossible.

Only, the look in her eyes didn’t make it seem so impossible. Rather, it inspired a suddenly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew without a doubt that she was telling the truth.

Oh God.

“Oh God.” Spike expelled a deep breath and turned away, his body trembling.

There was very little in his past that inspired guilt. Siring his mum for one. Dru’s run-in with the mob in Prague. Somehow, a whole past full of wrongs had washed away, and he was bathed in something he didn’t recognize. Beyond guilt. Beyond remorse. This was something no vampire should feel. Never.

Never before had his demon wept, but for the way in which his insides were shattering, it could be nothing else.

Chapter 5

He was making her dizzy.

“Spike, please stop pacing.”

He shook his head frantically.

“Really, you’re driving me nuts.”

She didn’t know why she had this urge to reassure him that everything was okay when everything really, really wasn’t. And yet, the urge was there. There was something so authentic—so genuine—about his distress, and though she couldn’t explain it, she wanted to provide some solace.

Obviously, she was sick and twisted, but that was old news. Not only did she have the enjoying of what had happened last night, but not half an hour ago, she’d asked him to keep screwing her.

Well, not asked in so many words, but she definitely hadn’t complained when he read between the lines. Her body had been on fire—that strange buildup to orgasmic release that she was so not used to—and at that moment, it had seemed more important than her pride. Or almost more important, as she’d never actually gotten around to asking.

Now she wanted to comfort Spike for…well, rape was an awfully strong word, and since she’d enjoyed it—being the sicko that she was—she wasn’t too keen on using it. But still, she was entirely wigged and disgusted, and Spike was a big part of that.

She hated herself for enjoying it. Hated herself for not throwing him off of her in disgust once he started having sex with her that morning. Hated herself, most of all, for sitting here and feeling bad for making him realize the truth.

He really needed to stop pacing. Her sicko-eyes were really enjoying how taut and tense his body was.

I am completely disgusting.

He really did have that whole ripply-muscle thing going for him. It really, really wasn’t fair.

I am completely and utterly disgusting.

She needed to get out of here before she did something crazy, like actually comfort him.

“You need to slow down. Count to ten. Throw something. Breathe into a paper sack. I dunno. Just stop pacing!”

Spike stopped shortly and whirled around, his nostrils flaring. “I don’t breathe, you stupid bint!”

“Well, sorry! Forgive a girl for trying to help!”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Well, obviously. Your nervous breakdown is going off without a hitch. Now will you please stop pacing?”

“I’m not pacing!”

Buffy blinked. Oh. He actually had stopped. “Well, good. Let’s keep it that way. You wanna maybe not pace over here and unprisoner me?” She shook her other leg demonstratively, careful not to reveal the bite mark on her inner left thigh. The one he’d given her the night before—the one he’d sealed with words and a demand that she didn’t understand. She sensed it was important; she sensed the bite mark meant something huge, something significant, and couldn’t thank her lucky stars enough that he’d somehow missed it in his wig out.

For some reason, she didn’t want him to see it. She didn’t know what it was or what it meant, but something told her that things would be much worse if Spike knew he’d bitten her. Much, much worse. Especially if he knew that said bite had been accompanied by a random caveman demand, followed by an order to respond in some derogatory fashion that threw Women’s Rights out the proverbial window.

She had absolutely no idea how he hadn’t seen it, but she was counting her blessings. Her mind was made up: Spike could never, ever know about that mark.

“You want me to untie you,” Spike repeated, blinking.

“Well, yes. As comfortable as this looks…it’s anything but.”

“You’re not crying anymore.”

Oh, so he’d noticed that. That didn’t mean she didn’t feel like crying, naturally, but the part of her that felt used and violated—while still shaken and angry—couldn’t be as mad as it wanted to be because she knew that he was just as shaken.

“Don’t take that to mean that I’m not super pissed beyond the telling of it.”

