Nights in Sunnydale were usually pleasant, balmy even, but tonight it was positively tropical.  Fanning herself ineffectively with a magazine as she lay on top of the bed covers, she pictured the contents of the freezer.  Frozen carrots, peas, corn on the cob...and oooh!  Trays of ice cubes.  Lovely, trailing down her overheated body, the ice stinging as it melted to leave trickles of cooling water in its wake.  She loved that sensation; like a cool tongue lapping along!  Don’t go there!  Bad Buffy!  She was going to have to do something about her dreamland visitations before her friends found out, or Giles – or her mother!  It had to be part of the Slayer package.  Angel had been the focus of her attention for so long, maybe it was just habit.  

Whatever the cause, she was hot and bothered and desperate for something long, chilled, and refreshing.   

Mom and Dawn would be fast asleep now, it being almost the ass crack of dawn, and she was determined to get at least a couple of hours herself – even if it killed her.  Come to think of it, lack of sleep was probably the way she was going to go.  If she wasn't slaying, she was studying; or if not that, she was brooding on lost opportunities and wasted moments.  Angel: now off in LA fighting evil and no doubt fighting his own demon along with everyone else’s.  Willow and Xander: so close to her at the beginning and now with lives of their own that she couldn’t even begin to think about, and therefore felt guilty for.  Giles and his floundering struggle to be needed by her, useful.  Her mom, so distracted by the gallery and now with the headaches that had her asleep most of the day and night.  Dawn, with her strange and unsettling comments and questions about Spike. 

And Spike.  Why couldn't she stop thinking about Spike?  Every time she closed her eyes, he was there; cocky head tilt in that completely aggravating manner, full lips curled in a smile, or a sneer… a snarl – the full hit most nights – and that stupid hypno thing he did with his tongue poking out between his white teeth and accentuating his snarky comments… eating her with his eyes.    

And every night it ended the same way.   

Every night in dreamland she jumped his bones and every morning she woke with a kitty-got-the-cream grin and a damp patch on the sheets.  He'd even started to invade her daydreams.  The other day she'd almost moaned his name out loud while half-dozing in class, turning the “Spike” very quickly into a mumbled invite to Willow to go get some iced tea.   

Then there was Riley.  Well, let's just say that Riley quite often found himself the recipient of Spike-fuelled sex, and he wasn't complaining.  But it was getting tougher to hide.  

Buffy hated herself for doing it.  Hated how she couldn't get Spike out of her head.  Hated the way she kept looking out for him on patrol.  And especially hated the way when Riley was dutifully plugging away and smothering her with his bulk, she longed for a leaner, paler, nastier man to be lying between her legs. 

And that thought right there was the killer. Because he wasn't a man, was he?  He was a demon, a soulless, evil thing.  And god she wanted him so bad it was making her crazy.  In fact, part of the reason she'd moved back home from the dorm was so that she wouldn't have to see Riley as often and he wouldn't be able to keep tabs on her.  She wanted to be free to hunt. Vampires.  Well, yeah...but really just one in particular. 

She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of her window.  Was there somebody there, beneath the tree?  She thought she'd seen a flash of light, like a lighter flame. She squinted, pressed her body to the glass, but there was nobody around.  Must have been a trick of the light.   

She made her way downstairs, pinning her hair up away from her sweaty neck and shoulders, her flimsy baby doll pyjamas sticking to her damp body.  This heat wave was a killer.  She reached into the icebox and snagged a couple of ice cubes, immediately pressing them to her throat where they started to melt and run down between her breasts along her stomach, finally tickling along the curls at her groin.  She gasped; the feeling was delicious, like fingers running along her body...cold fingers.  Dead fingers.  She closed her eyes and bit her lip as she imagined the gorgeousness attached to those fingers knelt between her legs and looking up at her with deep, blue eyes.   

/You like that, baby?  You like what I do to you?/

Arrgh!  What the fuck was wrong with her?  She was like a bitch in heat for Spike and it was getting beyond a joke.  She needed to get rid of these feelings, and fast, before anyone noticed.  With a sigh of disgust, she reached further into the icebox and pulled out an ice pop, ripping off the wrapper and sucking it deep into her mouth as she stomped out of the kitchen and back to bed. 

+ + + + 

Spike shifted from his position in the shadows of the back porch and rubbed his chin thoughtfully – with the hand that wasn't giving his stiff dick a good squeeze through the denim of his jeans.  He'd taken up his regular vantage point beneath the tree in her yard just to watch her shadow through the curtains as she got undressed.  Pathetic.  He'd been doing it for months now, but the Slayer obviously had her vamp alarms turned off as she’d never so much as glanced in his direction. 

Except tonight.  When he saw her at the window he'd scooted back quickly, flicking shut the Zippo he'd just sparked to life.  She'd been a vision of heaven, her forehead pressed against the glass and her nipples clearly visible through the pale pink material of her skimpy top.  When she'd leant further forward and pressed her breasts against the window, he'd almost come right then and there.  Slayer nipples, nipples of Slayer -- practically begging for a good licking.  So as she moved away he'd followed her path through the house, skulking about beneath each window until finally she'd made it to the kitchen. 

Then things got interesting.  She'd gone straight to the icebox where she'd stood illuminated by the light inside and pulled out some ice.  He almost squashed his nose to the window to see better as she tilted her head back, lips parted, and pressed the ice to her throat. His eyes followed the trickle of water, biting his lip as the material of her top became see-through and her nipples hardened even more.  She had a look of pure ecstasy on her face, her free hand briefly fluttering over her damp top and brushing her breasts, leaning into her own touch.   

