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He sent her poetry every day.
Sometimes he would write a little something at the bottom, declaring his undying love, his hunger for her, to fuck her into the mattress in her sweet little girl room.
They made her sick. More because she loved them, because they made her consider the possibility that it was real, this twisted thing between them, and that scared the shit out of her. More than any apocalypse, more than the idea of her friends finding out, more than being alive again. The poetry and the sentiments behind them made it hard to ignore the fact that he really was in love with her, that even though he was a bit kinky, and a lot demon, his undead heart beat just for her.
She wondered what the hell was wrong with her that she actually considered replying to some of his messages. She wondered what the hell was wrong with her that she couldn't give him a single chance to prove himself as something other than soulless and evil.
She really wondered why the hell she wondered in the first place.
God, but some of his words drew something out of her that she thought was long gone. Still buried in the grave she dug herself out of such a short time ago. He did make her feel alive, and a part of her was grateful to him for that, but another part, the one that seemed to be in charge most of the time, hated him more than ever for making her feel when nothing else could.
Not her friends.
Not Giles or slaying.
Not even Dawn.
She had to stop it. She had to let him go. She had to stop reading these damn letters. She had to stop herself from walking in this fucking direction. She had to keep her hand from reaching out and opening his door.
She had to stop because she could feel the consequences of it all weighing in upon her. She could see the outcome of all this destruction. She knew that she would break him, and he would let her.
For fuck's sake.
He signed them with "William."
***
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

I need to be inside. Invite me in.
I won’t waste your time.
Invite me in again.
William.