Spike shook his head, a strange emotion clouding his eyes. Well, not strange for normal people, but it definitely looked strange on him. She’d seen his guilt and regret, but the look on his face now was a step above that. He was thoroughly broken by what he’d done. As though all the hurt and outrage that she wasn’t feeling had transferred to him. And it wigged her out that she suddenly felt she had the power to read Spike’s emotions, because that was so not a thing she wanted added to her resume.

“I’ve never…” Spike sighed and shook his head again, nearing her cautiously as his hand dipped back into his jean pocket. “I swear, Slayer, I’ve never forced myself on a woman before.”

The funny thing was, she knew he was telling the truth. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she did. She trusted that he was being honest with her—she could tell. Perhaps it was that strange non-resume-thing again, but that didn’t make it any easier to accept.

“Never?” she repeated skeptically. “Yeah, coming from the evil vampire, that’s much with the reassuring.”

“There are certain degrees to evil, pet,” he replied, his eyes on the ground. “Maybe it was Angelus’s thing. Well, no, scratch that—it was Angelus’s thing. He gets off on pain.”

“And you don’t?”

Spike sighed, his fingers sliding over her ankle. “Not pain like that. I’m a mean, nasty bloke—don’t need to add sex offender to the list to make me the poster child for all things evil in the world. I’ve done my fair share of torturing, yeh. I won’ deny it. An’ there’s no reason for you to believe me. I know it, but I’m sayin’ it anyway. Rape isn’t my cuppatea, luv.”

It’s not rape when you enjoy it, though.

Buffy shivered. “Just unchain me. I wanna go home.”

He paused and arched a brow, looking up. “You sure you’re not gonna boot me across the room this time?”

“No.”

She expected anger, but instead, he flashed a somber smile and dropped the shackle. The metallic crash against the floor made her jump. “I deserve it.”

“You’re creeping me out.”

“’Least I’m not pacing.”

Buffy grinned a little at that. “Now the arms, please?”

“You gonna stake me?”

“Maybe.”

He unchained her. Buffy blinked in astonishment and met his eyes.

Why is he doing this?

“Because I’m enough of a rat bastard. I had a plan. I buggered the plan an’ practically buggered you in the process.”

Had she said that aloud or could he read minds? “Spike—”

Was it natural to want to comfort the man who had assaulted her? Was it even assault?

God, she was confused. She’d just spent the night in a surreal place with a surreal version of Spike. First with his head between her legs, then with his cock inside her. She hadn’t slept, and when she’d finally decided to struggle, Spike had started moving inside her and all reason had been lost.

She was sick. She was absolutely sick. And on top of that, she was emotionally exhausted; caught between hating him and feeling sorry for him, piled on top of totally hating herself.

Her emotions were tangled. If she thought about it another second, she’d just start crying again. Because, drunk or not, Spike had terrified her. What he’d done to her was terrifying. And this wigsome, penitent Spike wasn’t helping matters. Things would be so much easier if he’d be the ass he had been after he’d slid out of her body. If he’d never known what he’d done the night before, so she could stake him and begin the healing process.

This Spike was more broken than she could ever be. And it scared her that she knew that. That she could tell just by looking at him how much turmoil he was in, and how badly she wanted to tell him that it was okay.

Buffy sighed and tugged her camisole down over her breasts and squeezed her thighs together.

“Slayer,” he said softly. “I know…this won’t mean anything but…I’m sorry.”

She shuddered. It meant something. It meant a lot. And she resented it.

But she didn’t tell him that.

“I wanna go home.”

He was still for a long beat, then nodded and backed away, hurrying to the other side of the room. “Best not look a gift horse in the mouth, yeh? Lemme find you some slacks.”

“Spike?”

He paused and looked back at her.

Buffy swallowed hard. “For the record…I’m willing to believe that what happened here…didn’t happen here. Don’t ask me why—as you said: gift-horse-mouth kinda thing. But here’s what is gonna happen: I’m gonna go home, take a shower, and forget everything.” She paused. “But…you need to leave. I mean it. Leave town. Never come back. If you come back—”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. I know this tune, Slayer.”