And just as suddenly it was over.  She shook her head, her brow creased, a near snarl on her lips as she bent forward and grabbed something else from the freezer.  She walked away, stuffing an ice pop straight into her mouth and sucking on it furiously as she wrapped her tongue around it. 

The sight of the Slayer's mouth tight around the Popsicle, the merest hint of her tongue as it flicked out to catch the drips, had Spike's eyes rolling in his head.  He'd just managed to dodge back away from the window and into the shadows when she'd passed him by, looking so innocent but with a side of whore as she twirled and licked the iced treat. 

So now he was left with an aching groin and a yearning for hot Slayer body -- again -- kicking himself for having a Slayer fetish. 

+ + + + 

Buffy woke a mere three hours after finally falling asleep, and dragged herself out of bed.  The sheets were tangled where she'd kicked and writhed in her sleep, the Popsicle she'd hoped to cool her down strangely heating her instead.  She'd dreamed again, more of the same, but more vivid than usual.  In fact, these days, sleeping was way more tiring than being awake.   

And more entertaining… if that was even possible. 

“Hey, Buffy. Want pancakes?  I'm making them for Dawn anyway.” 

Buffy nodded at her mom and slid into her seat at the island.  Dawn carried on with spooning cereal into her mouth quicker than the human eye could follow, barely glancing up at her sister.  Buffy yawned loudly and leant her head in her hands. 

“You okay, sweetie?  You look tired.  Have you been... slaying a lot?  Because you do have school to think about.  Couldn't you cut back a little?” 

Buffy raised her head wearily.  “Mom, I know you mean well, but you have to let go of this thing you have that I can just decide not to slay – it doesn’t work that way.  It's not a job, mom.  It's a calling.  I don't have a choice.” 

Joyce Summers bit her lip.  She really didn't mean to nag her daughter, but she worried, and that came out as whining sometimes without her being able to stop it.  Buffy may be the vampire slayer, but she was still her little girl. 

“I know, Buffy, and I’m sorry.  But I can't just not care about you either.  You're getting dark circles under your eyes and you hardly eat.  So, do mom a favour and eat these, and I’ll try not to nag.  Okay?”  A plate stacked with pancakes oozing butter and maple syrup slid in front of Buffy and she managed a grin. 

“Yeah, no problem.  Dawn, hand me a fork.” 

Dawn pushed one over without looking up, now deep into her own pancakes.  Nothing distracted her sister once she was set on food inhalation.  Without a word, Dawn was finished and flying up the stairs to get ready for school, leaving Buffy and her mom sitting either side of the island. 

There was no sound for a while, save for the clink of cutlery on plates, the stirring of Joyce's coffee and appreciative murmurs as pancakes were consumed. 

“So, Buffy – I haven't seen Riley in a while.  Is everything okay between you two?  He seems a fine young man, very solid and reliable.”

Buffy rolled her eyes.  Yeah, that was Riley.  Solid.  Reliable.  Normal.  Boring.  Where the hell had that thought come from?  He was perfect boyfriend material after the disasters that had been Angel and Parker. 

But if that was true why the hell was she constantly thinking of someone – something – else whenever they were together? 

“He's fine, mom.  Last time I checked.  It's just... well, I think maybe we need a break or something.  I've got you to look after and Dawn's become a handful.  School's real busy and...”  Lame.  Excuses, every one of them.   

Joyce didn't comment, just sat and sipped her coffee, willing to listen but not wanting to pry.  Buffy rarely shared her problems with her, choosing instead to work through them alone.  But she seemed to be opening up a little. Everybody needed somebody to talk things through with.  Why, Spike had been round only last night telling her how lonely he was.  He was such a strange vampire; it was all too easy to forget he was a demon – except he was prone to vamp out when he was particularly involved in a rant.  The first time he'd done that she'd dropped her cup and he'd gloated that he still had it in him to scare people – until he'd realised it was Joyce and become all penitent, picking up the pieces of the broken cup and making a fresh drink for her in a new one.   

After that, she didn't let him see it affected her.  She wanted him to feel comfortable here. She liked him. All the boy needed was a little mothering, and she could spare a little maternal affection for him.  She was jolted to realise Buffy was still speaking, and she'd zoned out thinking about Spike.  What kind of a mother was she? 

“...and I think he's a little bit jealous or something about the slaying.  So, what do you think I should do?” 

Joyce regrouped quickly.  “Well, some boys might feel threatened by strong women.  Perhaps you could behave a little more 'girly' around him?  If you want to that is; don't feel that you have to.  A good relationship can’t be built on pretending to be something you're not.”  Joyce got to her feet and went to rinse her cup, leaving Buffy staring into her glass of juice as she thought on her mother's words. 

It was true.  She'd been doing it for months -- since the day they'd met, if she was truthful -- trying so desperately to be normal.  To be something she wasn't. 

As she showered and dressed, Buffy mused on her love life.  It wasn't working at all, and that was before she started with the vampire dreams that had her all hot and horny, ruining her for any human boyfriend.   

Suddenly it hit her.  That was the problem.  She wasn't normal and never would be.  So what made her think a normal boy would be enough for her?   


