Growing up, Buffy was never much of a churchgoer. There was a derogatory term for people like her and her parents: "Chreasters," those who have the nerve to show their sinning faces only at Christmas and Easter, packing the church, filling the pews and making it difficult for the regular, pious, Christ loving Faithful to locate seats, thus provoking disdain and resentment.

As she contemplates Spike draped around the cross, embracing it, another tear dives off her chin. She wrenches her gaze from him and assigns it to the floor, trying to focus in spite of the salty miasma flooding her eyes. Her feet may as well be nailed to the ground. Everything she looks at is filtered through stain glass, filmy and diluted of color.

She wonders idly what day of the year it is, that she should find herself in church without the protective excuse of reindeers or chocolate. Of course, she steps inside churches more frequently now than she did as a child, to prevent the odd dark ritual from being performed or to swipe a little extra holy water, but these capricious experiences serve only to immerse the buildings in even more gloom.

The fact of the matter is, there's never any comfort to be found in churches, and nothing good has ever happened to her inside one.

Snapping out of her reverie, and wrinkling her nose at the stench of smoking flesh, she pads rapidly toward Spike. Plucks and pulls and prods him off the cross. He doesn't protest; doesn't talk at all. Buffy helps lift him up, then lets him collapse around her small frame. She lowers them both carefully to the church floor.

She tries to examine him with a delicate caress. She'd even lick his burns if she thought it would help. But he shakes his head violently and manages to push her away. He wants to rest.

She tries again. He pushes her away.

She tries a third time. He pushes her away.

She runs, lungs expanding like cracked ice with each breath.

At home, Buffy dreams.

***

She's back on the church floor with Spike. He lets her hold him. He lets her gently press her fingers through his hair.

"Girls know about blood," he mumbles knowingly. "Oh, yes. Put it on their faces, feel it between their legs. They know more than men."

Uh, sure. Sure they do, Spike.

"I don't know what it means, but I know that it happens," he continues. Looks directly at Buffy. "Walking around in the basement, it's all I've got. What they think."

Buffy can't comprehend her apparent Helen of Troy-like existence. Can't fathom the devotion she inspires (in Spike alone, of course, not armies.) Just Spike, who behaves as though he is an army, exterminating everything in his path toward... what? Redemption? A single shot in the dark?

"Why am I Helen?" she demands, cupping his face intimately, in stinging juxtaposition to the notes of her voice.

He understands her perfectly, because of course, he's crazy now. And crazy people always get it, for some reason.

"What is it about me that turns you into such a simpering idiot? What is it that I do or don't do that makes you so fucking crazy? Tell me, so I can stop. Tell me!"

Spike stares, unblinking.

When he finally speaks, he stammers a little. "You just... are. You breathe. You live. Against your will, maybe, but you live. We all burn for something better. To be near it, kept warm. I just want to be near you. Allowed. It's all I ever needed."

"Well I need something more. Something I can touch."

Then Spike's kissing her, not making any contact with her body except the point where their lips mesh and blend, fast and deep. It's making Buffy light-headed...

She pulls away, looks down.

Spike appears right where he was a moment earlier, sitting in front of her, listening. Eager to hear her speak.

Buffy's not sure if they actually kissed or not. Shakes her head out.

"I thought Giles could explain to me why I was here. Thought he might understand. Then I thought, understand what? Because there's nothing. No reason and no answer. There's not even a question. I don't delude myself."

He chuckles ruefully. "Least one of us doesn't."

"We warm ourselves 'til the warming runs out." She nods toward the fuzzy dots of light surrounding them. "Isn't that why you lit the candles?"

They kiss again, like a storm's coming. Dizziness overwhelms her.

***

Buffy's on her back on the bathroom floor, defenseless in her open robe. Spike coldly pins her wrists above her head. He's fully dressed, straddling her legs, forcing them open while he viciously pumps a long red church candle in and out of her dry, resisting body.

He doesn't talk, but Buffy can hear his voice anyway, ragged and torn: I'm gonna make you feel it -- !

