~~~


"So many things I never thought I'd do," Buffy mused.

"Marry a vampire?"

"Eat snails. And like 'em." She sipped at her espresso. "I've been eating like a little pig this whole time, haven't I? I might've gained a few pounds."

"That's what Paris is for. Love watchin' you feed with a good appetite. Remember days gone by when you never ate at all, were too thin, too pale. An' you fuck better with a bit of flesh on you."

"Eating and fucking. God, this is like a dream."

The rain dripped off the edge of the awning that extended a couple feet past their marble-topped table. The tall heaters spaced here and there kept them warm against the rain and chill. Since they'd arrived the city had been covered with a thick low cover of grey cloud, allowing them, when they could bear to tear themselves apart and dress, to go about in the day. They'd established a routine: afternoons walking all around the city, hugged together under a big black umbrella, long late boozy suppers in smoky restaurants, and afterwards, fruitful patrols among the local vampires. Spike said that Paris hadn't had a slayer in over a century; the vampire population was consequently arrogant, lax, and easy to apprehend, even while tipsy and in high heels.

The rest of the time they spent in the big bed in their hotel room, listening to the hum of traffic and the beating of the rain, making love, chatting, dozing and waking to do it again and again. They went at it so hard that when she got up and walked, she was aware with every step of her swollen sex, of the bruises where Spike had gripped her, the places where he'd sucked her flesh into little welts that stung beneath her clothes.

Between the rough couplings, he gentled her sore flesh with soft slow seductions he seemed to invent on the spot, as lordly and controlling as they were tender. Reminding her over and over that she was his, setting up his dominion over her body with glancing touches that made her shudder and plead and pant. Lightly caressing her swollen pussy or just holding it in the cup of his hand, with a possessiveness that made her feel cherished and even agreeably helpless. That morning he'd actually made her come, a shivering, gasping spend, just by clasping her sex securely in his palm as he kissed her and murmured to her with maddening understated patience, not allowing her to move, making her submit to his languid motionless example.

He seemed to know, without discussion, that though it wouldn't always be this way, she craved submission, here and now.

Spike sipped his aperitif, and said, "Not to me."

"No?"

"Better than any dreams I'm likely to have."

She knew he was referring to the nightmares that sometimes visited his sleep. A few times since they'd been here he'd awakened game-faced and snarling, or in tears. His ugly past, he told her, was so vivid in dreams.

Still, he assured her, he was glad to have his memories, all of them, intact once more. "S'really me with you, this way. All our history clingin' round us, wouldn't trade that away for worlds." Not for worlds, she agreed. She wouldn't part with even the worst of it.

"And," he curled a hand around hers, "nothin' like I ever dreamed would happen to me. Havin' a wife like you. The mission, this life. Never dared imagine the like."

She laid her cheek against his shoulder. "You should have. I'm still not done being peeved at you, for not imagining it, for not coming to claim it—me. I should have told you, when ... but you should've known. Spike, you should've known."

Shifting to look into his face, she found him cool and solemn. She gazed into his blue unblinking eyes, and her little flare of upset died out.

"It's all right now, though," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "It's all right now."



It was after that conversation that, as she thought of it later, the last little piece slotted into place for them. Without discussion, they rose to return to the hotel. Spike stopped a taxi, and as he held the door open for her to get in, bent to murmur in her ear, "Gonna have you." He said nothing else, but there was no need; she understood the special sense of those three words. Her excitement flared up so hot she had to hold her breath to keep herself sitting still. They rode without touching, both pretending to look out the window at the rain-smeared lights. She knew he could smell her fervor, hear the beating of her blood; she imagined she could sense his own stirring, though she didn't even look at him for the ten minutes the ride lasted.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she pushed into his arms. Spike's hands tangled in her hair, his mouth opening cool and moist against hers, warming as she pressed into it. A low growl bubbled in his throat. He put her back against the door, crowding in, one thigh up between hers, pinning her hands. Her heart felt like a ball shooting up through water, everything in her body rising with it. She was vibrating now; they'd stopped kissing and she was panting hard against Spike's mouth, which somehow was even more intense, as if she was feeding him her breath. As if her heart was beating for them both, their two bodies on the verge of melding, even though nothing had really happened yet. She wanted to cry out against this lull, but Spike seemed to be listening to her, to be feeling into her in the silence.

