Author's Note: I've had this chapter done right when I finished the second one, just never posted this one. *shrugs* Well, here it is now. Now don't hold you're breath for chapter four . . . I only have the beginning and a little of the middle of that done. Review as always. I feel that this was bad writing on my part. But I do not know any other way to write it. Tell me what you think.

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An Effect for a Cause



Spike fondly elevates a finger to my lips. Stunned, I slink into silence. "My Slayer." He proudly coos, his everything the abyss for my own to get sucked in.

I need this. I need this familiarity. The blinding beams of his love pouring forth from his eyes, always like two lighthouse lights seeking only me, the compress of our bodies as they curve and mold for each other . . . and the desire.

Jupiter sized desire.

This time when our lips lock it is waterfalls clashing, manifesting vicious turbulence, a mimic of the rampant thunderstorm outside.

Need.

We have had many things precious seized right from under us.

Need.

In this clawing embrace we have come to wholly acknowledge none of those things will be returned neat and new right back under us.

Need. We need them still.

There are little voids spotting our insides where those things used to fill. Now we have to work twice as hard to fill their voids, to find them inside of each other, even if for a half moment. I am using him. He is using me. We only reach solace in this embrace, in the consummation of our love, for currently we are alone, alone, alone.

Him and me.

Me and him.

We chaotically break apart to divest each other of our coats and shirts, and then mend together for another scorching kiss. His hands find their way to my hair, stripping the clip, permitting it to cascade in waves. Next those nimble fingers unsnap my bra to reveal myself to his enthusiastic gaze.

Down my neck his cool mouth pursues. Hastily, his hands find another article of clothing to discard from me . . . my pants. And then with sudden rage my skimpy underwear. I roughly lift my bare leg to coil around his welcoming waist, sending spastic electric jolts as our pelvis grind to our own special music. A rumbling growl, so like the growl of the thunder slithers past his lips and into my ear.

Without any warning he jerks my body all the way on him, inclining my other leg to join its twin around his waist. My thighs begin sliding his jeans down after my fingers anxiously undid all the fastens-Spike has gone commando, no surprise there . Harsh breathing is in surround sound. My mouth is everywhere from his neck, face, to his lips as he staggers us over to the couch.

His foot negligently crushes something in my removed coat. The noise is hushed by Spike's resolute roar of anticipation. And then a wave of red swathes my vision, the fiery red like Willow's hair. A force so concentrated it rocks my body, heightening my senses, tweaking my brain, and snaring me and Spike in an unseen hand.

We descend onto the couch in what seems as slow motion.

Our emotions convert into luminous palpable colors, weaving through, around and in us. A sharp gasp as Spike brims me over is expelled as a oceanic blue to join the brilliant colors floating all around. Ever memory ever created starts flashing through our brains in vivid detail, that it is almost like viewing a play in the front seats.

With each dreamy touch and cutting thrust we are linking, helping to knit a tighter cage of durable silk over us, a self-made cage of transportation. My soul rubs his in a languid massage of building power, allowing me to be him, as he is me. Our eyes are wide and glowing at a pulsating rate as our climaxes progress to a crescendo.

"Spike . . .?" My mouth forms the word in absolute comical slowness, causing it to echo as if originating from a far away void.

Instead of vocally replying with a most logical, "Buffy . . .?", he transmits the most unabashed expression of concentrated lust through my eyes to burrow deep down to my exploding core.

The odd occurrences grow as the beans in the Jack in the Beanstalk fairytale but not with height or width. It grows in power and speed. Once floating tranquilly around us, now thickening and zooming in us. Spike feels it to for his jaw clenches as these streams of colors representing so many things of ourselves charge our bodies past our natural capacity for power and beyond.

Internal pain and internal pleasure combine as Spike delivers his last abnormally slow thrust. My nails in what seems like a century reach his back and inflict a trail of welts by passionate impulse. My mouth is a perfect O. His grip is desperate, scared. The colors blind us. A high jolt surges from him to me; breaking loose the tsunami waves of ecstasy.

Light.

Silence.

Fog.

Roars.

Our screams.