She struggles ineffectually, sobbing with pain and humiliation, trying over and over to appeal to whatever kernel of humanity dwells inside him. She should know by now it's an empty place.

"No! Stop! Please stop, Spike, please -- !"

***

Church.

Buffy flails blindly, slapping at Spike, hard, fast thunderclaps wherever she can reach. Screaming.

"No! Get away!"

She blasts him with a kick, shooting him up the aisle to sprawl clumsily, like a giant spider trapped and struggling in its own web.

They stare at each other, bewildered and hurt. Tears form in her eyes, but do not fall. He crawls pleadingly toward her. Totally subservient.

"Stay back," she warns, splaying her hand out to ward him off.

The whippet-thin scars on Spike's emaciated chest crack and split open into fresh, pulpy wounds.

He yells, frantically trying to cover them with his hands, close them back up, and stop them from ripping and flexing through his entire torso. But they just keep widening.

Large black bugs, like the ones he endured as part of the trials, crawl out of the fleshy lesions over his heart.

Buffy grimaces at the sight, shrinking away, curling tightly into the fetal position. Rocking rhythmically. No no no no no...

"Help me!" he begs, "Buffy, help me!"

Buffy needs a moment to decide. Why should I?

Because you're the bloody heroine of the piece, no matter what piece you find yourself in.

She gingerly uncurls and approaches him. Inhales deeply and places her hands over one of his open wounds. Heat and light sear between them.

The thick slice closes up, completely sealed.

Benevolently she palms his other scars, healing each one until all the skin on his firm chest is smooth and attractive again.

No longer frightened of him, Buffy gazes at his beholden, regretful face.

Plump, blood red tears flow from Spike's eyes. They drip thickly down his face, beading and clinging to his skin.

They're made of wax, same shade as the candle.

Curiously she peels them off his cheeks and chin.

"Forgive me," Spike implores quietly, burrowing his face into her lap, cloaking her middle. "Forgive me."

Buffy lets him find some comfort there before easing him off and shifting away, dead serious. "You wounded me, Spike. I'll never recover. Just because you have a soul doesn't restore me."

"I know. I marked you inside your skin. Worse than a dozen scars."

After a lengthy, difficult pause, Buffy admits, "I did things to you, too."

"You made a fool out of me, Buffy, is what you did."

"Guys, men, they always forget," she complains. "It's what makes them lovable."

"Is that why you hate me so much? Because I never forget a single thing you do or say?"

"I don't... hate you."

He takes it the wrong way, of course. Stands, pacing, agitated. "Is that right. Been downgraded, then? You're indifferent now?" Falls beside her again, clasps his hands together in prayer. "Oh, God, kill me before you're indifferent, Buffy, I couldn't take it! You have so much passion, where would it go if not toward me?"

"I save it up, hold it here." She reveals a small, clenched fist. Slowly opens her fingers. "Let it go during fights."

"Wouldn't you rather let it go for love?"

"No," Buffy responds calmly, shaking her head, surprised by the question.

They're silent for a long time.

Jesus died for other people's sins, she thinks, but Spike's doing something harder: living with his own.

It's so much harder to live.

This is something she appreciates from experience.

Will I know him better now? Will I be able to cry for him like I did for my mother?

Spike intrudes upon her meandering thoughts with a selection of his own. "Why do you think I watched you so much, hidden in shadow? It wasn't to catch you in your knickers, if that's what you think. Well, not entirely, anyway. It was for the smiles you never had for me, the eyeliner you never wore, the rouge... the lipstick you never left on my face. The blood, the war paint, right... here." He swirls one shaking finger around each of her cheeks. Taps mildly on her lips. "I guess you knew I'd find you beautiful without them. Or was it because I was never really there?"

"What are you talking about? 'Never there' -- ? "

"You never saw me, Buffy. You never saw me for who I really was."

There's a pause. Buffy bridges some of the distance between them. Her voice is hushed, apologetic:

"I see you now."

