Betaed by: Goblin_Dae, Science, and Subtilior

Disclaimer: Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all recognizable characters, locations, and dialogue belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the various writers. This is written purely for fun.

27.

He was totally, thoroughly, utterly fucked.

Both literally and figuratively.

For one thing, he'd just ridden her hard to her … well, he'd lost count of how many orgasms he'd managed to wring out of her so far. Hell, he'd lost count of his own, and he was still harder than a coffin nail. He ought to be shagged out and down for the count. He'd pound the mat and scream uncle except that would mean stopping, and stopping really wasn't an option.

Not when he'd found the closest thing to heaven a vampire could ever experience. Now he got it—now he knew why Angel was so fixated on the girl. Her creamy thighs were the gates to Heaven, and he'd do just about anything to crawl back between them. She was so damn warm, for one thing, hot enough to burn—but all it gave him was pleasure that bordered on pain. When she clenched around him ... god, there weren't words to describe it. But if this was the path to redemption, he was willing to work at it for the rest of his miserable existence.

Once, he'd thought himself thoroughly educated in sex … yet he'd never experienced anything like the last few hours. He'd had her a handful of ways, her flexible little body easily accommodating whatever position they'd ended up in, her strength and endurance more than a match for his own. Thrust for thrust she'd met him, battling him for dominance, fighting with her fists and her mouth and her tight little quim. Even when he'd had her from behind—his fist in her hair and his other hand on her hip, sawing her back and forth on his cock, her red and panting face half turned toward him—even then she'd been the aggressor, slamming her sweet rump into the curve of his hips.

There'd been none of the pre-game torture and tease that Drusilla had liked so much. He hadn't had to cater to her changing whims or watch her eyes go distant. Instead, he'd screwed himself so deep inside of Buffy that he felt like he could touch her soul. She was so bloody hot inside, so bright and pure. If he'd been anyone else he'd have surrendered to that heat and done what any self respecting vamp should do when in the presence of such goodness: gone up in flames. But Spike had no self-respect, and he'd never been one for following the crowd. If he was going out this way, he was damned if he wasn't going to experience every single moment of it and doubly damned if he was going to give in.

He lay half over her, covering her body with his own, her stolen heat making him feel flushed and sweaty for the first time in over a century. Sprawled beneath him, she panted in his ear: huge, loud breaths like she was drowning. The death grip she had on his shoulders slowly slackened, and her hands slipped down his arms to wrap loose shackles round his wrists. Her thighs were slick with sweat and their combined juices, and they slid easily from around his hips to splay on either side of him like a cradle of flesh. Slowly he lifted himself up on his elbows to look down at her.

Beautiful didn't seem like a strong enough word to describe her.

Her skin was rosy and pink, her mouth swollen and red from his kisses. Thick, dark lashes fanned against her cheeks, casting shadows like bruises. All the tension that had tightened her forehead and pulled at her mouth for the last month was gone, replaced by the kind of relaxation that only a really fantastic shag could give. Every breath she took was deep, making her breasts rise and fall; her perky nipples brushed his chest slightly with every inhalation, and sweat trickled in the valley between them. He wanted to bend his head and lap it up, like a dog licking its owner's sweaty hand, but it seemed too much effort.

"Sleepy," she mumbled, her lashes fluttering.

I should bloody well think so.

Still, he was hard, and who knew if she'd ever let him do this again? Clearly she hadn't been entirely in her right mind when he'd found her—insanity seemed to be the thing that prompted women to throw themselves at him, after all—and she hadn't yet come back fully to her senses. If this was going to end, he wanted one more, just one more, before she dusted him. Something slow and sweet he could take with him to hell.

He kissed her temple. "I've got you."