She had made a promise to herself. And to Willow, though the shaking witch didn't know it. She wasn't going to allow him around her anymore.
Only in extreme cases.
Finding Dawn for instance. Or, if she needed some info about some new baddie in town. Never to give him what he wanted.
What she wanted.
Wait, no, that wasn't it. She didn't want him around anymore. She didn't want to deal with the consequences. She didn't want to deal with his sexy smirk and his intoxicating scent of leather and liquor and smoke. She was done. He may be sexy, he may love her, but she didn't care about him.
Not even as a friend.
But she used to. God, she hated that shit saying that sex changed everything. She hated that is was right. She never should have touched the cocky bastard. Should have known he'd fuck everything up by bringing up every reason this was so wrong just by looking at her in a way that made her body melt and froze her (possible undead, as well) heart.
No, no, absolutely not. She had garlic, and she had crosses, and she had a stake with his sexy little name on it if he so much as set foot on her lawn.
"Slayer."
Startled, Buffy dropped her cross and glanced quickly in the direction of the voice. She already knew who was there, and where exactly he was crouching.
Stupid vampire, now she had to do what she hadn't managed to make herself do since she met him that night outside the Bronze.
"Let me in, luv, I don't want to wake your mates."
She stared at him with what must have been a lot of shock on her face as he tilted his head a bit to study her and ceased looking frantically from room to room of her home, just waiting for the lights to come on and it would be all over.
"What is it?" She remained silent, still shocked at his audacity. "Bloody hell, Buffy, you didn't think the stink was gonna keep me away? I can still smell you under all that nasty hanging around your windows."
He curled his tongue under his teeth when he said it, smirking and making her forget her stake but clench her fists, eager to wipe that brashness right off his pretty mouth.
"Sorry if Stalkers 101 didn't cover this part, Spike, but when a girl does everything she can to make coming her to damn near impossible, that's usually the part where you realize she doesn't want you around."
He just widened his smile and came closer to the window, his nose wrinkling momentarily when he caught a strong whiff of the garlic. “Oh no, Slayer, this isn’t about unrequited passion, staying outside under your tree wishing I knew what it was like to be inside,” the innuendo was not lost on her. “I know you now, pet. I’ve memorized what that’s like, but my memory starts to fade.” He moved closer still, his hand on the window pane, he closes his eyes and sniffs delicately, she imagines he’s trying to keep out the offending odor, and find her own somewhere among the rest.
He opens his eyes and smiles, he obviously found what he was looking for.
“Oh, luv, I can tell you want to give me a reminder. You smell ripe, and delicious. Just aching for me.”
She stiffens and glares. Damn him and his enhanced vampire senses, and damn his proximity, doing all kinds of things to her body without her mind’s consent.
“Oh, yes, pet. Let me in, I can make it so good for you,” he purrs. His whole body is practically pressed against her window now. He’s aching too, she can see, quite clearly actually, and that’s when it hits her. Why the hell is he waiting out there. She never disinvited him, so why doesn’t he just come on in anyway.
“What the hell are you waiting out there for?” She meant for it to sound cold and more like a question than an invitation, but her mouth was apparently connected to the blood flying south, and not her brain.
He seemed to understand though, he chuckled softly. “You want it so bad, Slayer, you can’t even make your own body heed your commands. Tell me to come in, luv, you won’t regret it.”
“Yes. I will, Spike, and you didn’t answer the question.”
For a brief flash he looked a bit.. embarrassed? shy? She wasn’t sure, it was gone almost before it appeared and the cocksure Spike was back with a vengeance. “Just tell me to come in. It’ll make us both feel better. ‘Sides, don’t fancy getting caught with a stake in the chest for invading your privacy without invitation.”
God, but he was a stupid git sometimes. She must have taken his words for face value, much to his relief, as she made a vague gesture after a defeated sigh. He just wanted her to take a single step in this whole thing. Not since she kissed him in that house had she initiated any contact. He craved her admitting that she wanted him almost as much as he craved being shown just how much.
He stepped inside warily, keeping far from the swinging ropes of stink and irritating sting behind his eyes and moved toward her.
The scent of her arousal, and the scent of pure Buffy hit him as soon as there was no more garlic between them. Oh, he loved her scent, like sunshine and passion and fire and little girl lost all rolled into one tantalizing package.
She had dropped the cross a while back and had nothing to keep him from taking what he wanted from her. She was a little grateful for that. If she had to admit, even in the slightest way, that she was a real and willing participant in this, she’d lose her nerve.
And she really didn’t want to lose that. He was right, he could make it so good.
He was standing in front of her now, looking her over, his hands hovering around her like she would break if he actually touched her and it was making her absolutely crazy.
He had missed her so bloody much. Had it just been this morning that he had shagged her and himself into oblivion? Couldn’t be. He’d been painfully hard just thinking about her for what seemed like an eternity. But then again, he’d probably been painfully hard for her for about a year now, so that really didn’t establish much.
He needed to touch her, but he just wanted to savor this moment for a little while longer. Once he got down to it, she’d leave, be a different, more primal Buffy, and he wanted the lost girl in front of him, in her childhood room, for just a few more seconds.
After what seemed like an eternity he touched her. His hands on her shoulders, and he pulled her to him slowly but it felt like he was crushing her once she made it into the circle of his arms.
She felt so stupid, so stupid and lost to have let him in when she swore that she wouldn’t. God, she hated them both for being such idiots about this whole thing. He knew it was wrong, he’d admitted to that, and yet here he was, whispering how right she felt and how much he had missed touching her.
It made her want to love him.
And that made her hate him.
He led her to the bed and sat her down, aware of the slight changes she went through in his arms. Anger, acceptance, more anger, and now she was just numb. At least, his Buffy was numb. The Slayer was wet and hungry. Part wanton bitch in heat, part confused and scared and wondering just when she lost all propriety.