“I mean it.”

“An’ I have no reason to doubt it.” Spike forced a weak smile and nodded again. “Gonna go find you some slacks.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

And with any luck, so was he. Spike would leave and she could return to her normally scheduled life.

And try to fit herself into a universe where none of this ever happened. She didn’t want any self-examination. She didn’t want to think about how every woman’s nightmare had turned into the hottest experience of her life. She didn’t want to consider what that made her. She didn’t want to clash how hurt and angry she was against how good he’d made her feel. Physical pleasure didn’t win over emotional duress, and although she knew that, convincing herself was an entirely separate matter. She was confused enough for several lifetimes as it was. So she was determined not to think of it. She would walk away from Spike right now with this bizarre understanding, and never give their night together a second thought.

It was a nice idea, as far as pipe dreams went.

Buffy was beyond exhausted. She climbed into her room and flopped helplessly on her bed before remembering that she did not want to fall asleep in Spike’s clothes. She didn’t want to fall asleep with his scent all over her, or the ghost of his hands and mouth on her skin.

She just didn’t have the strength to get up and walk to the shower. Furthermore, she was certain that her mom had stayed up the night pacing the halls and calling the entire Sunnydale directory because Buffy had never phoned or showed up for their scheduled college discussion. And Angel was probably worried, too, since she’d told him that she’d drop by.

She didn’t have the strength to start fabricating an elaborate where I was last night story just yet. A part of her needed to talk. Needed to tell someone that Spike had hijacked her life for about twelve hours and now she was confused and angry and disgusted with herself, only she wasn’t because she’d refused to think about it. It was over and done with, and as far as she was concerned, the entire affair had been a hellacious nightmare.

All she needed to do now was wake up.

There was a tentative knock on her door, followed by her mother’s quiet, inquisitive voice. “Buffy?”

She moaned and dragged a pillow over her head. No. Such. Luck.

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice muffled. “I’m in here.”

The door flew open the next second, and before she knew what was happening, Buffy was all but yanked into her mother’s arms. “Oh, thank heavens!” Joyce exclaimed. “Don’t you ever do that to me again! I had no idea where you were! You didn’t call. You didn’t tell Willow. I couldn’t get a hold of Mr. Giles. And that awful…that vampire that you said was your boyfriend?”

Buffy tensed. “Angel?”

“Yes. He was here. He was here, Buffy! I had no idea what to do.”

She groaned inwardly. “Mom, it’s cool.”

“What?”

“Angel…he…he came back a little while ago. From Hell. He came back from Hell, but he’s all souled up and…” She scowled at the horror-laced disappointment flooding through her mother’s eyes. “Oh, don’t give me that look. We’re just friends. I’m trying to help him acclimatize to life here on the boring ole Hellmouth.”

“Buffy, he’s dangerous.”

“No, he’s really not. Trust me; he’s soul-boy now. We’re not dating. We’re not gonna be dating. We’re not anywhere near Datesville. We’re just friends.” A long sigh rolled off her shoulders. “I couldn’t date him again if I wanted to.”

“Isn’t he the one who murdered your teacher?”

“Mom, please.” She was so not in the mood to argue about this right now. It was too early, she was running on little to no sleep, and her mind was suffering the most hellish of all hells. “Just…call school and tell them I’m sick.”

“Are you?”

She shuddered, her mind flashing to Spike’s head perched attentively between her legs, his tongue curling around her clit. And to her astonishment, she was attacked by a fresh wave of lust. Spike-lust. Oh, she was sick all right.

“Yes. Yes, I am very, very sick.” To solidify her ill health, she frowned and coughed into her hand, earning little more than the patented look of motherly disappointment. “I’m totally sick.”

“You were out all night.”

“Yes, and don’t you think that’s a little strange?”

“You were out all night and your ex-boyfriend, whom you sent to Hell, just happens to be around, too. And he came by here, looking for you. Then he left, and you were out all night.”