She'd been so sure that she could be happy with a normal life despite being the slayer, but it was all for nothing.  She definitely needed more… a little monster in her man.  Where had she heard that before?  She thought about it all the way to class and through morning break as she sat with Willow in the lunch room.  Those exact same words; somebody had said them or somebody had told her that somebody had said them, laughing about it at the same time. 


“What?  Here?  But it's daytime...” Willow glanced about her, cupcake dangling in her fingers. 

“Huh?  No, not here – I was just thinking about him and…what?” 

“You’re thinking about Spike?” 

Buffy blushed.  “No!  Not in that way!”  It was only a tiny lie.  “I was trying to remember who'd said something and then I remembered it was Spike.” 

“Oh.  That’s good.  Because it would be majorly freaky if you really were sitting here daydreaming about Mr Grrr I Wanna Bite You.” 

Buffy smiled and ate her muffin.  Yeah, freaky Buffy, that was her.   

+ + + + 

Bugger.  No smokes, and it was still light outside.  He was trapped for an hour or two with no distraction but the telly and some out-of-date blood bags in the fridge.  Of course there was always his private collection…maybe he'd take a trip through that, get the blood pumping, whack himself some man meat and while away some time.   

Mind made up, he headed downstairs to his secret hidey-hole.  He inhaled, out of habit, and held the breath before sweeping aside the curtain that hid his gallery and moving forward.  His hands lingered over every photograph, tracing the curve of her face as he drank her in.  Stolen photos, every one.  There was one with her mom and the Bit that he particularly loved because she looked so happy, smiling and eyes twinkling with life; the one with Red and Harris was crumpled where he'd ripped it out of the frame, the corner missing; and then there was his absolute favourite, Buffy, about a year ago, sun shining on her hair, head thrown back as she laughed at something out of frame, her eyes staring straight at him.  He'd happened upon that one when he'd visited with Joyce one night and she'd left the room to answer the phone.  

He hadn't felt guilty about rummaging – he was evil after all – and his trawl had also turned up a pair of panties and a silk top that had Slayer musk on them.  They were added to his collection and now resided in the box he was about to stick his head into. 

If Buffy knew he had her unmentionables stashed away for the occasional sniff as needed – well, he'd be so much dust on the wind come morning.   

But that scent was worth any risk. 

He snatched up the panties and crumpled them in his fingers, bringing them to his nose.  The aroma was fading but was still there, still pure Slayer, and still enough to get him rock hard and growling.  He cast his eyes over the back wall, his gaze lingering on the pencil drawings that had spilled out of him one long, long night when his only companion was his left hand, some spit and a bottle of JD.  They were good, and he wondered – not for the first time – why he'd invested his artistic talents in poetry rather than drawing; he was clearly not cut out for the former, and excelled at the latter.  

But that was him all over; he much preferred drawing with words than with charcoal, even if nobody else appreciated him.  Always the rebel.  The big bad. 

His olfactory fix in hand, he sauntered off to the satin-covered bed and got comfortable on the pillows.  He sniffed the fabric, his free hand cupping himself through the jeans, and imagined that he'd just ripped the panties from the warm and willing body of the Slayer.  She was lying there, waiting for him, stroking her hands down her body the way he'd seen her do it last night in her kitchen.  Her lips parted and she gasped his name as she thrust two, no three, fingers deep inside her wet pussy and arched her back.  He unzipped his jeans and quickly gripped his cock, his hand moving faster as he pictured her beckoning to him, smiling and cooing dirty words of lust and longing as she got on her knees and looked back over her shoulder at him.  When imaginary Buffy huskily whispered 'fuck me Spike' he shot his load, spattering the pilfered clothing and mixing his scent with hers.   

He grinned, sated and relaxed now as he wiped himself down with the panties.  He could imagine her so clearly now, had her image imprinted on his brain so strongly that he could almost reach out a hand and touch her.  Spike zipped himself up and rolled off the bed.  He sensed that the sun was almost low enough for him to go out, and he was eager to catch up with the real thing, maybe piss her off enough so that she punched him or something.  Any touch was better than none. 

+ + + + 

Buffy had declined any assistance from her friends on patrol tonight.  She was a little annoyed at the eagerness with which her 'buddies' had waved goodbye and left her to it, but it was probably for the best.  She wasn't exactly in a friendly mood and anyway, vamp activity was at an all-time low, save for that brief period after the Harvest when Sunnydale was almost the typical hometown USA.  The usual assorted demons seemed to be on vacation too.  She wandered through Restfield Cemetery twirling her stake and musing on just where demons went for vacation.  Dollywood, maybe?  Seemed evil enough... 


Buffy prayed he couldn't sense her excitement at bumping into him.  She loved the way he did that, the whole appearing out of nowhere thing.  Got her pulse racing, blood pumping.  Got her stomach fluttering and her groin throbbing.   

God, she hoped he couldn't tell! 

“Slayer.  Popped by to visit me then?” 

She snorted.  “As if!  No – come to slay.  Get out of my way.” 

“Oh, threats in rhyming couplets now!  I'm impressed.  Where’s Janet and John?  Early to bed, tucked up with cocoa and a nice story?” 

Buffy frowned.  Why did she have to come with an escort?  She was the Slayer, the Chosen ONE.  She could cut it without the entourage. 

“If you must know, I told Willow and Xander I’d patrol alone.  Not that it's any of your business.  Now move.” 