Then he stepped back, releasing her; for a moment she felt like falling. He stripped off his clothes; after a moment's hesitation she matched him, fumbling, inelegant, but he didn't see that because he was striding in his lordly nudity towards the bed. His cock was hard, curving up so the bright red tip touched his belly. He was in game face when he turned and held an inviting hand out to her. His hard golden eyes glittered; a hot little icicle of fear trailed up her back as she looked at him. When he smiled, he was wolfish and handsome, but ghastly too, the terrible fangs divulged. She'd been craving this, and trusted him completely, so the fear was only a kind of echo, a might-have-been. Everything he'd ever been was completely bared in this moment—the vampire who'd sought her out, who'd desired her death, who'd ultimately desired her so intently that he'd remade himself.

She came to him, took his hand, his fingers still a little cool from the cold outdoors. He nodded once, his nostrils flaring. "What you want, yeah?" His voice a low rasp. "The true Spike."

"More than anything." She whispered it, and came closer, right up against him, repeated the words, "More than anything" against his throat, kissing him, encircling him in her arms. He chuckled a little, a sound that was half a snarl, and took hold of her; the next moment she was flat out on her back on the mattress, his body heavy on hers. The wet crown of his cock dipped against her belly, teasing in and out of the tuft of her mons as he kissed her face and throat and breasts with his jagged mouth. These motions broke her open; she arched, spreading herself wide for him. A bubble of sound broke loose from her, a wordless kind of keening song that he matched with more of that chuckling growling snarl that effected her like a softening drug.

He hovered over her then; she looked at him, taking it all in, the golden monster's eyes, the hard ridges and planes of his face, the evolving grin, his tongue appearing and disappearing in flickers between his lips. She knew he wanted her to see him, to comprehend him and welcome him in this state; it was what she'd been longing for all this time and at last he was ready to accept it.

"Please," she gasped. "Oh please. Oh love. Oh love. My husband. Spike. Oh please." He'd pinned her hands over her head, but she stirred her body beneath his, trying to incite him as she gave him back his deep stare. She didn't know how long this delicate strange negotiation went on, only that the anticipation, his silent demand, was making her nearly crazy with her need to be possessed.

Finally he slipped one of her wrists loose. Carried her hand down first to his mouth, where he kissed the fingers, and the palm, a wet licking kiss that made her writhe as if her pussy was there. Then he drew her hand down between their bellies. "You join us together now."

A seething sound escaped him as she wrapped her hand around his taut shaft; she gave him a long deep squeeze, feeling the dense length of him, caressing the wet spongy flaring head. Spike was breathing now, broken and jittery, his body in a tense arch over her.

"Come inside me, my sweet beautiful monster. Come inside me, give me everything." She rocked up to catch him, teasing at first before she let him sink all the way in. Spike was past ready; she could feel his control slipping, the urge to grind lapping up into wild hip snaps, little grunts. But he stilled, letting her feel how they were snugged up tight together, his pelvic bone crowded against her clit, his thick cock filling her up, it seemed, all the way to the heart.

"That what I am?" he murmured. "Your monster?"

"Yes. My wonderful monster." Some other time he might not have liked to hear this, but Buffy sensed that it was the right thing now, that he was at last bringing forth the demon in all his force to become part of their union, to receive her love. She was pulsing with it, the affection thick and sweet and red in her, great billows of it giving down. Spike was kissing her now, the sharp teeth nipping at her lips. She began a deep rolling fuck, pushing up, inciting him out of his restraint.

"Take," she whispered. "Take. Take. Take me." Her free hand was in his hair now, gripping and guiding.

He released her other wrist. "Hold me, Buffy."