He moved his hips fractionally. It was all he could manage, and she seemed to be tighter now than when he'd plunged into her a lifetime ago—but he was buried deep, and the stew-pot they'd churned inside of her was more than enough to ease his way. Gently he brushed her hair from her sweaty forehead, his lips leaving slow kisses against her ear. The piercings there were driving him crazy, but he resisted the urge to tug on them with his teeth. He'd done that already, caused pain and taken it; this time he needed something different.

She moaned, her hips already raising a little to meet his, finding the beat easily. "... Spike?"

"Got you, baby," he breathed in her ear. "Just let me ... please let me … I want ..."

He didn't know what he wanted, really. He just knew he didn't want to stop, not yet. He needed time, so much more time. A lifetime to take her every single way there was, two lifetimes so he could do each, well, twice. A century or more to arrange her on his cock for his pleasure, to drain every single ounce of Buffy from her body that he could. A millennium so he could give it back and take it all over again.

There was a good chance he only had another ten minutes, so he better make each second count.

Soft moans turned to sighs, and then her arms were slipping around him again, her inner walls tightening impossibly. He could feel her pulse through his cock, her heart beating under his chest. The blood rushing through her veins sang its siren song to him, but he ignored it. Instead he focused on the tempo, the rhythm of Buffy, matching her beat for beat. With his weight on one hand, he skimmed the other up her side, played along her rib cage, then palmed her breast. His fingertips rested just over her heart.

"Please ..." she said so softly he barely heard it. Her hips arched toward him very slightly.

"I know," he said, and thrust deep. Let her feel him, feel all of him. Let her feel how deep inside of him she'd gotten. She whimpered and clung, her pace increasing. "Let go," he told her, feeling a surge of pleasure building inside of him. "Let go, Buffy. I've got you."

This time she didn't scream. This time she just gasped. Her eyes flew open and stared deeply into his. For a moment he wondered which god had taken pity on a poor wretch like him, to grant him this. And Spike was selfish enough to want to keep it, forever.

Then her inner muscles strangled his cock so hard that he had no choice. He spilled inside of her, and she milked him of everything—everything in him. In that moment he'd have given her anything, if she needed it. Buffy could have it all if she wanted.

Desperate to prolong the moment, Spike dipped his lips to kiss her—but she turned her head, and he only got her cheek.

Slowly, her whole body relaxed, and between one heartbeat and the next, she was asleep.

It wasn't nearly so easy for him.

Spike lay for a long time, listening to the rhythm of her pulse. There had been times, so many in the last bare handful of hours, when the temptation to fang out and drink had risen in him. Even now his teeth itched. There was no desire for her death, though. He'd merely wanted to taste her.

Instead he'd put his mouth to work in other ways, memorizing the salty tang of her skin, the sweet heat of her mouth, and later, delving between her thighs to discover the secrets her body was gushing all over him. Somehow, it satisfied. He thought about stealing another taste, seeing if he could make her come for him in her sleep, but the prospect of moving at this point left him exhausted.

He rolled to his back, then settled her half over him like a living Buffy-blanket. Her hair clung in sweaty tangles to their skin, and he played with it, his fingers gentle. He'd missed this, with Dru. She only had let him be gentle with her when she was sick and too weak to protest. Buffy would likely be the same. While she was unconscious, though, he'd enjoy the moment.

Maybe, he thought, as sleep started to catch up with him, this wouldn't have to end badly. Maybe when they woke, she'd stretch and smile, thank him for the best shag of her life, and ask for another round or twelve.

A vamp could dream, couldn't he?

***

When she woke up, the first thing Buffy saw was dust. It streaked the pale surface of whatever it was she was sleeping on. Sleepily, she tried to recall the events of the night before, but it wasn't until she pushed herself up to a sitting position, and Spike's arm fell from around her waist into her lap, that she remembered.

I had sex with Spike. Lots and lots and lots of really dirty sex ... with SPIKE.

Oh, shit.

