*A/N - Well, hello boys, girls and everyone in between. I'm very excited to finally be posting this one. I am returning to the trilogy vignette style. Though I wrote Hers as a chronological series, it can be read out of order or separately. WARNING: This is a Spuffy series. For anyone here who hates this pairing, I suggest clicking off. I completely understand that this is a controversial pairing, but I believe that is because a lot of people have not obsessed over the reasoning behind their purposefully tumultuous relationship courtesy of Joss Whedon, as much as I have. Trust me when I say that I do not back this ship lightly; in fact, I wrote a 10 page paper that gave a detailed description as to why I believe they have one of the most unique, well-written and misunderstood dynamics of all time. However, for those of you who love them as much as I do, I hope you enjoy this little offering. This headcanon takes place in Season 6 Episode 13: Dead Things. As always, please R&R. Thanks -Nikki

The Demon in Her Desire

Spike looked at her with unappeased lust and longing. Dangling from his long, thin fingers hung a pair of handcuffs. "Do you trust me?" The question danced off his tongue and she actively suppressed a shiver.

"Never." Buffy asserted, afraid of the excitement the object stirred inside her. Just the thought was intoxicating; more than simply the bondage element spoke to her, it was the notion of losing any control, yielding it all to him, trusting him with everything. She couldn't of course, wouldn't, but frighteningly enough she wanted to, more than she could even admit to herself.

Spike leaned over, his mouth slowly resting on her shoulder, a kiss turning into a non-vampiric bite that somehow tickled her core. His tongue lashed out and each textured ridge of his taste buds massaged and teased her skin, sending goosebumps throughout her body, along her flesh, deep into her spine. She desperately wanted to stay, to the point that it almost felt like a need, which is why it was vital that she leave.

He pulled away, releasing his teeth and gently kissed the reddening spot on her shoulder. "I trust you."

"Easy for you to say." Buffy scoffed.

"It's really not." He argued, eyes growing soft again. "The hardest thing is to trust the only person that can hurt you." He offered and briefly met her gaze.

It was easy to tell that he saw the frustration on her face as he quickly looked away. That kind of earnest expression was a violation of their unspoken rule. He wasn't allowed to claim or imply his 'love' for her, not when they were together like this and not when he was inside her. She couldn't let herself feel it.

She started to get up. "I should go." She sighed, unable to look at him. "This is a mistake." It was always a mistake and she knew better.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, keeping her there without applying any pressure. "Easy there, pet." This had become his new bedroom nickname for her, as 'luv' was also a violation and usually earned him a reprimand, if not her nasty right hook. "You know what they say; 'if it happens more than once, it's not a mistake, it's a h-"

"Habit?" She scoffed at the ridiculousness of such a statement.

"Actually, I was going to say 'hobby'." Spike flicked his tongue at the back of his front teeth, grinning devilishly and looking self-satisfied.

Buffy had to fight off a smile. This whole arrangement was starting to get dangerous. She had begun enjoying his company too much, not just what he could do to her, but how unburdened he could make her feel without even trying. Then he would look at her with a kind of affection he shouldn't even have been able to possess and she would feel… ' Nothing,' she had to remind herself, because she couldn't love someone without a soul. It wouldn't be real; every night, after the sweat cooled and the orgasms faded, she would remember that this, whatever it was, couldn't last. These lines weren't allowed to keep getting blurred.

This was getting to be too much. She was already starting to love his hands. It was how Buffy had been able to identify when she had feelings for men in the past; she would find herself romanticizing some of the most mundane body parts; with Angel, it was his shoulders, broad and all encompassing; with Riley, it had been his arms, strong and containing; and with Spike she was starting to develop an affinity for his hands. His long, lithe fingers could tease and torture her in the most delicious ways; would drive her mad, but they would also sneak in small caresses that threatened to turn her gut into jelly. She had also seen the art those hands could produce and the subtle skillfulness of his fingers when he would fidget with his lighter or casually flick a cigarette. It all made her sick to her stomach, because those kinds of feelings weren't okay and they were happening more often.

Spike read tension in her silence and tried to ease whatever she was thinking. "I think you should re-think the cuffs." She looked at him, pulled away from her thoughts. "I mean, if you're going to indulge in a little debauchery," he hated to belittle what this was to him, but knew it kept her from getting spooked. If it all stayed physical and even a little perverse, then it could continue. "Why not enjoy a little bit of bondage?"

Buffy had to admit she was curious, but not secure enough to allow it … on herself. "Well, as previously stated, I don't trust you, so…" She left the sentence hanging, fully loaded.

He lifted his brow, wondering if his trust in her could help her to trust him. "I volunteer. It could be interesting to be on the receiving end." His eyes widened. "For the cuffs, I mean." He barked out a laugh. "Only want to be receiving the cuffs."

