And a HUGE thank you to megan_peta and adriana_is for recommending this story on their live journals. Also, to grave_tidings, who surprised me with several incredible and supportive reviews to several chapters. I’m going to try to answer them all individually, but for now, I want you to know how much your extremely kind words meant to me. You really, really made my night. Thank you so much.
It was still dark when she awoke, snuggled comfortably against Spike’s chest. She didn’t know how long she’d been out—likely only minutes—but for as rested as she felt, it might as well have been hours.
“Spike?” she asked softly.
There was no reply. He was asleep.
She watched him for a long minute before sitting up in his lap, gasping when she realized that his cock was still buried deep inside her. Like the first time, only now, she was on top. She was on top and Spike was asleep. Again.
Buffy laughed shortly, her mirth dissolving into a wince as she forced herself to her feet. The wet sound of his cock sliding from her pussy rang loud in the still crypt around them, but Spike didn’t stir. He was completely out. His blond hair was mussed, his usually slick locks curling on the ends. A small, contented smile stretched his lips. He looked peaceful. God, he looked happy.
A long sigh rattled through her, and she quickly jerked up her sweats. It didn’t take long to redress—her sports bra and her camisole were in a heap about midway to the crypt door. In less than a minute, she was back in slayer attire, and Spike was still asleep where she’d left him.
It was ridiculous that someone could look that peaceful and happy while resting on a crypt floor, wearing nothing but jeans that had gathered around his knees, and his cock resting against his stomach. But God, did he look it.
Buffy plopped onto the floor and waited. She refused to think about how easy it would be to leave him. To just walk out and return to her life, and pretend that this interlude into her realized fantasy was only that—an interlude. Something short and sweet in a mocking rendition of what she wanted, but couldn’t have. She didn’t want to do this again. The vampire-equals-killer thing was such an old song and dance, and she felt she’d only completed the first set. And there were certain things she recognized when considering this…whatever she had with Spike. Her relationship with Angel, while totally doomed, shouldn’t be the bar to which she compared all future relationships, especially with the way it had fallen apart.
Yet, even acknowledging that Spike and Angel were completely different vampires, their differences didn’t make the notable problems any less…well, problematic. Spike didn’t have a soul. Spike very much liked killing. Spike was unapologetically evil. Spike didn’t love her.
That was pretty much a big. Spike didn’t love her. Which was totally fine; she didn’t expect love from a vampire who had not-really-raped her, disappeared, reappeared, disappeared again, then surprised her in the graveyard with his distracting manly…eyes. No, she didn’t expect Spike to love her at all, only it would make so many things so much easier. She just needed something. Something to convince her that what they had was beyond lust. Love would do that, crazy as it was. She needed something that suggested affection for her, and not just her body. She needed something.
But Spike couldn’t love her. He hated her. He’d gotten drunk and slept with her, and while they’d shared a few magical kisses at the Bronze and this incredibly phenomenal night, there was nothing to their story but lust. And while lust was of the good—of the very good—it couldn’t substantiate what she wanted. What she needed.
Spike liked her—of that she had no doubt. Spike liked her a lot. He liked touching her. He liked kissing her. He really liked having sex with her. But that was all. There would be no weepy promise, no tearful embrace, no riding off into the proverbial sunset as the credits rolled. Her own confusion about her feelings was enough—toss in the knowledge that whatever she had with Spike would be purely physical from his end, and it was enough to rip her apart.
Buffy was tired. She was so tired of trying to sort through her broken feelings, of pitting what she felt against what she was supposed to feel. What society told her to feel as a woman, and what her calling told her to feel as a slayer. She was driven to Spike, addicted to him, but she couldn’t let her need for him fog her judgment.
She’d seen him three times since he returned to Sunnydale, and each time, she’d felt three incredibly different things. If things progressed like this, she would lose every bit of herself. She couldn’t keep on with Spike if it meant sacrificing her calling. He wanted her, yes, but that was all. It wasn’t like she could blame him for that. Spike was a creature who lived for the moment—right now, he knew he wanted her. He knew that she made him feel good, for whatever reason. That didn’t mean he’d feel the same tomorrow. And while he wasn’t doing this to intentionally toy with her emotions, the further they went, the more of herself she lost.
Buffy shivered and sighed, and watched him, enjoying the quiet. She didn’t know how much time passed before he finally stirred, didn’t realize she was holding her breath until her lungs screamed for air, and didn’t realize she’d gasped until he blinked and looked at her.