Spike stepped aside and mock bowed, finishing off with a flourish of his arm.  Buffy started forward and he fell into step at her side, hands thrust into the pockets of his duster, silent – for now.  She risked a glance at him as he walked with her, her eyes zeroing in on his full bottom lip and the sharp angle of his cheekbones.  And his eyelashes...she'd never noticed how dark they were and the way they cast shadows across his cheekbones.  Whoa!  Don’t look!  Now she was scaring herself. 

Spike saw her take a look when she thought he wouldn't notice, noted the quizzical expression on her face, the furrowed brow.  Slayer was having serious thoughts without a doubt, thoughts about him by the looks of it.  He smiled quickly before plastering on a couldn't-care-less scowl and humming to himself.      

Half an hour later and it was clear that there wasn't going to be any vamp action tonight.  Well, none of the dusty variety: Spike had his own ideas.   

Buffy twirled her stake, her entire body thrumming with restrained... something.  Being so close to Spike and without any violence to leech off the adrenaline was sending her pulse into the stratosphere.  There was no way she could just go home, not in this state.  She'd be climbing the walls.  And Spike was just striding along, humming away.   

“Can you stop that?  You're making my teeth itch.” 

“Stop what, Slayer?  Give a guy a clue. 'm just walking here.” 

“No, you're not.  You're walking and humming.  Nah – make that cruisin’ for a bruisin’.” 

He started singing the song he'd been humming.  Under his breath.  And tapping out the rhythm on his thigh. 

“Gah! That's worse.  What is it anyway?” 

“You don't know?  It's a bloody classic is what it is.  Sex Pistols?  Pretty Vacant?  Fucking hell, Cloth ears, – where have you been?” 

Buffy stopped and turned to him, hands on hips and eyes flashing.  “Well, Spike – I think you'll find I wasn't even a twinkle in Dad’s eye when the Sex Pistols were around.  And even if I had been, it doesn't sound like my thing.  There's no tune – or if there is, you're murdering it.  Try something a bit snappier.  Some Britney perhaps.” 

Spike almost choked.  “Wash your mouth out, Slayer!  Bubblegum pop’s for wankers.  Nah, you can fuck right off if you think I'm gonna serenade you with that shite.” 

Buffy slapped him across the face, a smug grin appearing on her lips.   

“What the hell was that for?  Almost broke my pissin’ jaw.” 

“At least you wouldn't be able to talk dirty then.  Really, you have a potty mouth.” 

Spike blinked in astonishment.  Was she for real?  “Would you listen to yourself?  Potty mouth?  I haven’t a fucking clue what you're on about, Slayer.  And that bloody well hurt.”  He was rubbing his face and eyeing her warily.  He barely dodged the open palm that was about to connect with his cheek.  “Oy!  Pack it in.” 

“You’re gonna stop swearing?” 

“Erm let’s see… no!  'm a soddin' vampire.  What?  You want me to talk all pretty and nice like the new sweetie pie?” 

He didn't miss the tightening of her lips or the shift of her eyes before she waved her hand in dismissal.  “You wouldn't last a minute with Riley.  He'd whup your bony ass in ten seconds flat.” 

Spike grinned.  All was not well in paradise; didn’t take a genius to read the signs. 

“Ooh, would this be the bony ass you’re referring to, Slayer?”  Spike twirled round and lifted his duster, bending slightly and wiggling his behind, smirking and raising an eyebrow.   

He didn't miss the stifled giggle or the widening of her eyes, and filed that information away to be used later.  He was having a great night so far; patrolling, snarking and almost getting the come-on from the Slayer.   

Spike decided to press his luck a little further.  Buffy had snorted at him and tossed her silky hair, stalking off – but not too far, he noticed – and he was at her side in moments.  She sneaked a sidelong glance but didn't speak and all too soon they were at the edge of the cemetery.  They stood, awkwardly toeing the ground and avoiding looking at each other.  Spike, with his usual lack of patience, couldn't take it any longer and broke the silence. 

“Right then, Slayer, I'm off. Evil to do, mayhem to make.  You know how it is.” 

Still he didn't move.  Nor did she. 

Spike lit up a cigarette and Buffy wrinkled her nose and it was all he could do not to grab her and kiss the cute little button.  He was looking away when she spoke and he almost missed her words. 

“What was that, Slayer, say again?” 

“Doesn't matter, bad idea,” she mumbled.   

“No, go on – I was scanning for vamps, a bit distracted.  You were saying...” 

Buffy swallowed hard.  She’d almost bit her tongue when she found herself saying the words the first time; she wasn't sure she could repeat them.  Still, nothing ventured... and it was still early. 

“I was just thinking... look, it's a bad idea and why did I mention it.  It's's still early and there's not gonna be any action here... and... I mean... Oh forget it.  I'll see you... oh what does it matter when I see you.  I'm just gonna...” 

Spike raised a scarred eyebrow, which for some reason seemed to be directly linked to her pulse rate, and her words of dismissal dried on her tongue.  She took a deep breath. 

“Look, do you wanna go to the movies?  They're showing a triple feature, bound to be something you like.  Only... I've no idea what you like.” 

/You.  I like you./ 

“Oh, anything with shit loads of blood and lots of screaming agony works for me, Slayer.  Texas Chainsaw Massacre, maybe?” 

“Ewwww.  And so dated!  I think I saw that it was Die Hard...Die Harder and erm...Die Hardest?  Retro violence, every girl’s hot dream date.” 