He swallows, then tries to outrun the blessing she's just bestowed, trivialize it before she can, as she inevitably will, in thought and deed. "Soul must bring all sorts of light onto my face, I imagine."

"Not just the soul."

He tilts his head, perplexed.

She continues, "I see you the way you were before. The way you must have been in order to look for a soul. Something better than a monster."

It's so foreign, talking like this with him. She and Spike never communicate with language, except through maliciously constructed, whip cracking insults, meant to lacerate. Fists and sex. Welcome to my wacky dating life.

Buffy takes his hand in hers, lacing and linking her fingers through his.

Things are not even remotely Okay between us. But what you did was good, Spike. How can I show you that it was good?

It's not fair to start applying prose now and expect it to fix the past. Words float and drift away, balloons in the hands of a child, easily popped, deflated or lost.

Besides, her voice has a lot of competition now, inside his crowded, buzzing brain. But she knows one thing:

Not even Angel would have voluntarily sought his soul for me.

"Your hands are mine," she informs Spike. "You don't move by yourself. Got that? You don't move, do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

She looks into his eyes and sees that he isn't altogether there. It's no matter. Neither is she. She doesn't know if he'll even remember this later. That's all right with her, too.

Maybe I could track down Drusilla. Get her to play interpreter.

"You're totally crackers, aren't you?" Buffy asks, on the verge of affectionate, slipping her lips over his. She sucks his bottom lip between hers and tugs, pulling it gently and letting it bounce back, wet and wanting.

Spike enjoys that. Smiles shyly at her. "Eat me with soup."

And Buffy wonders if maybe this has nothing whatsoever to do with Spike. Wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps the sex they're about to have isn't for him at all, but for her – a chance to reclaim her power, not just because of Spike's assault, but going all the way back to Angel.

A chance to fuck a souled vampire and not wake up to the end of the world.

"I'm in control, right?" she questions harshly.

He nods, eyes never leaving hers.

It's not enough, though. She needs the added binding of his voice. "Who's in control here?"

"You are," he affirms softly.

"Who's got the power?"

"You do, Buffy."

"You don't move without my permission. Do you understand?"

He nods again, thrilled to be her puppet once more.

"If we do this, I'll never see Heaven again," she utters, at once bereft.

"We're in a house of worship," he persuades her. "It's all right."

She nods.

"Worship me."

"How?" he asks, not moving, playing her game to the letter.

She glides his hand to the back of her neck.

"Untie my necklace," she instructs him in a shaky voice.

He hesitates, then tentatively frees it. Lets the leather dangle between his long fingers before tossing it behind her. Waits.

Buffy places his hand in her hair.

"Loosen my hair."

He rolls his fingers gently through her impossibly soft tresses. Pulls out her pony tail holder. She arches slightly, granting him better access. He tucks the tendrils framing her face behind her ears. It both chills and warms her.

Spike awaits further instruction.

She traces a finger up her neck.

"Kiss me here."

He brushes her neck with his lips, encouraged by her contented sighs. Gradually, mindful not to startle her in any way, he kisses a path along her jaw line, then from her chin to the delicate curve of her shoulder. She swallows, astounded by his gentleness. Why didn't we ever do it this way before?

"Symmetry is very important," she hints.

He scoops up the hint and runs with it, repeating the motion on the other side of her neck. Up and down, back and forth, making her whimper a little.

"Oh, God, Spike."

Buffy guides his hands under her shirt and cups them over her bare breasts, squeezing lightly.

"Go like this," Buffy whispers furtively, tracing one of his fingertips around her erect nipple, then making his palm roll over it in circles.

Buffy closes her eyes in a show of trust that Spike almost can't bear and doesn't yet feel he's earned.

He continues the same rhythm until her jean painted hips start to writhe with need.

"Use more fingers," she orders huskily, though still whispering. He's more than happy to oblige, plucking at the rosy flesh, pulling on it with two fingers, alternating.

"Love all your pink parts," he murmurs, frantic to use his tongue on her. Needs to see her body, not just feel it. He fights the urge to moan.