The only thing worse than being with Spike was being with Angel. Being with Angel led to badness. Much badness. And yes, her mother was partially right in that she’d been screwed senseless—literally—by a vampire. She just had the wrong vamp in mind.

But Buffy didn’t tell her that. Any of it. Rather, she just swallowed hard and said, “I really can do without the slanted looks and the judgment right now.”

“And I can really do with a little honesty.”

“I wasn’t out with Angel.”

Joyce visibly relaxed, a sigh rolling off her shoulders. “Oh,” she said shortly. “Okay. Good. Who were…you were out all night with someone else?”

Buffy shuddered again, her mind dragging her back to Spike’s bed. Back to the second that his cock had slipped inside her; despite the mind-numbing fear, some measure of peace had spread through her panic-stricken body. She’d felt whole for a blink before remembering that he wasn’t supposed to insert anything into her pussy—his fingers and tongue had been bad enough, but now she was marked with him. She was different now because of what had happened.

Only she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about it anymore.

“I…Spike came back to town.”

“Spike?” Joyce blinked. “Oh, the young British man? The one who helped you defeat Angel?”

“Mom, you do realize he was a vampire, right?”

“Well, yes, but he’s still a young British man.”

“A young looking British vampire.” She paused and made a face. “And he didn’t even really help me defeat Angel. He just kinda signed on so he could vamp-nap Drusilla. He snagged her and left me to die.”

Her mother looked appalled. “He left you to die?”

“Well, he had what he wanted. And he’s a vampire, so it’s not like he was acting out of a want for the greater good. He said he wanted to save the world, but he just wanted his ho-bag girlfriend back.” Buffy paused, surprised at the bitterness in her voice. Why should she care if Spike had wanted Dru back? She had no idea, but she cared anyway. “Stupid ho-bag bitch,” she added with an emphatic nod.

“Buffy, language!”

“Sorry.”

Joyce shot her a stern look, though her lips edged upward in a grin. At least one person was amused; Buffy most certainly was not. For whatever reason, the idea of Spike wrapped away in another woman’s arms—a woman he loved—made her feel violently ill.

I’m deranged.

“So Spike’s in town,” Joyce concluded, nodding and crossing her arms. “I…were you two fighting all night? About his leaving without helping you?”

Buffy groaned inwardly. She really needed to sit down with her mother—preferably sometime soon—and try to get it through her head that Spike was bad news. That all vampires, regardless of first impressions, were bad news. All vampires aside from Angel, who was only bad news if he got laid. Besides, Joyce’s first impression of Spike hadn’t been a positive one to begin with. She had, after all, smacked him upside the head with an axe. That most definitely did not make for hugs and heart-shaped chocolate kisses.

If her mother couldn’t get her mind wrapped around the fact that Spike was bad news, then she might do something stupid like invite him into the house. Not that Buffy had ever bothered to revoke his invitation. Not that Spike was dumb enough to come calling, especially since she’d made it painfully clear that he was a dead vamp walking if he ever tried.

Not that he wasn’t Dead Vamp Walking anyway. What with the being dead and all.

Okay, now she was getting a headache. And just who was she kidding? Of course Spike was dumb enough to stick around. She’d told him explicitly to leave, which meant he was likely sitting in his paint-smeared car at the city limits, unsuccessfully trying to convince himself to heed her demand.

Something monumental had happened between them. Something that, for all the want in the world, could not be blamed on coercion.

Buffy shivered again. “Mom, it doesn’t matter why he’s here. He came, we…talked, we fought, we did the tango, he left. I’m running on about two hours of sleep and I think if I try to go to school, I’ll pass out or get sick or something.”

Their eyes held for a minute, then the fight slowly left Joyce’s face and she finally nodded her acquiescence. “Okay, sweetheart,” she said, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “Mmm. You do feel warm. Maybe you should go take a cold shower…cool off a bit?”

She bit back a dry laugh. “No, I don’t need a cold shower. Really, I just need some sleep.”