Her hand flew to her mouth and stopped there, eyes wide as she realised what she'd said. 

Spike held his cigarette halfway to his lips, mouth open and eyes fixed on the Slayer and her heated cheeks.  What to do now?  Call her on it?  Ignore it?  Walk away and act like it never happened? 

Nah, not his style.  He didn't let fate run his life.  He hogtied fate until he got what he wanted then he tied it up some more until he got it better.  Without thinking beyond the moment, he dropped the cigarette and stepped close to slide his hands into the hair at the back of her neck and draw her closer.  There was no hesitation, Buffy simply dropping her hand and leaning towards him, her eyes closed and her lips parting as he lowered his head. 

The brush of his cool lips on hers scorched, and she gasped against him, Spike taking advantage and slipping his tongue inside her mouth to wrap around hers.  He tilted his groin forward and was gratified to feel her shift slightly so that she could lean more fully against him.  Part of his brain was telling him to run, flee the Slayer with the sharp, sharp stake who was bound to dust his undead ass once she came to her senses.  But the other more dominant part was ecstatic that he finally had the object of his obsession pressed up hard against him and moaning with what he could only presume was pleasure.   

Buffy was fighting her own internal battle.  She knew what she was doing; boy did she ever!  But the Slayer in her, which wanted to screech with disgust, was presently being wrestled into submission by the triumphant woman who was finally getting a hold of the dream lover who'd melted her flesh night after night.  Of course it was wrong, on so many levels – but when had anything ever felt so right?  Without conscious thought, her arms snaked up to caress the back of Spike's head, her fingers playing with the soft curls at the nape of his neck. 

She remembered this.  Had guiltily played this scene over and over in her head while Riley loomed above her.  No amount of self-censoring would remove her memory of sitting on Spike's lap and kissing him until she was dizzy while under Willow's 'do my will' spell.  But this was so much better.   

Buffy almost bit his tongue as she felt his hand sneak under her top and start to trace its way around to the fastening of her jeans.  His hand stopped and Buffy cursed herself for interrupting the moment.  Then she realised that it was probably just as well because she was seconds away from jumping him then and there at the edge of the cemetery, in full view of passers-by.  She took a step back, reluctantly letting go. 

Spike hung his head, thrust his hands in his pockets, and then shot her a speculative look from beneath lowered lashes.  She certainly didn't seem annoyed or about to go gung-ho on him; in fact, she looked disappointed and a little puzzled.  He just couldn't figure her out.  Was she pissed off with him?  He didn't see her cradling the stake... perhaps he'd live to bite another day.  Or was she every bit as hot for him as he was for her?  Ah the stuff of which dreams are made… he'd gathered enough tonight to keep him going for months! 

Even so, he nearly fell over when she started to speak. 

“So, Die Hard?  You up for it?  Better go now or we'll miss the last showing.” 

+ + + + 

There'd been a minor scuffle in the foyer of the multiplex due to Spike wanting to sneak in and Buffy being horrified at the thought.  Further arguing ensued when Spike admitted he didn't have any money on him and therefore Buffy would have to pay for him if they were going in the traditional way.  Buffy beamed at him, waving the dollars in front of his nose as she asked for two tickets. 

“Here you go, honey.  My treat.  I’ll even pay for the popcorn.”  She was laughing, having fun and more relaxed than she'd been in ages.  It suited her.   

“I wouldn’t say no to a nibble,” Spike smirked and whipped the ticket from her fingers; secretly chuffed that he'd brought a smile to her lips.   

“In your dreams!” she retorted, slapping at his hand. 

“Don't push it, Slayer” he growled.  “Forking out for tickets to some action flick doesn’t buy you… any… real… action.”  He punctuated his words with a crotch grab and pelvic thrust.  Buffy squeaked, bundling him in front of her through the doors to avoid anybody seeing.  

“Stop that!  Spike, you come out with me, you behave.  Okay?” 

“Maybe.  If you're good.  Will you be good, Slayer?” 

Buffy blushed, thankful his back was to her, plus it was dark.  Her pulse was racing again at the thoughts flashing through her brain.  Oh, she'd be good – could guarantee it, in fact.  In her dreams he was always begging for more… couldn’t get enough of her. 

There were plenty of empty seats so she groped along to the nearest row and pushed him ahead of her.  “Sit.  Shut up.  Watch.” 

She plopped down beside him with a humph, eyes fixed forward and hand dipping in and out of the megatub of popcorn on her lap.  Spike settled back in the seat, legs splayed and arms leaning on the plush armrests, his elbow invading Buffy's personal space and earning him a few nudges until they reached an elbow understanding that suited them both.  The trailers were just about finished, and the screen darkened in preparation for the main feature.   

Buffy stiffened as she felt the pressure of a hand dipping into her popcorn bucket, but forced herself to relax.  She was just so tense being this close to him, over-reacting to everything.  She'd no idea what had prompted her to push him into going on a 'date' instead of smacking him in the head and running home, probably she just hadn't wanted to leave him.  She'd figure it out later, maybe watching some action on screen would block out the jitters in her brain.   

Spike grabbed a handful of popcorn and started munching noisily, Buffy tutted and shushed him before shoving the bucket across to him to forestall any cocky response.  He took another handful and slipped further down in his seat, one leg now crossed against the other and resting on his thigh. The film started and they were both soon comfortably engrossed in Bruce Willis’s heroics and his increasingly dirty vest.   