Both of them made him hard, both of them made him fall deeper in love with her every time he looked into her eyes. But he could only satisfy one of them for now, and it killed a part of him, made him ache in a way that was entirely unpleasant.
He shoved that all aside. If he could pleasure one of them, he’d do it, because even if it was only part of her, that little part needed him.
He took off his duster and his boots, shrugged out of his shirt and knelt before her.
He looked to her like he was ready to worship at her altar, and she supposed that’s what he was going to do. Running his hands up her calves, under her knees and then to her inner thighs, he spreads her apart and sighs in awe at what he finds. God, he loves looking at her, the real center of her. The only part that never lies about the way he makes her feel. She wasn’t wearing any underwear, just a t-shirt, and he wonders if maybe she wasn’t just hoping a little bit that the evening would turn out this way.
She gasps when he breathes her in and his nose hits up against the little bundle of nerves that he has become so intimately related with.
“Sshh, lamb. Quiet as a mouse. The witches and the bit, don’t want them to find us.” And it’s as true for him at that moment as it is for her. Maybe not for the same reasons, but he desperately wants this time to go well. He so wants for her to have at least one good memory of him doing the things only he can do. He wants her all to himself, and he’ll have her no matter what he has to do.
He looks up her body and sees she’s covered her face with a pillow, but he can still hear her gasps and moans. Thank God for vampire hearing. Or, I guess you wouldn’t thank him for that.
He resumes his task when he hears her whimper slightly in a way that doesn’t denote bliss. He licks her from top to bottom, once, twice, three times and he can feel her quivering around him when he plunges his tongue inside her.
God, she was so wet for him to begin with, it’ll take just a few seconds more for her to be screaming into that pillow and pouring her essence onto his tongue.
He starts to whisper into her quim the things she’ll never let him tell her while she can hear them. The way he adores her, how exquisite the torture of tasting her is while his zipper is about to cleave his cock in two. God, he loves her so much. She’s killing him in the sweetest fucking way.
He takes her clit between his blunt teeth and twists and she’s moaning so loud that he wonders if she can’t be heard even through the pillow. He manages to not let a single drop of cum escape his tongue, he cleans her out from the inside.
She’s still dazed and twitching with the aftershocks when he removes the pillow and climbs up her body, already having shed his jeans. He moves them both up the bed and under the covers, and she stiffens slightly when she understands how normal he’s trying to make this out to be for her. It irritates her because it’s so sweet and so him.
His hands are roaming her body, stoking the fire inside her to an inferno again. She’s trying not to look into his eyes because she knows what she’ll see there. Love and vulnerability, and it just makes her sad that she’s so dead and he’s so alive.
It’s supposed to be the other way around.
“Oh, Buffy, luv, please look at me.” He wants to see her eyes so badly, he wants her to see him. The real him. Not just Spike, not just William, but all of him, all of the poet and the villain and the lover. He never made himself this vulnerable for anyone, not even Dru, not even when he believed they’d spend eternity in each other’s arms and she’d never betray him.
He’s only ever allowed himself to give it all to her. If she would only take it from him.
The head of his cock is at her entrance and he’s so hard he doesn’t think he’ll be able to last more than a few thrusts inside her, but he won’t give in until she meets his eyes.
“Pet, please.”
He’s begging the sodding git he half is. How can she deny him when he’s laying so much out for her.
She can’t.
She turns to look, opens her eyes and wishes that she hadn’t because he’s so beautiful she won’t be able to stop her tears. She’s so embarrassed and so angry and so fucking vulnerable.
And he made her all those things.
She’s ready to push him off but he cups her face in his elegant fingers and kisses away the tears before they fall down her cheeks. She remembers what it was like to look at him in the house while it was falling down around them, the awe as he slid inside her for the first time.
Fuck, it was there again as he stretched her and touched her in places that no one, not even Angel could, and she’s not just thinking about the places his cock can reach.
He was amazed that he was able to hold on this long, she was so hot and tight around him. And, Christ, she was looking at him. Looking him right in the bloody eyes and taking in all that he was giving her.
“Fuck, Buffy, I love you so much. Don’t cry, luv. Please, don’t cry, I’ll take care of you. I swear it, you and the bit. We can do it, Buffy. Just take me in, take all of me. I’ve got so much to give you, pet. So bloody much.”
He was straining now, just barely holding on, and he could tell by the color of her eyes that she was in the same boat as he.
“Let it go.” She squeezed her eyes shut, it was too much, he was just too much. She couldn’t do this for him, she couldn’t even do it for herself.
“Baby, please.” She could hear the waver in his voice, knew he was so close that it was hurting him. “Come for me, Buffy.”
That did it, she could at least give him this.
When she climaxed, she cried out for William.
***
He held her until she fell asleep. She had felt the urge to tell him what the tears were for. She wanted to tell him that it was pointless for him to care, that she knew he did, that he felt something real, but she couldn’t. She just wasn’t capable of love anymore.
He wouldn’t hear it, didn’t want to talk. Just murmured sweet nothings to her because he knew she was too tired to tell him to shut-up.
When she woke up he was gone, but he’d left another note.
And another sonnet.

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud:
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense,
Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
That I an accessary needs must be,
To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

Just let me show you how it could be.
No strings attached.
No one to blame but me for being in love
with you.
Believe it, Buffy.
Yours if you want me,
William
PS. And even if you don’t.

Damn, he knew her too fucking well.
If she couldn’t keep her promise to not see him, she could at least manage to refuse his gentleness. She knew it would end up destroying them both. This was the last time she’d look him in the eyes.





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