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What the hell is wrong with me? Spike is so seriously off-limits! He’s bad, and evil, and soooo not hot! He’s, like, thin and pale and his hair is weird and he’s all muscley and his eyes are really blue except when he’s looking at me like that and then they’re almost black, and oh my god, what the hell is wrong with me?

She jumped up and turned on the sink and washed her hands again. Maybe it’s a spell. Oh! No, it’s the thrall! Yeah, that’s it. He’s put the thrall on me! But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t true. She knew that parts of her had been pulled towards Spike since the first night she had seen him, and every time they fought, she had to consciously crush the draw she felt, and change her panties, like ASAP.

Sometimes, when they would end up tangled in a battle of sheer strength, she would feel his hardness against some part of her. She would secretly revel in it, although she had never consciously admitted that little bit of info to herself before now.

She groaned as she rinsed off her hands, annoyed with herself for hiding in the bathroom. No, not hiding, just trying to get some privacy from the annoying vamp in the other room. Who I was just staring at like he was candy. Who was staring at me like I was candy. That he wanted to eat. Oh god.

While Buffy beat herself senseless for her apparently out of control hormones, Spike was busy trying to regain control of his own body. She had rushed out, obviously distraught, and he knew exactly why. She wouldn’t have reacted like that unless she had felt some of what he was feeling too; she would’ve just made some snide, unimaginative comment and probably dumped his blood down the sink out of spite. Still gripping the counter, he flexed the muscles in his back, closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. He growled. Damn Slayer. Throwing his simple world into turmoil. He tilted his head until his neck popped and felt his anger rise. Where does she get off? Gets her knickers all twisted, just cause the current isnt givin’ it to her proper. Course she’d be all prudish and have a little meltdown at the slightest indication that she’d be knocked off her high horse!

Opening his eyes, he reached down and adjusted himself in his pants, which had become painfully restrictive against his engorged cock. He could hear her running the water in the bathroom. Probably tryin’ to wash away her sins. Stupid bint.

His body was quivering. He was coming down off his lust-fueled high and he was starving. He looked at the tub of blood in front of him, and decided it was probably a damn good distraction at the moment. Popping off the top, he was about to chug it down cold—well, at room temperature—when he caught a glimpse of something floating in it. Looking into it, he swirled the liquid around and saw that there were chunks of coagulated blood in there, and it didn't smell quite right. Damn. It had been sitting in the warm fridge all day and had gone bad. That’s perfect. No blood. No telly. He heard the water in the bathroom shut off, and clenched his teeth again. And definitely no shagging.

He shoved the blood aside and started pacing through the living room, feeling like a caged animal. He was hungry. And horny. And really wanted a smoke. He strode over to his duster on the coat rack and patted down the pockets until he felt a stiff square in one. Reaching in, he sighed in relief as he pulled out the box. He flipped it open and nearly roared in frustration when he saw that it contained nothing more than a few stray flecks of tobacco in the bottom. He crushed the box and stood there, every muscle tensed, eyes closed, as he forced himself to take a few deep breaths. His useless lungs filled and collapsed, filled and collapsed, and he purposely relaxed every muscle, starting with his head on down to his feet. He opened his eyes and felt some of his clarity restored.

He had thought this was going to be a fun night. Damn it, he was going to have fun, and screw the Slayer if she wanted to spend it locked in the bathroom. No, wait. Not screw the Slayer! Ignore the Slayer. Yeh.

He walked over to Giles’ desk and rifled through it till he hit the jackpot, a deck of cards, unopened and buried in the back. He ripped off the cellophane and upended the box on the coffee table, noting that they were the plain paisley type. Hmmph. No nekkid tarts. Think the Watcher’s a poofter.

Buffy was pacing in the bathroom. She had heard Spike moving around the living room, his boots stomping hard enough to shake the walls. She could feel the gooeyness in her panties still. Walking over to the toilet, she unzipped her pants and dropped them and her panties, sitting down. Reaching down between her legs, her breath caught as her fingers slid down into her folds. I am drenched. Her fingers came away covered in fluid, and she stared at them for a moment, mesmerized. She couldn’t remember ever having been this wet before, not with Angel, certainly not with Parker, and she couldn’t really imagine it happening with Riley either. And all just from looking at Spike. And he had obviously wanted her. What am I going to do? She was more embarrassed and shocked at herself than anything now, and not terribly worried that he was going to jump her. What’s he gonna do? Force me? She shivered as images of Spike overpowering her shot past her eyes. Goddamnit. She wiped herself clean as best she could and yanked up her panties and jeans.

She walked over to the door, and put her hand on the knob. I can do this. I am the Slayer. Feared. I am not afraid of some chipped, crippled vamp. And if he looks at me like that again, I’ll just make with the slayage. Just tell Giles he tried to escape. Yeah. It was a fight to the death. She patted her back pocket. The stake was still there, tucked in neatly.





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