Reality returned with a bang when the classic popcorn accident happened; the whole thing tipped on the floor though when they both reached in at the same time and ended up holding hands.  Time ticked by as they gazed at each other in the flickering light of the screen, neither of them making a move – now the initial shock was over – to pull away. 

It was the husky “Buffy” that did it.  The look in his eyes, soft and tender and raw; the way he bit his bottom lip nervously, his fingers gripping onto hers and refusing to let go. 

Buffy kicked the bucket out of the way and turned fully in her seat, bringing her free hand to cup his cheek.  He leaned into her touch and dragged her across and onto his lap, ignoring the uncomfortable tip up seat and the armrests digging into his legs.  He concentrated instead on the perfect weight of her as she settled up against him, the heat of her skin and her hot breath as she moved even closer.  Incredibly, it was even better than his memories. 

A little niggling thought at the back of Buffy's mind reminded her that one, she was the slayer and he was a vampire and two, she was about to do the dirty on Riley – but she squashed it quickly, deciding that she must be suffering from some sort of delusion, given her continuing dream activities.  Maybe a little heavy petting would see an end to her problem.   

She kissed him.   

Their surroundings ceased to exist for them as they got hot and heavy in the next to back row.  The instant their lips touched, Buffy was consumed with a desperate need to be closer to him, her fingers scrabbling at the soft leather of his duster as she tugged at it wildly.  Spike shrugged his shoulders, lifting himself from the seat with Buffy astride him as he tried to make room for her to get her hands under his clothes.  He held her close with one hand spanning her back just above her ass as he wriggled out of the sleeves and sat back down. 

She drew back with a gasp, panting for breath, eyes bright and wide in the dim light.  What was she doing?  She was living the dream, that was what.  Taking heed of Faith's words: WANT . TAKE. HAVE. 

One or two curious filmgoers looked around, quickly turning back round as Spike growled and flashed them a fang.  He wasn't about to let them spook the Slayer now, not when she was hot and wet against him.  And bold though she was, he doubted she was ready for a voyeuristic shag just yet.  

Their eyes locked and he counted the beats of her heart, terrified in case she'd come to her senses and would run.  But she didn't. 

A small, warm hand tugged at his snug black t-shirt, sneaking beneath to stroke deliciously across his cool skin.  His abs clenched as she ran her palm down, her fingers lingering a moment before she seemed to make a decision and they slowly inched down towards his groin.  He tried to stifle the groan of pleasure, biting down on his lower lip and closing his eyes, his dick throbbing inside the tight denim of his jeans as he struggled to keep control. 

The sound of his zipper being lowered rasped loud in his ears, but thankfully the gun battle on screen drowned it out of everybody else's hearing.  The only thing louder was her heartbeat, and that was beating up a storm.  Her fingers moved even lower, the wiry curls at his groin bending and wrapping her fingers as they neared his cock. 

And then she had her fist encircling him and squeezing and he keened deep in his throat at the feel of her sliding her hand up and down his length.  With a groan he shifted slightly, leaning forward and stilling her with a hand over hers.  Too much.  Too soon.  He wanted it so badly that it would all be over before it had really begun if she carried on. 

She looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, her uncertainty and insecurity plain to see.  As she began to withdraw her hand from his fly, he quickly slid his own beneath her top and roughly cupped her breast, his thumb rubbing over her nipple until it hardened.  Her head slipped back, her throat enticingly close to his mouth, the scent of her skin, her arousal, filling his nostrils and causing him to harder even more.  He worked his free hand round to the front and unbuttoned her jeans, delighted when she leaned into his touch and arched her back, making him swallow hard.  

Fuck was she wet!  And hot, so very hot. He'd rarely felt warm, female flesh apart from very briefly as his prey died in his arms; this heat might just be enough to kill him.   

Buffy stifled the urge to shove him backwards and just take what she wanted.  He was driving her crazy, his cool fingers trailing across her heated mound and stopping just short of her aching clit.  Touch me dammit!  She clenched her teeth to stop from screaming out. 

Nothing could stop the groan when he parted her folds and slid a finger along her slickness, not stopping until he'd buried one, then two fingers, deep inside her pussy.  She rocked against him, her hips moving of their own volition as she sought relief from the aching need building in her.   

Aching for him. 

Only for him. 

Just this merest touch was sending chills along her flesh and she spared a thought as to why it felt so good, so right, and why nobody else had ever gotten her so aroused.  Then he added a third finger and she lost all capacity for thought... 

She clutched at his shoulders as she came, grinding against his hand to ride out her orgasm, but still wanting more.  She fluttered her eyes open and looked at him through the haze of lust, her pulse thundering in her ears.   

“Spike...?”  Her husky tones rocketed to his dick and he tugged at her jeans, sliding them down with her help until they were part way down her thighs, Buffy tugging and bending to free one leg...  He shimmied his own down a little, his cock springing free and hard, a pearly drop of precum shining in the light of the movie playing on the screen.  Buffy reached out a finger and gathered the liquid, surprising herself – and Spike – when she brought it to her lips and licked it clean, flicking her tongue to collect every single drop.   

That was it; game over.  He was only unhuman after all; he couldn't take any more foreplay.  He growled her name ominously and gripped her hips, Buffy stilling with her finger sucked between her lips.  Her heart thudded in her chest. 

