AN: I have almost no self-control for this pairing and if someone asks me to write a fic for them it doesn't matter how many WIPs I have on the back burner I'm all in. So here's the missing scene between Smashed and Wrecked (yes, that missing scene). I wanna make clear this is not cutesy fluffy happy times (if you want that you want my other fic In The Dark With You, off you go, shoo shoo).

It was the most perverse degrading experience of her life ROLL CAMERA-

Buffy tucked her knees up to her chin. Closed her eyes and tried to stay still. Tried to center herself into a state of calm she desperately needed.

But all she could focus on was Willow's delirious panting through the walls. Agonized whimpers as the magic bled out of her. It sounded like it hurt. It sounded like it hurt as much as her own withdrawal was hurting. One night together and she already felt painfully addicted, sitting on her bed holding a flimsy wooden cross and surrounded by garlands of garlic.

Pathetic. And patently naive. Beyond childish, since she knew if he did decide to come, the garlic would be less than useless. Would probably incite nothing but derision and mockery. Besides, she wasn't even trying to banish him from her home; she was trying to banish him from her thoughts.

It didn't help.

Even with the turtle-neck sweater that covered her neck and arms, she could still feel the claw marks like they'd been freshly drawn across her. The scratches and the bruises on her back newly minted. And worse even, the love bites that littered her collarbone and jugular. Her breasts and inner thighs. As cool as Spike's lips had been, they'd burned. They still burned.

She pulled her legs in tighter and let part of the memory unwind. Just a small part of it. Not to savor it, but to torture herself with it further. She deserved that.

"Poor little lost girl," he'd sneered as he swung from the chandelier and delivered a kick into the center of her chest. "She doesn't fit in anywhere."

His words stuck like splinters under her skin. There is something wrong with me, she thought. Maybe she had come back a monster. It was like he knew she'd never stopped feeling dead, and as always, he seemed to practically pull her worst fears out of her to shove in her face. She could still hear the suffocating silence of the coffin if she sat alone for too long.

She shuddered, useless against the flood of memories that were pawing at the door of her mind with needy, black-painted nails…

Just another fight. They'd had so many. So much blood had been spilled between them that she hadn't thought twice about wrestling him over the threshold of an abandoned building after he'd dared to backhand her in the alley. She wanted to bloody his mouth so she couldn't see his teeth grinning like a fucking jack-o-lantern. Wanted to swell his eyes shut with her fists so they'd stop leering at her.

Most of her wanted that. And yet the other half of her wanted his violent attention, the spotlight of his sarcastic derision. For the first time in years, he was able to hit back. He was able to hurt her too, and in a horrible, sickening way, she'd missed his fist breaking across her jaw. Fighting him was like fighting no one else, and she felt repulsed at herself to realize she'd mourned it when the chip had chained down that part of him. There had always been such give and take. Such satisfaction in the equilibrium.

Even as he trapped her against a set of crumbling stairs, there was a balance to it—an unstoppable force breaking against an immovable object—and she'd be lying if she pretended she hadn't been craving it.

"I wasn't planning on hurting you," he sneered as he held the collar of her jacket so tight the denim bit into the back of her neck. She had her hands at his wrists—holding him there for some reason rather than pushing him away. He grinned. "Much."

"You haven't even come close to hurting me," she snarled back, almost choking on the lie of it. It all hurt. Every word hurt more than the kicks and punches could.

"'Fraid to give me the chance?" Spike countered with a pleased smirk that turned her stomach, his meaning twisting back on itself.

Afraid to love me back?

Afraid to take a chance?

Afraid to let someone new into that shriveled, starved heart because one more puncture wound would stop it beating permanently?

She shoved him back then so he couldn't see how horrified she was that it might be true.

The plaster of the wall split in a deafening crack as she threw him back against it.

He strained against her hold. "You afraid I'm gonna—"

She silenced him with a kiss that was mostly bite. She couldn't bear it anymore. Couldn't take one more word. He lurched back as if she'd hit him, and she followed, refusing to give him space as her arm wound around the back of his neck, denying him retreat.

His fist uncurled as he cupped her face. Fingers slid into her hair to hold her head against him as his tongue wound around hers in answer. He pushed her back without breaking the kiss—seemingly unwilling to remain pinned by her—making her feet stumble as he walked her backward until she slammed against the opposite wall.

It cracked, the boards beneath the plaster buckling as he held her against them. She earned a desperate groan from him as she sank her teeth into his lip.