Buffy recalls another time they moved together like this, early last Spring. Lying side by side with Spike on the dusty floor of his crypt, having fucked each other to near blindness, several orgasms each, ensuring her various holes would ache pleasantly later. Angled together yet apart, arms lightly rubbing together, chests heaving, throats hoarse, too exhausted to continue, but unable to stop reaching out for just... one... more.

Spike gathered her sore, limp body to his chest, then reclined, taking her with him. Made her reveal to him how she touched herself, insisting she guide his large hands underneath her tiny ones, move his fingers and direct him in the art of properly gratifying her.

As with all things Spike related, Buffy resisted at first. She didn't want to give up her masturbation techniques, felt they were private, valuable secrets to be kept guarded... but he drew them out of her one by one, like precious, trembling pearls on a string.

She'd preferred the mystery of not knowing how or where he might caress her, but now there was nothing he couldn't do; fusing his own style with the methods she used on herself could pitch her helplessly over the brink in minutes, sometimes seconds. It felt different, anyway - his fingers were bigger, longer, masculine and self-assured...

Sitting on the church floor, directing his hands lightly around her body, Buffy knows he memorized the map, remembers every centimeter of that original journey... all the whispered, slightly embarrassed hands-on instruction, where to press firmly, where to press delicately, where to move in circles with just the tips of his fingers, how deeply or shallowly to slip them inside her.

She knows he could take over, rub and stroke her in all the "correct" ways, but he's very diligent not to move unless she specifically designates it.

It's hard on him, though. Not giving her pleasure.

She opens her eyes, and Spike feels physically awash, cast adrift under the lust swimming there. But the way he gazes back, full of adoration and promise, annoys her.

"Take off your pants," Buffy dictates abruptly.

He doesn't waste any time. She looks him over. Smooth and chiseled, skin shining in permanent hunger.

His cock is hard and thick and eager. She wants to press it against her body, possess it, use it, ride it, please it, please *him*, but --

"I don't think... I can..." she whispers, turning away.

What the hell kind of horrible person am I, if I can get off on my attempted rapist? If he can still look and feel so damn good to me? What would that make me? I'm disgusting. I'm disgusting.

Panic asphyxiates her. It's in the air -- she has to breathe it or die. She vaguely remembers leaving Spike at the church... taking the long way home, running and running, so fast she created a tunnel around herself, wrapped up tight, mummified by guilt and burden. But not sad enough to turn around and fuck him! How did she end up here with him again, about to have sex?

Why are we here? Why are we doing this?! Oh God, what is going on...?

"Spike, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't -- "

***

Buffy and Spike embrace underneath the cross.

"Dangerous place for a vampire," Buffy remarks, glancing around. "So many things that can hurt you. Holy water, crosses... candles..."

"Use them all," he advises. "Hurt me however you like."

"I don't want to hurt you --"

"Get me back for – "

"Shhh. Stop it. I'm not gonna hurt you."

Buffy pushes his hands away and starts to undress, sensually yet with a purpose. Raises her camisole over her head. Her petite but fully rounded breasts bounce lightly with the movement.

She's amused by his reaction to the unveiling of her supple body. He swallows and devours her image with greedy, predatory eyes.

"Are you thirsty?" she asks.

"Always."

Buffy rises, naked from the waist up, and strides to a back table, upon which rests a heavy but shallow bowl of holy water. She carries the saucer back to Spike.

His eyes flicker with fear and anticipation, expecting her to use it on him, baptize him in a haze of blistering pain. Instead, Buffy sets the bowl down and kneels beside it.

She places one of her hands daintily over the surface, buoyed an inch or two above the water. Speaking peacefully in an unintelligible tongue, she wipes her hand across the length of the bowl.

Before his eyes, the astoundingly clear holy water turns a dark, rich shade of crimson. The pungent aroma of aged red wine assails and intoxicates his senses.