Buffy snatched the handcuffs from him before he could see the movement. Spike read the mischief in her eyes and it caused him to grin. Once she had procured the cuffs, she surprised him by standing quickly and sashaying over to the bed. He watched her, fully enrapt in her every move. She stood beside it and perceived him with impatience.

He quickly rushed over. She pushed him down onto the bed forcefully and cuffed his first hand slow and tight. She climbed on top of him, purposefully moving so that the only skin touching was the inside of her thighs which grazed his sides as she sat up, kneeling. He watched her, on fire and yet not burning to his own satisfaction. As she began with the other hand, he had this strong urge to bite her; not to suck her blood or puncture her flesh, but to measure, feel and taste the heat and strength of her skin, to map out her veins, ligaments, scars, freckles, everything she was made up of. He released a 'breath' slowly, the hollow gesture distracting him and easing himself of the base oral fixation he grasped at, to instead pass the reins onto her. The second cuff notched with a final click and it sent a quiver throughout Spike's spine.

Buffy hovered over him and held the chain link of the handcuffs with only her index finger curled around it, facing downward. She pulled on the links, and he allowed her the slack as she led them slowly above his head until they rested on the pillows beside him, his hands skimming against the headboard. "Don't move." She ordered in a quiet voice, full of authority and a dare of refusal.

Spike didn't need to gulp, there was no air in his lungs, but it was instinct just the same as he nodded his understanding, his eyes full of awe and admiration. She could feel his desperation to writhe and she kept their bodies separate, taunting and punishing their need. The anticipation in his eyes and the curl of his tongue bestowed her with a sense of control and power unrivalled by anything she had ever felt as the Slayer.

Buffy delighted in the anguish she felt watching his hands, those torture devices of flesh and bone, curl around the chain links of their restraint, keeping her safe from their touch. Every second ticked with necessity and she controlled it all. She could start now if she wanted, she could even leave if that was her decision. It was all up to her and he was helpless and waiting.

Slowly, enough to drive them both mad, she sunk down guiding him into her, letting him fill her with a heftiness that she could barely handle. She bit her lip to silence the cry that ripped at her throat, begging to be released. Spike had no such control and let his unchecked groan shatter the silence.

She moved unhurried, letting each stroke torment her with its thoroughness. She gradually picked up speed until she was riding him undisciplined, untamed and unashamed. Gasps shuddered and sighed throughout her.

Buffy was high on the moment, on the control, she briefly closed her eyes, helpless to her desire. Her hands rested on Spike's chest, giving her a sturdy foundation to take advantage of. As she became driven by her own rhythm, her hands felt up his chest, stretching up his arms, but refraining from his hands, holding back just enough. When she looked at his face she could see the pleasure in his contorted features. It spurred her; it wasn't until he closed his eyes that she realized her motivation was competition. He was drunk on yielding, on taking what was offered, on feeling only what she permitted. It was clear who was enjoying their intoxication more.

He had given her all the control, all the power and it had freed him. He was unashamed to be what she needed, to feel what she wanted and he took it all gladly, without hesitance or distrust. She both envied and hated him for it. He could close his eyes and trust her to not run, hurt or stake him and he was empowered by it, not her. It imbued her with a jealousy that nearly tasted like rage. This breathless, soulless vampire could let go enough to feel something and here she rocked, petrified, unfulfilled and full of yearning. Spike wore his rhythm-less heart on his sleeve and it allowed him to feel what scared her most.

The control was necessary for her, to keep her in check from developing or admitting feelings for him that just weren't acceptable. In this moment, she wanted to say 'screw it all', to feel, to fall and to blame him; his stupid blue eyes, his ridiculous scarred brow, his arrogant accent, his obnoxious bleached hair, his terrifying and tempting hands. This was all his fault and the worst part was, she was jealous of him, of his ability to lack control and still be so content and free. The cuffs now felt like a punishment, because although they kept her guarded from his touch, she was now more aware of her desire for it, the need she had to feel his hands, let go and suddenly she wished that she was in the handcuffs; yielding, feeling, trusting. She wanted to allow herself the purest pleasure that he knew through his acceptance of who he was, what he wanted and how he felt about her.

But it wasn't like that, it couldn't be. If she ever allowed herself to reach that place, it would only be after forgetting herself and it would all have to end. She had come down quickly from her high and felt a hostility fill her, so she rode Spike as if each rock of her body would purge her anger, her sadness and worst of all, her fear.

She received a brief refuge as she came. The pleasure was livid and short-lived as all too quickly she felt everything wash over her again with vivid clarity and impatience. Spike soon followed her as his orgasm struck. Before he could speak, she was off him, clothed and half-way out the door, sure that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't necessarily be able to follow her.