Spike bit hers in turn, their kiss becoming wild and frantic before she pushed him off her. He stumbled back into the bare room and caught her again as she barrelled into him.

Buffy shoved him back further into a pillar, mindless to the beam that shattered the floor behind her. She was deaf to it though as his lips bruised deeper than before. He lifted one of her legs off the floor, then the other, and she felt the split in her leather skirt rip along the seam as her knees widened to let him closer.

He barely seemed to notice—too absorbed with her mouth moving over his—as she reached between them and undid his belt buckle with scrambling fingers.

A hard tug undid his zipper and released his erection against her palm. Her fingers brushed the lace of her thong aside to align him with her center, and thoughtlessly—instinctively—she impaled herself on him.

He froze as she pulled back in horror at the thing she'd just done. The line she'd crossed. She blinked, mouth moving to stammer out—

What exactly?

Denials? Rejections?

It was too late for both.

For a brief second, shock morphed into anger on his face, as though he'd contemplated this moment with her so many times, and whatever dream he'd clung to had been stolen from him. And yet the emotion melted as quickly as it had flared, and something in his expression trapped her in the moment. Hope, maybe. Bewildered and terrified just as she was.

The clear devotion writ across his face was enough for her to let go a little, and she sank further down on him as he supported her with an arm like an iron girder at her back. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders, still padded enough by his duster to stop her nails from scoring the muscle below.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she moved against him. Spike sighed at the roll of her hips, his breath fanning her cheek, before catching her lips in a kiss—tender and reverent—as though he knew she was too shocked to protest it.

He turned them so she could grip the wall behind her and matched her rhythm with his own thrusts.

Buffy gasped. Despite having instigated it all, she hadn't been completely ready—had acted without forethought—and wasn't wet enough for the size of him. She stretched up as if to lengthen herself as if that could offer him more room within her and alleviate some of the tightness. It ached as he pushed deeper.

The force of her grip on the pillar supporting her must've dislodged something structural as a chandelier crashed behind him, splitting floorboards with a cacophony that barely reached her ears.

He lifted her with his hands under her thighs, raising her only to let her fall brutally back down onto him with a cruel thrust. He grunted against her collarbone until she howled, clinging to him with both arms wrapped around his neck.

It unbalanced them both, and as he tripped backward and hit the floor, the boards gave way beneath, offering a weightless moment before they crashed into the room below.

She landed with her hands on his biceps and felt the taut muscle flex there as he reached for her waist, fingers digging into either side of her spine, urging her into movement over him.

As though the force of the fall had knocked sense back into her she stalled, taking stock of Spike between her legs, greedy fingers grinding her hips down harder over his. Buffy pushed at him then, panic reasserting itself as she tried to undo what had already been done.

"Don't pull away," Spike rasped from amongst the settling dust, holding her in place by the waistband of her skirt as she attempted to raise herself off him. "Slayer, don't you fucking dare."

"Let go," she snarled back and hit him squarely in the face, sending his skull bouncing off the concrete beneath them.

He didn't relinquish his hold on her but instead reared up into a sitting position, forcing her skirt to rise well above her thighs. Buffy tried to push him back down, but he clung on. With brutal, hard tugs, he pulled her jacket down off her shoulders onto her arms. He bunched the fabric into a fist at the small of her back, effectively handcuffing her by the elbows.

Buffy clung to the sides of his duster—the only thing she could reach—as he moved within her, the roll of his hips hitting sensitive flesh that sang out in pleasure and pain alike.

He arched her into a steep recline by the twisted jacket, and the next sweep upwards hit a spot that seemed to be connected to every nerve in her body. Buffy gasped, one huge breath filling her lungs as her fingers stuttered and dropped his duster.

She let her head fall back, wantonly grinding down hard to feel him more fully as stars burst across her vision. Buffy whispered a curse as an intense internal quiver made her back bow. An unstoppable flush of wet heat accompanied the feeling of his disbelieving smirk against her neck.

"Had you pegged all wrong, pet," Spike grinned as he assaulted the spot with seemingly effortless strokes. "Thought you'd be such a prude, but you're so easy to read."

His chuckle brought her back, and she struggled out of his grip.

Furious at how easily he'd edged her towards a precipice, she yanked her jacket out of his hands and surged forward over him. She found his mouth with her teeth and cupped his face before splintering the gel in his hair with a twisting pull.

He grunted, sounding pleased, not pained, and fell back underneath her willingly. His hands slid from her thighs to her ribcage, blunt-tipped fingers kneading the silk of her cami before slipping up to palm her breasts, causing a low keening moan to escape her before she could tamp it down.