Buffy arches her back and closes her eyes. Raises the bowl to her neck. Tilts it so the wine pours over her body, splashing slowly, coating her shoulders, chest and stomach.

"Gather the grapes, they're ripe," she bids him, and opens her eyes to see Spike lapping the opulent, sticky alcohol off her slick breasts. He works quickly yet reverently, paying special attention to her stiff, wet nipples. After twisting his tongue around each of them, he glides his fervid lips along her collarbone to catch the heady sap from her neck and shoulders. Moaning low in his throat, as though finally allowing himself to indulge in the luxury, he clutches the now slippery flesh of her sides and drops his face to lick the rest of the wine off her belly, determined to capture every streak and drop.

Buffy roughly drags her nails through his hair, then kisses him, thrusting her tongue deep inside and sucking the liquor from the curves of his mouth.

She lies back, relaxed and smiling dreamily. Her arms rest attractively above her head, shimmying lightly against one another.

Spike stares at her, entranced. She's a literal wet dream placed before him, positively begging to be violated in whatever depraved manner he can conjure up.

Despite this, or perhaps because of it, he hesitates reaching for his zipper. She links an ankle around his neck to tug him closer, motioning slyly that she has something to tell him. He forgets about removing his pants and crawls up her body.

"Do this in remembrance of me," she tells him. Except her lips don't move. Buffy uses the same foot to shove at his shoulder, pushing him back down her body.

"Deliver me from evil," he responds, lips vibrating against her skin. Slowly opens his mouth, ready to eat.

The bite doesn't hurt at all. Neither does the subsequent chunk of flesh taken out of her side. She watches pieces of her body disappear inside his mouth. He works slowly, tenderly, deliberately. He's a very clean eater. She knows that soon she'll disappear entirely.

"I don't want to be your savior," she protests, lips moving again, trying to sit up.

He presses her gently back down. "Too late, Pet. I've gone and done it already."

He eats one of her nipples.

"I'm dead, aren't I?" she questions, with rising concern, as though realizing she's missed the last train for evening. "You killed me. I'm dead, right?"

He shrugs. Grins. "Only temporarily."

Continues eating.

***

Buffy and Spike embrace under the cross.

This time, Buffy moves away from him and flops down in one of the pews. Props her feet rudely on the seat back in front of her. Glances over at him.

"You are so creepy," she laments with a sigh, semi-playfully. Says it in a manner that suggests she's thoroughly examined all of Spike's history up to and including this very moment... conducted all available research, speculated upon his potential... and concluded only this.

"How creepy am I?" he wonders, honestly curious, moving to her side and sitting next to her.

"The Creepiness that is you, Spike, has no scale upon which to weigh itself because the scale always breaks. Under the weight of your creepiness."

Huh. He can't quite wrap his mind around that one.

Buffy's smoking a cigarette now, ashing it belligerently into the collection plate.

"Ashes to ashes," she quips.

"So the fact that I have a soul now doesn't repeal any of my so-called creepiness?" he presses, hoping she'll throw him a bone.

She's apparently bored with the topic. "Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is about your soul. Some people are even born with them. And it's not like your soul is going to go out and do anything spectacular. It's not like your soul is going to go out and bring me back a cheeseburger from In 'N' Out, is it?"

"I can give you a little 'in and out', Love," he responds with a hip gyration and an eyebrow raise.

She ignores that suggestion and squints at him. "You know what you're like now? You're like a Doublemeat Burger."

"And just how am I like a Doublemeat Burger?" he plays along.

"You look like a regular vampire, on the outside, all bad and unhealthy for me, but inside you're --"

"Made of vegetables?" he queries, totally befuddled.

"No, inside you're... not so bad or unhealthy. Fewer calories," she explains, one hundred percent pleased with her analogy.

"You're comparing me to a piece of meat. A fake piece of meat, actually. Symbolism, anyone? Anyone?"

She laughs. He loves it.

"Great, now I'm all hungry," she gripes.

"For a Doublemeat Burger?"

"God, no. Eww. I want... " she pauses for effect, then giggles loudly, "A Mo' Better Meaty Meat Burger!"