Suddenly, the thought of washing Spike’s scent off her skin wasn’t as appealing as it had been. All she wanted to do was curl up and rest. Let her mind wander off to that wonderfully dreamless place where nightmares and slayer visions couldn’t touch her.

There would be plenty of time to wash off when she awoke. When the previous night felt more like a horrid stint in non-reality rather than an emotionally draining—however sensuous—fantasy getaway.

It would be easier to hate him—easier to forget last night had happened at all—after she had some sleep. It would be.

Buffy sank against her pillow as her mother left the room, softly closing the door behind her. She closed her eyes and sighed, and found herself drifting off within seconds.

It would be easier.

It had to be.

Spike sat in the Desoto, his hands curled around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the sun-bathed sign that read: NOW LEAVING SUNNYDALE: Come back soon! He had the car in park, though his foot hovered over the gas pedal.

Leave.

He inhaled sharply and reached for his cigarettes.

Get the bloody fuck outta Dodge now.

God, he couldn’t. Something had a hold on him. Something that went beyond guilt. For the hell his mind had been through in the past few hours, he should have been out of town the second Buffy walked away from him. His insides were ripped to shreds. Every time his thoughts returned to her, he felt nothing but pain.

Pain that wasn’t hers. Pain at the thought of what he’d done. God, he’d never felt pain like this.

Spike choked a laugh and puffed on his fag. Somehow, he always managed to thoroughly bugger his plans. Kill the Slayer. It’d seemed so simple just twenty-four hours ago. Kill her, bathe in her blood, and go home to Dru. See if she really wanted slime and antlers when he could finally deliver Buffy’s head.

Instead, he’d forced himself on her. And now he couldn’t kill her. Couldn’t do anything but fight the need to crawl to her side on his hands and knees and babble apologies until she staked him.

Angelus’s example was through mental torment of his hapless victims. Spike hated Angelus’s example. He’d never wanted this. Not for himself, not for anyone; not even for his mortal enemy.

So here he was: deadlocked in a black car under the blazing sun, peering through the black-smeared windshield.

Spike trembled and sighed. It was useless.

He wasn’t going anywhere. It might kill him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

Author’s Note: Thank you guys so much for all your lovely comments! I’m so glad you’re enjoying my little fic.

I would like to address one thing, though, so as to hopefully avoid any confusion in further chapters. As I understand claiming, it’s pretty much a fanon thing. Something that doesn’t really have “rules,” even if there are certain expectations that come with it. In the end, though, it seems to me that it’s pretty much writer’s choice on how a claim is written/portrayed. I’m trying something different here—something I haven’t seen before, though it might be written somewhere. Either way, since claiming is a fanon thing, I think it’s OK to explore.

Spike doesn’t know he claimed Buffy, and it’s not going to just occur to him from nowhere. I’ll get into it in further chapters, but basically, I’m working from the angle that Spike has never claimed anyone or been claimed before. He doesn’t know what to associate his feelings with, and jumping to the “claim” conclusion isn’t even on his radar. He has a passing knowledge of claims, but he’s never really researched them (again, something I’ll get into in later chapters), thus the demon claiming Buffy was an innate thing more than anything else. I just thought I should clarify that before I go on. In my little world, this isn’t something that Spike is just going to magically know. With as much as I’ve read, and with as much of a hot-button-issue as claims seem to be in the Spuffy fandom, I wanted to try something a little different.

Okay, that’s all. Thank you all again so much for your kind reviews. :)

- Ameeya

Buffy very rarely looked at herself naked.

Several months ago, before the attack of Angel’s multiple personalities, Xander had asked her if girls ever stood in front of the mirror and looked at themselves naked. They’d been at the Bronze on a rare, demonically inactive Friday night, and he’d shouted the question during an inconvenient quiet point between the band’s songs. Willow had blushed profusely, Cordelia had huffed in disgust and slapped his arm, and Buffy had just laughed and laughed.