He was still asleep. That was good. Better than good, really, because when he woke up she just knew things were going to go awfully, horribly wrong. That's what happened when she had sex with guys who were, underneath it all, bad. They got what they wanted, and then things went wrong. And unlike Parker, who—despite clearly being a real slime ball—had a soul, or Angel, who'd had a soul when she went to bed with him … Spike had nothing at all. Redeeming values, morals, ethics? No, no, and no. She'd gone to bed with a monster for real this time.

Clothes. Clothes would be good right now, only they were scattered all over the ...

She groaned.

Not only had she had sex with Spike, they'd done it on the Hellmouth. In the burnt-out shell of her old high school library with dead Mayor meat (ewwwww) still rotting in the corners and the express portal to hell not ten feet away. For a moment, Buffy seriously contemplated jumping in, because it was taking the earth an awfully long time to open up and swallow her. Then she heard Spike groan and shift, and there was no time for that. She had to find her clothes.

She was just tugging her shirt over her head when he yawned and opened his eyes. She glanced around for something to use as a stake if he went evil on her.

Well, more evil.

"Morning, sunshine," he drawled. He stretched lazily, completely unashamed of being very, very naked. EVIL! her brain screamed. On the other hand, it wasn't like she hadn't gotten an up close and personal tour of all that white skin and ropy muscle last night. Hell, she'd spent several hours experiencing the main attraction.

He froze, his eyes taking her in, and she licked her lips nervously. There was something predatory in the way his head tilted slightly and his eyes narrowed.

"Well," he said. "This the part where you tell me that last night was a mistake?"

"It was a mistake," she said, surprised that he would even need her to spell that out for him. "A big, gigantic mistake. We ... what we did ..."

"Felt good, didn't it?" There it was, that smug little smirk of his. "Felt damned good. Should've done that weeks ago."

"No ... no. There should have been no doing at all. What we did ... it was wrong and ... disgusting and ..."

He stood so fast she had no chance to recoil before he was in front of her—a solid wall of pissed off vampire. "Wrong, maybe. Can't think of too many things more wrong than shagging your mortal enemy. But disgusting—"

"Spike ... I ... we ... you …" Buffy backed up a step. "It was a mistake. I was ... upset, I think. And you took advantage."

"You started it," he said, stepping into her space again. His hand came up and wrapped around the back of her neck, his fingers twined in her hair. Little warning tingles spread from his fingers to trickle down her spine. One step closer, and he was pressed against her, his lips only an inch or two away. For all his faults, Spike was a really excellent kisser. It was tempting to lean in and close the distance, tempting to take what he was offering, but last night she'd been so full of fury and this morning ...

She couldn't.

Could she?

"God, you were glorious." She felt his words whisper against her own lips. "The way you move … Should've tried fucking Slayers instead of fighting them ages a—"

She shoved him away so hard that he landed on his ass and skidded backward in the dust. Still, she hadn't managed to dislodge his smirk. "Weren't you the one who said that I wouldn't be 'worth another go'?" she snarled.

He blinked at her, confused. "We were trying to kill each other, then."

As if that made it all peachy.

"Right." She sighed and looked around at the destruction. She hadn't even known this was her second home until it was gone. "That's why this was a mistake, and why it will never happen again."

Something flickered across his face, too fast for her to understand.

"Sure about that?" he asked, radiating conceit. "Now that you've had a taste, think you'll be able to keep your mitts off me?" He lounged back on his elbows, letting her get a good look at everything he had to offer.

And Spike definitely had a lot to offer. Her eyes—the traitors—drifted over the muscular planes of his chest and abdomen and ... wait.

Buffy frowned. He was really banged up. Bruises, scrapes, scratches and—oh, dear god, were those bite marks?—covered his pale skin. Had she ...?

"Should see my back, luv," he said, with a raised eyebrow. "Clawed me up proper."

"Don't call me that. Shut up and ... get dressed. You're revolting, Spike."

He sneered and reached for his jeans. "Remember that the next time you're begging to suck my cock, sweetheart."