This was it.  The moment she'd played out so often in her dreams, waking wet and weary with unresolved lust; now she was going to see if real Spike could get it done where dream Spike left her wanting.  She pulled the finger from her mouth with a pop, bending it and beckoning him to her. 

Her upper body jerked back with the force of him pulling her towards him across his lap and sinking his cock deep inside her slick channel.  She gasped, his girth filling her and cooling her and sending her frantic with want.  She wrapped her arms around his neck, gripping him tightly and smashing her lips on his, biting and licking and tasting him desperately. 

The fixed seating creaked as Spike thrust up into her; he knew that half the scattered audience had turned to see what the rhythmic sound was and were now watching the back row rather than the big screen, but he didn't care.  Buffy had her back to them anyway, and he couldn’t no more stop even if the house lights went on.  Her warm pussy gloved him tightly, squeezing his cock and sending his eyes rolling.  He couldn't last much longer, the Slayer's moans and whimpers sending him crazy, her teeth nipping at his lips.  She was drawing blood and he couldn't... 

His brow ridges emerged, his fangs descending as he lost control of the demon and bit down hard on her lip.  Buffy squealed with pain, but it didn't stop her bucking, grinding down harder against him. The taste of her blood mingling with his sent him over the edge and his fingers bit deeper into the flesh of her hips as he lifted her, slamming her back down over and over again as he filled her with his semen. 

Buffy's orgasm followed, its intensity jolting through her like lightning.  She couldn't help it: she drew away from his bloody mouth and screamed her pleasure, not caring that every eye in the theatre was now gawping open-mouthed at the surprise main feature. 

She panted, dizzy and disorientated, but still holding on to him like her life depended on it. As her pulse slowed, she took a deep breath and opened the eyes she'd screwed tight shut.  He was staring at her, blue eyes wide and limpid, lips bruised with a trickle of blood at the corner.  

She'd done that. Oh god, she'd done that – bitten him, tasted his blood.  Had let him taste hers.   

In light of the fact that she was presently astride him with his softening cock still inside her, the rest of the moviegoers no doubt outraged at the hussy in the back, what did it say about her that the blood swapping shocked her the most?   

Said she was the Slayer, that's what – and that Spike was a vampire. 

There was a smattering of applause and attention returned to the film.  She made to get off him, restrained by iron fingers that gripped tight before she could slink off.  Spike knew exactly what she wanted to do now; she wanted to disappear into the night, forget this ever happened, and deny it both to herself and to him.   

But that was not going to happen.  She would acknowledge him, let him into her life, or she could stake him.  It was clear to him now that his obsession with her had reached such a pitch that he had to have completion of one sort or another.  

And after tonight, he couldn't ever go back to just being someone she tolerated because he might prove useful.   

Buffy wriggled in his grasp, grabbing his arms and pushing him away.  “Get off me!  Let go!” 

His voice was deep, hard; he held her tight as he forced her to meet his eyes and spoke deliberately. 

“No.  Not happenin', Slayer.  'm not a toy you can pack away now, and you are not a little girl.  You felt something tonight; I know it because I felt it too.  Just admit to yourself that this was the best you've ever had.  Just say it and I'll let you go.” 

Buffy was breathing heavily, fighting the urge to latch on to his full, sensuous mouth.  She hated him for it, but he was right.  Her dreams had been a weak imitation of the feelings he'd awoken in her.  Hell, just look where she was – half naked in the movies, reeking of sex and in full view of who knew how many leering onlookers.  Normal Buffy would rather die than find herself in that situation, but the new, Spike-obsessed Buffy was getting off on it.   

She couldn't handle it.  Before he could react, she backhanded him across the face, splitting his lip further and shocking him into dislodging his grip.  She vaulted backwards, leaping over the row of seats and dragging on her jeans.  Spike leapt up, his vampiric countenance terrifying in the shadowed auditorium, his feral growl pushing her slayer buttons and forcing her to ready for fight or flight.  He tucked himself away quickly, fastening his pants and lunging at her in almost one movement.  But she was too quick, and headed for the exit.  She had to get away from the audience so that she could do...whatever it was she was going to do... 

As she ran outside, she pondered on that thought.  What was she going to do?  Stake him?  Kiss him?  Rip off his clothes and jump him on the street?  She instinctively quickened her pace and headed back to the cemetery, drawing him away from people.  Because he would follow her, of that she was sure.  She was counting on it. 

The skin on the back of her neck prickled and she knew he was behind her, gaining on her.  She didn't speed up, deliberately holding back until she could hear the flap of his duster as it billowed out behind him.   

“Slayer!” he bellowed; he was not happy.  She ignored him, carried on running, the cemetery walls now in sight. 

“SLAYER!”  The venom in his voice shocked her and she stumbled, righting herself and making it to the cemetery gates just as he grabbed her shoulder and yanked her to a halt.  “Hey!  Don't ignore me, bitch!” 

Buffy turned, eyes hurt despite the fact that it was her actions that had him snarling and pissed.  She opened her mouth to retort, but couldn't round the lump she found in her throat.  Swallowing hard she managed to speak, softly. 

“Let go of me, Spike.  I can't do this, I'm sorry.  I just...I shouldn't have...I'm sorry.” 

Spike tightened his grip on her but his tone softened at her obvious distress.  It hurt him that she was hurting, but he wasn't going to be her dirty little fuck fix.  Not if he could help it.  “No.  You will listen to me.  You want to run away from this, Buffy – from me – but you're gonna hear me out.  Come on.” 