After she was all laughed out, she’d told him no. And the crestfallen look on his face was nothing short of hysterical. She’d cushioned the blow a bit—told him that some girls might, that not all females were linked psychically, and she didn’t know about girls that were more confident. Girls that were sexual creatures first and human beings second.

Just a few weeks ago, during one of the gang’s outings with Faith, Buffy had caught Xander’s eye and said softly, “She might be one of them.” And the goofy look on his face had told her that he got the message, loud and clear.

Buffy had no reason to be thinking of her friend’s bizarre question, aside from the fact that she was currently standing in the bathroom, naked, and looking at herself. Just looking. Her body had no marks that would be indicative of sexual assault. Her skin bore no bruises. And she wasn’t surprised, because sometime after waking, she’d consigned herself to the reality that her experience couldn’t be compared to the horrors of actual rape. Spike had been nothing but caring with her, even when he’d gone down on her in spite of her pleas. He hadn’t done anything to bring his own body release. He’d slid his cock inside her, yes, but nothing had happened after that. Nothing until the next morning, when she’d all but begged him to keep screwing her.

A long sigh hissed through her lips. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be furious. She wanted to feel violated. But she didn’t now. She had before—before Spike awoke and regarded her with shock instead of malice. When he’d taken her slowly and sweetly, when he hadn’t bruised her body with his. When she’d seen the horror and guilt in his eyes rather than cold satisfaction.

Buffy had been angry that morning. She wasn’t now. Not with Spike. She was just disgusted with herself.

And she was looking at herself naked, her hands occasionally twitching at her sides. She lifted her smallish breasts, rubbed her flat stomach, and finally lowered her eyes to her pussy and shivered. Her body might as well have been a stranger’s—she didn’t know it very well. She was an organic weapon against evil, and only once before had she viewed herself as someone sexual. She was used to appraising her muscles, doctoring cuts and bruises, and applying bandages to sore skin before patrol. She wasn’t used to noticing her own femininity. Not in a sexual way. Sure, she loved clothes and make-up and doing girly things with her gal-friends, when possible, but even when she was a part of a couple—when she’d been with Angel—it was hard for her to view herself as anything other than Buffy. Girly Buffy, yes. Slayer Buffy, check. All-Woman-Buffy, double check. But never Sexual Buffy. Not until the night that Angel had taken her virginity, and certainly not any time since.

She’d thought about sexual things, yes, but always as other people would experience them. Even when she thought of Angel, she’d see herself and Angel from a distance, her mind taking on the role of a voyeur as she concocted fantasies that involved her without involving her.

Spike had made her feel sexual, and now she was looking at her body and wondering why. Buffy was pretty certain that she didn’t look any different than other girls, and she was more than convinced that there were women out there with more impressive figures. Women who had bigger boobs, better tits, and perhaps less hair between their legs—the sort of women she’d seen in her father’s dirty magazines a lifetime ago. The kind that were more plastic than human, but somehow still more appealing to the male population. She didn’t see herself as truly desirable, and yet Spike had wanted her. He could have come home with any demon whore he wanted—and damn if that didn’t smart. He could have, but he hadn’t. No, he’d returned to the factory with her in mind.

Well, she supposed she couldn’t prove that. Alcohol made the mind all foggy; at least, so said her health class instructor. Perhaps she’d looked more appealing to him when he was drunk. Perhaps she’d looked like a Playboy centerfold with too many clothes on. She didn’t know.

Buffy pursed her lips and parted her legs just slightly, her eyes immediately attracted to the bite mark that graced her left inner thigh for the first time. It was startlingly beautiful, nothing like she would have expected. Nothing like the ugly scar the Master had left on her neck. Spike hadn’t bitten her in anger or violence, rather with tenderness and care. And the mark was beautiful.

Compelled, she reached down to stroke it, and gasped at the shard of ecstasy that shot to her core the second her fingers ran across the mark.

“Oh my God.”

What the hell was that?

She ran her finger across the bite mark again, and her knees about buckled in pleasure.

Oh my God.