Spike met her eyes, and the room lightened. “There you are,” he said softly. “Didn’t slink away in shame, I see?”
“I wouldn’t just leave you.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Buffy licked her lips and shook her head. “I’m not that girl, Spike…though give me a few years and half a dozen let-downs where men are concerned, and I might have a different answer. Right now, I’m not that girl.”
“What girl are you, then?”
“A confused one. That’s for damn sure.”
Spike tilted his head and considered her. “I didn’t mean to confuse you, ducks. I jus’…well, I see you an’ I kind’ve lose my head.”
“I don’t get that.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “If you want the honest truth, I don’t understand it, either. I told you that I’ve tried to leave. I’ve tried to leave a couple hundred times. Somethin’ won’t let me.” He paused. “You won’ let me. I try to leave, an’ I find myself lookin’ for you instead.”
“Looking for me?”
Spike arched a brow. “Jus’ because you haven’t seen me in a while, pet, doesn’t mean I haven’t seen you.”
“See, my brain knows that I should be officially wigged out—”
“But I’m too bloody gorgeous, an’ you really like shagging me.” He waggled his brows. No one should ever look that confident. “You can’t really blame me, either, luv. You told me to leave you alone, less I was clamorin’ for an early death.”
Buffy crossed her arms and perked her brows. “Spike, you’re like, eleven hundred years old. Not so much with the early death.”
“I’m not quite one forty-nine, but thanks for that.” He grinned. “Age on vamps makes them more distinguished.”
“Are you trying to tell me that the Master was sexy?”
Spike wrinkled his nose at her, which she unwittingly found adorable. “Should’ve known you’d turn that on its arse.”
“Hey, you started it.” Buffy glanced down and sighed. “Spike…”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“You’re gonna feed me some rot about how this shouldn’t’ve happened an’ how I’m an evil prat an’ how I’ve sullied your virtue by lookin’ at you. Bollocks, Slayer.” Spike shook his head heatedly. “I gave you a chance an’ you stayed with me. I—”
“I never said that.”
He paused for a moment, mouth ready to object, then slumped when he realized she was right. “Oh.”
“I’m not sorry we did this. I’ll never be sorry for that.” She sighed again. “But it can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” God, he was pouting. His lower lip had jutted out and everything. There was no civility to be had in the world.
“Because it can’t. You know it, too. Whatever this is…” She gestured between them. “This…this thing we have…it’s not something you want. I mean, yeah, the sex is fantastic, but I need more than that.” Buffy met his eyes and held up a hand. “And you don’t want to give it to me, Spike. Not really. You like…you like this part, but you hate what I do. You hate that I’m a slayer. You can’t deny that.”
For a wild second, she was afraid he’d try, but he didn’t. Instead, he just sat still and looked at her, his eyes wide and vulnerable.
“And it’s okay. I’m not wild about the fact that you’re a vampire, and you can’t expect me to be. I can’t expect you to throw a ticker-tape parade because of my calling.” She offered a watery smile. “And I’m so confused right now, my head hurts every time I try to think about it. Logically, I should be mad as hell at you. I should feel…disgusted and violated and I should definitely not want to kiss you or…do other things.”
“Slayer—”
“Yes, I am. And I’ll always be that, Spike. Always.”
“You don’ give me a lot of credit, do you?”
Buffy arched her brows. “Do you know what you want, then? Aside from lots and lots of sex, do you know what you want from me?”
Again, Spike was quiet. His silence spoke volumes.
And that was all it took. She swallowed hard and fought to her feet, dusting off her sweats with a small, resolute nod to herself. “I’m not sorry this happened,” she said again, nearing him. “I’ve been wanting this to happen for days now. But this has to be it. You’re rebounding hard and I don’t want to be that girl, okay?”
“Buffy—”
Whatever he said was lost the next second; she dipped her head and kissed him. God, she’d miss this more than anything. She could kiss him for a thousand years before she had her fill. His taste was raw, and she loved that. She loved that he kissed her gently, tenderly, even as he tensed with caution and arousal against her.
She loved the way he talked with her as though she were a person and not a title. And she hated it that she was finding more and more things that she liked about him when this had to be it.
It had to be.
“Goodbye, Spike,” she whispered against his lips. Then she turned and left, too quickly to see the conflicted pain in his eyes. The confusion that nearly rivaled hers.
The mark on her thigh burned with every step.
To be continued