"Yeah, well you could use some fattening up," he agrees, tickling her belly. "We could go to L.A. and get you one."

"Mmm, sure, with my fabulous driving ability, and your dementia, I think a road trip would be a great idea," she teases. "Not cataclysmic in the slightest."

"How come we never talk like this when we're awake?" he wonders, suddenly dispirited.

"'Cause you don't let me!" she insists.

"Oh, no, it's 'cause you don't let me," he corrects.

"Either way, it's uber sad."

"What's sad is that you have to dream just to talk to me!" he snorts.

"I know! Other people dream about flying, or, I don't know, winning the Olympics, but I dream about having a chat. About *hamburgers*. How mundane are we? We suck."

"You won't even get the pleasure of remembering this li'l conversation when you wake up, will you?" Spike asks.

"Count on it like you can count on a fat character in a Disney movie getting bitten in the ass. And you, Spikey, will be Looney Tunes again."

"Careful, Slayer. You just referenced Walt and the Warner Brothers in a single sentence. They might start fighting to the death now."

"Eh, you know how mortal enemies can be. They'll probably form some type of reluctant truce."

Spike pecks an impulsive kiss on her nose. He loves her mind, loves the silly things that come out of it.

The smile Buffy donates him in response makes the sun envious.

He leans in again, this time kissing her lips. She opens them for him, inviting and generous.

Suddenly her clothes disappear, all except her lace covered satin panties. She resists the palpable urge to cover herself with her hands. Fig leaves would do pretty nicely about now...

"Spike?" she asks, but he seems just as confused.

"Are you cold?"

She nods. Moves closer to him, wraps her arms around him. Buries her face. It doesn't help much, but it's something.

"I don't think I can be naked with you ever again," she somberly informs his neck.

He pets her hair soothingly. "We can do it with your frilly whites on."

"I still have the power. I'm still controlling you," she dares him uncertainly, pulling back to look in his eyes.

"Yes," he assures her seriously.

He sits on the floor. Takes off his pants.

Buffy pushes him onto his back and straddles the length of his lean, muscular form, stretching her legs out to reach his calves, lining up the rest of their parts to fit: hip and chest and mouth. Kisses him ardently while she rolls her hips and massages the hot, damp crotch of her panties over his firm erection.

Spike trails his fingers lightly over her arms and back, encouraging her but keeping his hips stationary.

She bites his chin gently, never ceasing the rhythmic churning of her pelvis against his. She wants to own his face, wrap each section of him in plastic. Briefly considers the ramifications of this sentiment, then proceeds to do so fervently, to the best of her ability. Each part she touches, licks or kisses becomes safe, covered ground. Forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, cheeks, nose, earlobes... Once his skin has been inside her mouth or dampened by her tongue, she considers it her property. That way, it can't hurt her. But there's so much of him to touch!

"Been awhile, hasn't it?" Spike questions, pleased with the attention she's giving him.

"I don't let myself..." Buffy admits. "I can't without thinking of you, and..."

"It's okay."

"I didn't want to think of you."

"I know."

She licks a thin trail down his chest, pausing to swirl once around his belly button, mine, then engulfs most of his cock inside her delightful mouth mine, mine, mine...! Sucks him avidly, coating him for ease of entry. Starts at the base, circling, slowly climbing, tasting, tightening her mouth's grip, suctioning and tugging lightly. Then she focuses only on the head, wrapping her malleable lips around it, fluttering and flicking at the ultra sensitive skin over and over with her hot, wet tongue. Can't believe how good he tastes. Draws him back inside her mouth, nearly all the way down. Nearly makes herself gag, so determined is she to touch every part of him. Mine!

He throbs and bucks in response, and his lips part in a silent plea, but he doesn't protest when she stops. He knows it's for something better. Buffy pulls a section of lace to the side of her thigh and glides him to her slippery entrance.

"Don't move," she admonishes preemptively.

"Didn't plan to," he responds softly.