Instantly, she shot her hand back to her side and took a step away from the mirror, as though seeing her reflection was what had prompted both her action and her very prominent reaction. She turned quickly and twisted the bath nozzle. Better to just shower, as had been her intention upon coming into the bathroom in the first place, and return to her life. Her wonderfully dull if-you-didn’t-include-world-savage-and-occasionally-killing-your-boyfriend life.

It had been the strangest day, and she hadn’t done anything. She’d wasted away in bed, wrestling with her disturbing Spike-shaped thoughts and trying very hard to convince herself that she hated him when, actually, she found that she wasn’t even angry. And wasn’t that a kick in the pants?

Buffy sighed and braced her hands on the wall as water from the showerhead cascaded over her body. Had it only been twenty-four hours since her life made sense? She knew she wasn’t perfect; she knew that she had her problems—Angel’s sudden return from Hell being a big one—but she’d been at least mildly well-adjusted. What seventeen-year-old girl could attest to being so level-headed when the world was constantly falling down around her and she had to destroy her one-and-only to prevent the apocalypse?

Not many, she thought bitterly, reaching for the soap bar. Only one in every generation.

Her eyes fell shut as she began rubbing her body down. This time yesterday, she’d been chained to Spike’s bed. This morning, she’d walked out of the factory, and her life had changed. She wanted to ignore it, but Buffy wasn’t an idiot. She knew her life had changed. It would never be the same because of what happened, and honest to God, she didn’t know why.

Buffy sighed, her left hand skating down her stomach and coming to rest over the bite mark, and she shuddered with pleasure.

Why does this feel so good?

Tears pricked at her eyes; she didn’t know why she was so damned emotional over a bite. She should be grateful, right? At least he’d bitten her there and not on her throat where the world could see. Not that she liked that the bite was so close to her pussy. It made it so much easier to…

A strangled gasp tore from her throat and she squeezed the tender skin at her thigh, her right hand cupping her pussy, fingers dancing over her slick flesh. She shivered and ignored the churning in her stomach—the same that had followed her whenever her mind took her to subjects she’d always thought were taboo.

Buffy had never really tried to bring herself off. She’d explored, sure, but never like she’d read about in magazines. Something about it seemed dirty, or had at one time. But Spike wasn’t here—oh God, it was so easy to imagine that he was. So incredibly easy to picture that they were his hands caressing her body. That he was rubbing the bite mark, that his fingers were prying apart her pussy lips and dipping inside her.

“Ohhh…” She whimpered and threw her head back. Spike was behind her, kissing down her throat and rumbling unintelligible adorations into her skin. She felt the inside of his wrists rubbing across her pelvis as he caressed her clit. She felt his mouth tasting her skin. She felt his chest rumble behind her when she cried out, heard his whispered commands that she not hold anything back. He told her how warm she felt, purred at how wet she was, all the while thrusting his cock against her backside as his balls slapped against her backside.

Buffy whimpered again desperately, and he growled at her ear. And all the other voices shut up. The one telling her that she was being disgusting. The one telling her that it was wrong. The one telling her that Spike had abused her. The one telling her to forget it and move on. Everything drowned out. Everything went away. All that was left was Spike.

Spike, who had suckled on her clit, sunk his fangs into her left thigh, and declared, “Mine!”

The world trembled around her as she came. Her legs shook. Her insides quivered. Her fingers were drenched. Oh God, that had been wonderful. She’d taken something that was hers and enjoyed it. Enjoyed it with Spike, only this time, there was no guilt. There was no horror. There were no tears. There was only Buffy. Only Buffy and Spike.

Except Spike wasn’t actually there. He’d felt real, yes, but he wasn’t.

Something that Buffy remembered just seconds later when she sighed and tried to lean against him. Instead of a sturdy chest and loving arms, she met with cold air, and yelped in surprise as her footing abandoned her and she fell inelegantly to the shower floor.

“Owwie.”

Okay, so maybe next time, she shouldn’t get so caught up in the fantasy.