He drew her legs up higher, changing the angle a little bit as he fucked into her, and she encompassed him in the span of her arms, his long muscled flanks smooth and powdery under her sweeping hands. He wouldn't break into a sweat like a live man but she'd long learned to feel the more subtle signs of his escalating excitement. There was a faint mushroomy scent that came off his skin when he was wrought up, that she associated with his physical surrender. His skin, always smooth, seemed to go positively pearly to the touch as he lost himself in pleasure. She was aware of that now, as against her throat, his teeth and sharp demon tongue made blind soundings, scraping at her skin, nicking her, tantalizing. What was he waiting for? She mewed, caressing him, rocking into his thrusts. They were lashed together so tightly she could imagine them never pulling apart. Never wanting to. "I've got you, my Spike. Always."

He was on a downstroke when the bite happened. She seized up, back arced in the act of meeting him, her whole body dissolving first into the shock of it, the harsh penetrating pain. But then came the other sensation, the one she'd so much wanted, of being enveloped, enjoyed in a way that filled her with joy. A cottony pleasure took hold, emanating from her throat, ethereal and tingling. The sensation of her blood flowing into his mouth, of him slowly sucking and swallowing, brought out her tears. He went on fucking, a little slower now, as if they were both listening to what was happening, letting it wrap them up in a prolonged moment of silence broken only by her gasping breaths, his purring growl. He warmed in her arms, and seemed to expand a little everywhere, muscles and breadth and heft. Her own energy, despite the bleeding, redoubled. When Spike began to move faster, careening towards release, she felt powerful and perfect.

Afterwards, his harsh sobbing cry of release echoed in her with that sensation of perfection, reverberating through all her slackened muscles and her slowing thubbing pulse. Spike's fingers were pressed to her throat, he was heavy and slack on her slick depleted body. When she opened her eyes to see him again, he was still fanged out, the gold eyes unfocused, blinking slowly. He looked stoned and rather endearingly stupid. He shifted a little to take some of the weight off, his cock slipping free of her with a wet squelch. He circled her with one arm as if he really thought she was remotely likely to pull away.

Drowsiness crowded in on her like an infusing drug. Spike's thumb was the only thing that moved, making a soft circling against her shoulder. She let her eyes close, her sensorium closing in to become nothing but the earthy aroma they gave off, and that one spot at the top of her arm. She thought of things to say, thank you, or I love you or wasn't I right about this? But there was no need to say any of them.







~Epilogue~

"So, Missus Pratt."

He found her sitting on the back porch.

"So, Sleepy Mister Pratt."

Still yawning, he dropped down beside her. It was just after sun-down; the neighborhood dogs were barking at each other across the fenced-in yards after another unseasonably mild day.

"Been doing some more unpacking, I see." She was wearing her scuffed-up jeans, and the dusty sweatshirt that had been her uniform for the last week.

"I don't know why we have so much stuff. When we got together, you only had the clothes on your back, and I—"

"Could've stayed on in Paris another year, we were snug enough there."

"I loved Paris. But you know it was too easy."

"An' you wanted yourself your own little house on the hellmouth."

"With a porch in front and back, and demons that speak English. Cleveland is going to be good for us, I can feel it. Commensurate to our abilities."

"Well, here's to it." He brought it out then, the bottle of chilled champagne he'd been holding behind his back.

"Oh!"

"What, did you think I'd forgotten today's our wedding day come 'round again? You did, didn't you?"

"No, I just ...."

"Could feel you simmerin' with it all this week, wantin' to remind me. Ta ever so for holdin' back."

She raised her eyebrows. "I was never in doubt. Happy anniversary, Mister Pratt." Accepting the bottle, she took a long swig, but instead of handing it back, she darted in to kiss him, spilling wine back into his mouth.

Spike laughed. "If we're goin' to play that game with a three hundred dollar bottle, let's do it inside where we can strip off."

"You paid three hundred dollars for this?"

Spike shrugged. "That's what it goes for. Course, I snaffled it."

"You—!"

"Gotta keep my hand in a bit, pet. Practice. Skills like that, come in useful, yeah?"

"Spike—"

He shrugged and grinned. "I'm a bad bad vamp. 'Spect you'll have to punish me."

"You want me to—"

Snatching back the bottle, he sprang up, went for the door. "I want you to. C'mon, Slayer. Bring it."


END