Her eyes widened. "I didn't!"

"You didn't," he said, pulling his jeans over his hips, tucking himself away and slowly zipping up. When she glanced up at his face, he was grinning, his tongue touching his teeth. "But only cause I didn't let you."

***

She'd never considered that maybe the men who left after sleeping with her had been doing her a favor.

Behind her, Spike muttered something and kicked at a bit of broken concrete, sending it clattering to the floor. The sound echoed off the bent and twisted lockers, the piles of debris, and the fire doors that had been taken out, not by fire or explosion, but by a giant rampaging snake demon. Unsure what she expected to find, she let her feet guide her through hallways that she knew with her eyes closed—open, of course, they just gazed on a post-apocalyptic (well, almost) landscape from hell.

Kind of like her life, actually.

Last night had been a mistake. A seriously epic mistake. How it had happened, how she had let herself get to a point where sleeping with Spike had seemed like the thing to do, she had no idea. At the time it had seemed inevitable, something that had been building between them for months, years, possibly lifetimes. In the harsh light of day—well, the dim, filtered light of the broken school, anyway—it seemed a far worse transgression than any she'd made before. Once again, she'd slept with a vampire. This time she didn't even have love as an excuse.

Just ... loneliness. And lust. Lots and lots and lots of the lusties.

Okay, so, objectively speaking, Spike was ... attractive. For a vampire. His hair was a bit of a throwback, and he had no sense of style, but the body that he hid under all that black and leather was definitely of the yummy variety. And sometimes, usually when he wasn't trying to be, he could be almost, sort of, a decent guy ... for a demon.

What was it with her and evil guys? Clearly, she could never, ever have sex again.

Not that she would be faced with that possibility any time soon. Spike had gotten what he wanted, she supposed, though he'd seemed as surprised as she was the night before. It was only a matter of time before he ridiculed her, rejected her, or went on a massive killing spree. With Spike, there was a good chance that it would be all three—maybe even at the same time.

In the meantime, she wasn't sure what to do with a guy who didn't ditch her at dawn. He'd completely ruined her attempt to storm off and ignore him—instead he'd trailed her through the rubble of the high school. She couldn't face him, not with the scrapes and bruises and the still drying reminders of their night covering both of them. His scent was on her skin, her clothes, and that tickle on the back of her neck that used to warn her that he was near? Now it was a full-body charge, as if she was a compass needle and he was north.

If she closed her eyes she could still see him above her, hear the words he'd whispered in her ear—

"God, that smell is rank."

"Excuse me?" she said, half turning.

He kicked at a chunk of extra-crispy fried Mayor meat. "What the hell was this thing?"

"Oh. Um ... the Mayor, actually."

"Huh," he said. "There's Sunnydale for you. Nobody noticed the guy holdin' the press conferences was a bit scaly and about a hundred feet long?"

"He was human," she said. Ignoring him wasn't working, so maybe a change of subject was something to embrace. "Well, he was to start with. He sold his soul a few hundred years ago for a chance at the big evil. Some guys just aren't content to be snakes on the inside."

"Buffy ..."

Something in his voice made her stop and look back at him. He'd used her name again, she realized. The expression he wore wasn't one she was used to seeing on his face, and she wasn't sure she could name it. Whatever it was, though, it sent warning chills up her spine. Nothing that came out of his mouth now could possibly be a good thing.

"Spike," she said. "Let's not—talk."

His eyes narrowed, hardened.

"Gonna have to eventually," he said. "Buffy, we—"

"Shut up, Spike," she said, feeling her muscles tense. If he said one more word, she'd hit him.

"Do it." He leered, tongue curled behind his teeth and eyebrows raised. "Hit me. Know you want to."

Startled, she stepped back. "What? No."

"Go ahead, Slayer." His voice dropped to a rumbling purr that sent shivers dancing over her skin. "What's more? You know I'll like it."

"Get bent." Buffy held her ground.