"Okay, okay, it's okay," she babbles, as if still trying to convince herself, swiveling her hips languidly, letting him inside so slowly he thinks that night may become day before she's finished. He's about half way in when she lurches up and slams back down, driving his rigid cock to the hilt.

"Ohhh," they moan together.

Buffy looks down at the point where their bodies join. He's inside her, all the way, but her panties effectively cover all evidence of this. She sighs with relief, begins circling and squeezing, exerting muscles that have lain morosely dormant since he left town.

"Move with me," she urges, directing the pace with her bouncing, agile, frantic hips, grinding her clit in little circles against the exquisitely rough lace, twisting and bunching it, feeling him inside, blissful, complete and full... but without having to watch him sliding in and out, without having to acknowledge that Spike's cock is responsible for the insatiable arousal that nourishes her movements.

He clutches her satin clad bottom in his hands, driving up, pulsing, shoving... burying himself over and over inside the hottest, slickest coffin he's ever known.

"The French call orgasms le petit mort," he groans in-between thrusts. "It means 'little death'."

Buffy doesn't answer, so lost is she in the desperate act of taking and making pleasure. The friction between their bodies mounts, igniting her in two long stripes down her legs to her toes. She swears they could start a fire this way. Burn down the church just like they brought down the abandoned building. She rolls and shakes and twitches up and down his length, losing all fear, agitating her clit against the thin material separating their skin, up and around, up and around --

"I'm dying --" she wails, coming in hot clenches, gulping and gasping, "I'm dying..."

Her thrashing eventually eases off and she slumps forward, heart fluttering rapidly like the wings of a hummingbird. He feels tears dampen his chest.

Though he hasn't enjoyed any release yet, Spike lets her melt across him for a couple of minutes, regain control of herself.

"I wanna die again," she announces primly, rising up, preparing to start over. Why shouldn't I? That's the way it goes, after all: I die; I get resurrected. Repeat until insane.

"No," Spike responds coarsely, eyes sparking with abrupt, potent lucidity.

Buffy feels a precognitive dread fill her, rising from her belly like hot liquid.

He's back, whoever 'he' is.

Shaky voice: "What do you mean, 'no'?"

"My turn," he gruffs, and flips her over, so she's flat on the floor, face down, her reign as She-Ra, Princess of Power effectively ended.

"Spike, what are you doing?!"

He yanks her underwear part way down her thighs then climbs on top of her back, separating her legs as much as the panties will allow. Shoves inside her again with a satisfied grunt.

"Close your legs, Pet," he orders.

She obeys.

"Mmm," he undulates atop her with contentment. "Bloody -- mmm. Yeah. Perfect."

"What are you doing?" she repeats softly, muffled, nose pressed into the thin church carpeting.

For some reason this sets him off. "You really think you can control me?!" he hisses, rocking faster. "You can't control me!"

"Why not?"

"Because deep down, you don't really want to."

He thrusts fiercely now to accent that point. Waves of pleasure splash through her and she cries out in sync with each vigorous push of his hips.

He grins a bit cruelly. "Deep down, you like me better this way."

He slips his arms under and around her chest, clutching her and providing cushion from the floor. It should be comforting, but instead it's like casually suffocating from inside out.

Buffy launches back against him, forcing him even deeper. She whimpers and moans, amazed and awakened by the novelty of the way they're screwing, but feeling acutely apprehensive.

Spike is all too aware of her distress and takes advantage of it by continuing to talk while he pumps and rides her.

"So... fucking... tight, Slayer," he groans. "Snug and hot and tight. But not tight enough to keep me out."

She knows exactly what he's going to say next. Recites it in her mind a split second before he growls it.

"You'll never keep me out."

She shudders, feeling her orgasm approach, the really powerful type that declares, "You're doomed, so you may as well enjoy this."

"Spike, tell me, are you man or vampire? Wolf or sheep? What are you? Who are you? Tell me!"

Spike opens his mouth to reply --

-- and Buffy wakes up.

 

THE END