Spike dragged her towards his crypt, and after some token resistance Buffy let him.  He was right; they had to sort this out.  The taste of him was supposed to slake her thirst for vampire temperature skin and kisses; it disturbed her that it had had the opposite effect -- she wanted to drown in him. 

It had to stop.   

They'd reached Spike's crypt, Buffy being hustled through the door and roughly released to stumble to a halt by the scruffy armchair. 


She opened her mouth to protest, the words dying on her lips as she watched him pacing, muttering to himself under his breath.  She sat. 

Hands on hips he stopped, inches away from her, his eyes wild and flashing icy blue.  She was more scared of him in that moment than she'd ever been.  She swallowed, trying to moisten her dry throat.  Facing the entire population of the Hellmouth couldn't be as terrifying as listening to what she anticipated spilling from his mouth. 

“Christ, Slayer, do you want to tell me what that crap was that you just pulled?  Because I know what I feel… 'm drownin' in you, can't get enough of you, can I?  Why the buggerin’ fuck do you think I traipse after you night after night like some pathetic whipping boy, helping you white hats when I could be setting myself up to rule the roost.  Have you forgotten I'm a master vampire?  Just because I’m muzzled doesn't mean I couldn't get minions to do the dirty work.”  

He glared at her, as if that alone could make her see.  When that didn’t work, and she remained silent, he finished his tirade. 

“And you wanna know why I haven’t done that?  Because you wouldn't like it; and I'm sick and twisted and love's fucking bitch again.  But then tonight...fuck me, Buffy.  I never dreamed you'd...well, I did dream but that’s beside the point... in all my years no one has ever made me feel like that.  I've tasted you and I can't not taste you again.  So if you’re gonna cold-shoulder me you’d better stake me now.” 

His arms waving had punctuated his every word, his posture giving away his nervous energy and his sincerity.  Her eyes were wide and stunned; she'd expected him to mutter dirty words of lust and 'doing a slayer'.  Instead, he'd almost said... he couldn't mean... 

Spike dropped to his knees in front of her, rooting through his pockets until he found a stake, which he turned towards his heart and pressed against his skin.  He reached for her right hand and wrapped it around the stake, his eyes burning into hers. 

Buffy held her breath, her fingers crushed beneath his painfully.  With his free hand he moved her hair away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear, fingers lingering across her skin.   

“Buffy; I love you.  I know it's wrong, I know you're gonna kick me in the head any minute – but you kissed me, remember.  Now, give me a tiny crumb of hope that you at least don't detest me – or if you can't do that, just push. Take me out of this world and be on your way.  You owe me that much.” 

His eyes closed, head bowed as he awaited his fate.  Buffy still felt the chill where his fingers had caressed her cheek, the iron fist that kept hers fastened on the stake.  Her mind raced; he loved her?  Snippets of memories cascaded around her – frozen moments where he'd stepped in front of her to take a blow meant for her, a carton of juice he'd just happened to be carrying and which happened to be her favourite brand, looking up and always sensing him near just before he came into view.  

She remembered how she felt calmer and stronger when he was in the battle with her.  She remembered the time when he hadn't showed for two days and she'd found herself in Willy's Place asking nonchalantly after him and only going home when she'd satisfied herself that he'd just drunk himself into a stupor and was gently snoring on the floor of his crypt surrounded by empty bottles.  Even in sleep he'd turned his head towards her when she'd creaked open the door. 

He loved her. 

The enormity of it had her reeling.  Okay, that sorted out his feelings for her and yeah – big; but what about her feelings for him?  Was it just an itch she needed to scratch, something to do with being the Slayer that had her hot and wet for a room temperature body?  Now that she'd tasted him was that it, over and done with.  A notch on the Slayer's bedpost? 

Spike tugged on her hand, taking her silence to mean that she was disgusted with herself and with him and was just needing a little push to put an end to him.  Even now he was helping her.  What an asshole! 


Bitch wouldn't even see him off with a decent staking.  Spike started to lean forward onto the point of the stake but Buffy pushed his shoulders back and jerked her hand free, knocking the stake to the floor.   

Buffy deliberately knelt down in front of him forcing him to raise his head and look at her.  She just let the words bubbling in her head spill from her lips without passing through the censors known as 'right' and 'wrong' and 'my friends wouldn't like it'.  Spoke from what she rapidly started to realise was her heart.   

Spike listened, stunned, as he heard Buffy tell him about her dreams, how much she'd longed for his touch, the times she'd imagined him holding her instead of Riley.  She confessed to being a little off kilter if he didn't show on patrol and she admitted that it was way more fun with him fighting by her side.  He couldn't quite believe he was awake, but her warm hands holding his seemed to be real. 

“So, what I'm saying Spike is...well, I don't really know, to be honest. I didn't have a plan other than maybe jump you and stake you so you'd never be able to tell.  But you were right.  You are the best I've ever had.  Apparently you knew what you were talking about when you said I needed a bit of monster in my man.” 

They remained kneeling on the floor as silence filled up the crypt, Buffy running out of words and Spike not sure what he should say in reply.  Poetry mingled with dirty words of lust and passion in his head, warring to be let out; instead he managed a growl. 

Buffy grinned.  Now that was what she wanted.  Raw need.  No holding back.  An equal. 

A mate. 

Her answering growl was swallowed by his hungry mouth as it fastened on hers, her body moulding to his and making the two of them one.

The End