He stepped closer. "Already am," he said with a smirk. "Bit to the right. As I recall, you seemed to enjoy it. Made you scream, didn't it?"

That's it. I'm officially sick. I can't believe I slept with him.

If only there were a way to undo time, she thought. Go back to where everything had gone so thoroughly wrong and fix it. Oh, sure, it would change the course of future events and everything, but surely the future world would be a better place if only she'd never screwed Spike. On the scale of one to apocalypse, she figured sleeping with the enemy had to rank right up there with ascending mayors and getting sucked into Hell.

If only she could dust him, it would simple things up so much.

But she still needed him.

And, god help her, it felt sort of good when his fingers came up to stroke her hair. How long had it been since anyone had touched her like that? Since anyone had touched her, really? She and Spike hadn't been real big on the touchies before this, and she felt starved for it. One of his hands came up to cup her hip, and he guided her back against the nearest wall of lockers.

"Stop it," she said.

"Make me," he said, and leaned into her, his mouth ghosting over her temple, down to her cheek. She should stop him. Right now. Really, she should. He was ... gross. And all ... gross. And a ... demon. Evil. The shivers he gave her had gone global, and even though she ought to be as wrung out as a sponge, somehow there was a fresh dampness spreading between her thighs. His fingers dipped under her sweater to stroke her skin. "Want you," he murmured against her ear. "Bloody hell. The things you make me want ..."

She could easily have said the same. Even as her brain screamed at her that this was a bad idea and hadn't she had enough, her body responded. Wherever he touched, electricity sparked, surged, brought with it rippling pulses of pleasure. It made her feel alive in a way she hadn't thought possible. Then there was his mouth devouring hers, a black hole of bliss that she could sink into—

His teeth nipped at her lower lip at the same time as he hoisted her up against the lockers, one hand gripping her thigh and spreading her wide enough that he could grind his erection against her. The impact jarred the row of lockers, and the nearest one banged open. She glanced at it out of the corner of her eye, barely registering what she was seeing. However, when Spike's head dipped to trail kisses over her throat, he turned her toward it inadvertently.

It took a moment for her hazy brain to catch up to her eyes.

Xander and Willow stared back at her from a slightly charred photograph taped to the inside of the locker door. They were smiling as if they hadn't a care in the world. She knew that photo well. She had a copy of it at home. The stickers that surrounded it told her she was looking at Xander's old locker.

He must not have cleaned it out before graduation.

"Mmm, fuck, Slayer ..." Spike said, his mouth moving back to hers. Suddenly ashamed to be caught with him, even if it was only by a photo of her friends, she shoved him away, hard.

"What—?" he said, but she lashed out without thought, punching him solidly in the jaw.

"I can't do this. I can't. We're ... this is wrong." She groped for a reason for her insanity, and landed on the most obvious answer. "This is the Hellmouth! We're only doing this because we were—"

Spike laughed mockingly, then shook his head. When he looked at her again, his eyes were pitying, and she hated that. "On the Hellmouth? Sorry, luv. That might be what you'll tell yourself so you can sleep tonight, but the truth is: there's something between us. Might be because we've been trapped together so long ... but it doesn't matter. It's there, Buffy. Can't you feel it? There's an attraction here."

"If you take one more step, it's gonna be a fatal one," she said.

He held up his hands and backed off, but the look in his eyes promised that they weren't finished.

"Fine," he said. "Have it your way, if it makes you happy, Slayer." He glanced around. "What are we doing here? Rubble patrol?"

"Yes. No. I don't know." She sighed. "We're here, can't we just ... be normal, forget last night happened?"

Spike was silent for so long she started to get nervous. There was a look in his eyes that sent chills skittering down her spine.

"Never," he said.

And suddenly she recognized his expression: his eyes were full of the same deadly intent she'd once seen when he was promising to kill her. And look how well that had turned out for him.

Then he grinned and the moment was gone. "But we can play at patrol, if you like. Gotta admit, it's nice to see the old alma mater. Got some fond memories of these hallways. Had our first fight here, do you remember, luv?" He sent a teasing glance her way, picked up a broken pipe and gave it an experimental twirl.

"Stop calling me that!"

Things you learn in school: storming off is hard when the floor is covered in fallen debris. Too much to trip on.

***

Two hours later, Spike was tired, cranky, footsore, and hungry. It might have improved his temper if she'd been speaking to him, but the majority of their communication had broken down into questions, responses, and the occasional threat—all as close to monosyllables as possible. Clearly, she'd be pleased if he simply combusted and joined the dust that coated every single surface of the building.

It was pathetic, he thought, the way he kept trailing after her, as if he were begging for a crumb. And maybe he was, but he didn't have to be such a bloody prat about it. He'd have crawled through fire for Dru, once upon a time, but he'd be damned if he'd follow this crazy bitch into the bowels of hell just to earn her approval and another shag.

Although ... she had been a really spectacular shag. Phenomenal even. It had been the sort of thing one might write bad poetry about ... if one were so inclined. Which he was not. In the least. Not even tempted. Just because part of his brain was trying to find a rhyme for golden lock meant nothing at all.

"Molten cock?" he muttered.

"What?" Buffy said, turning. If looks could stake ...

He kicked at some debris. "I said, 'fuckin' rock.' Stubbed my toe."

She rolled her eyes in patent disbelief.

Sometimes he really hated her.

"Are we about done here?" he asked. "I'm knackered. Didn't get much sleep—"

"Shut up, Spike," she said. Mouthy bitch.

"—yesterday because I was busy trying to find you a soddin' cake, just so you could shove it in my face, you ungrateful wench." For a moment, she had the grace to look ashamed of herself. He sort of liked the blush that stained her cheeks. Made her look girlish, like those prim young debutantes that his mother had once tried to foist him off on. Not that anyone looking at her now would think she was a debutante—not with her hair still a mess and her skin covered in the evidence of last night's escapades. "What are we doing here, Buffy?"

She frowned. "Why do you keep calling me that?"

He blinked. Sometimes the chit was thicker than treacle. "'S your name, innit? What's it short for anyway?"

"It's not. Short for, I mean. It's just Buffy. But you never call me by name, and now all of a sudden we're ... namey? Just because ..."

"We shagged?" He arched an eyebrow, then shrugged at her scowl. "What would you prefer I called you? Kitten? Pet? … My little Goldilocks?"

"Ugh, so not your anything."

"Or would you rather I stuck to Slayer?" he asked. So he sucked as a poet, it didn't mean he wasn't observant, and he saw the way her shoulders jerked back at the word, the way she stood a bit straighter. It filled her eyes with hate and loathing and disdain, which brassed him off a bit. "Reminds you of what you are, doesn't it? What you're supposed to do? Supposed to be? Reminds you that you've got a job to do ... sussing out this spell, takin' care of the world and all that rot? Killing me? Is that why I should keep calling you Slayer? So you can tell yourself how evil I am and how bloody perfect you ought to be. And so you can try to forget that when I touch you, you don't want me to stop?"

He ghosted his fingers along her hand; he couldn't help it. Now that he'd tasted her, she was in him—in his mouth, in his veins, in his head. Addictions he had, but this was something stronger than his craving for nicotine or alcohol, and for him, at least, it was far more deadly.

As clearly evidenced by the fist that broke his nose a second later.

"Ow! Fuck! Bloody hell!"

"Thanks for the reminder." Through the haze of pain that was his face, he saw her narrow her eyes and toss her hair. Then she was gone, slamming open a set of double doors that had somehow managed to stay intact despite the destruction around them. Sunlight blazed through, and he had to scramble back out of it.

"Good job, Spike," he muttered, dabbing at his bloody nose. "Bang up job, all around."