She kept her mouth close to his, knowing that if she pulled back, she wouldn't be able to bear the smug look on his face. His index finger stroked slowly across a nipple—pebbled underneath her clothes—and he swallowed the whimper it caused. A hard pinch through the fabric followed, making her walls contract around him.

"God, Slayer muscles," he groaned as he met the roll of her hips with his own.

"Shut up," she whispered, his voice pulling her fully into the moment and stoppering her ability to find respite in denial that this was even happening.

"Why don't you make me?" he goaded by rote, seeming not even connected to the words he spoke.

Wreckless from feeling so vulnerable, her fingers found their way around his neck, linked thumbs tightening over his Adam's apple. Eyes like broken pieces of blue glass snapped to hers as his hands flew to her wrists. She waited for him to push her off, flip her under and take back control, but instead, he forced her palms harder into his throat. Buffy gasped in revulsion—fascination—as she felt his windpipe close, staring into his eyes as his ability to suck in air was halted.

Seconds bled into minutes, passed the point when a human under her hands would have turned blue before going still. A mean smirk over his lips told her he'd seen her register that fact. He purred lecherously, a low deep sound that vibrated against her palms, and the reverberation of it made the bones in her arms quake. The feeling ricocheted and settled over her shoulder blades. Trickled down her spine.

So wrong… so wrong, so wrong- …and yet she couldn't let go.

"You really are a monster," Buffy breathed, awed at how the feeling of his taut neck muscles in her hands sent a twitching heat that became a river around him. Sour anger corseted her heart at the realization that she was really speaking to herself.

Spike released her wrists and stroked up her arms with trailing fingers. Hypnotized, she let him pull her close, gently holding her head in his palms until she was forced to break the hold on his neck as her arms folded and her cheek came flush against his.

His nose nuzzled her ear, setting off sparkles of electricity up her spine as he whispered hoarsely, "My turn."

He flipped them, his bent leg pushing away from the ground so hard as he spun her underneath that his coat whirled, tenting over her spread knees. The new angle burned anew, and Buffy's thighs wrapped instinctively around his hips, desperately dragging him deep. His hand found her throat this time, but where she'd been brutal he was careful, pinning her to the concrete but with no more than the minimum force needed. The other splayed on the concrete by her head, supporting himself so as not to choke her.

Two fingers dug slightly deeper than the others, over her artery, and in a haze she realized he was slamming into her in time with her pulse, bucking to the rhythm of her blood.

Newly enraged, she attempted to push him back, her hands fisting in the fabric of his t-shirt. "Get off!" she snarled.

Spike snickered down at her, apparently unimpressed by her meager effort to resist him as she clung tighter, stopping a retreat. "I intend to." There was still gravel in his voice, and she realized belatedly that the purr before he'd turned the tables hadn't been seduction, but an internal bruise from her hands. She swallowed, and his fingers rode it like a wave.

"Can feel your heart beating," he rasped as the head of his cock slid purposely across the already abused nerve endings that made her stomach tighten.

"That's because your hand is on my neck," she bit back, her voice thick with need in a way that unnerved her.

He laughed, and the gravel clogging his voice box made it all the more deeper. All the more dirtier. "I don't mean there."

His free hand dipped underneath her skirt, tracing the line of flesh where her thigh held flush against the jeans on his hip, halting where they were joined at her center. Her breath stalled in her lungs as his thumb circled her clit in a slick, gliding circle.

"So loud." Spike worked her alongside his thrusts, and Buffy felt her heart rate climbing as he rolled his head to the side in a gesture of enraptured concentration, his tongue tucked behind his teeth. "Getting louder." A few more flicks caused her back to arch, head thrown back and thumping hard against the concrete floor. He chuckled as her thighs spasmed against his, fingers gripping and releasing his t-shirt. "Missed a couple beats there, luv."

Buffy tried to shake her head, but it only made everything blurrier.

He dipped to her and lavished openmouthed kisses against her neck and jaw, cupping her face where moments ago he'd been holding her down by the throat, and after a second to catch her breath, she turned into them, holding his head close to stop him pulling away. If she buried herself in his kiss, if she held him tight, she could pretend it was someone else above her, someone else buried inside her.

But the only face she could conjure was his.

Feverishly she pulled him closer and bit his ear before trailing kisses down his neck as she pushed his coat off his shoulders.

"My girl," Spike sighed, holding the back of her head off the floor as she worked lower. "You feel so good—"

His words snapped her out of the hypnotic sensation of his skin against hers, poisoned her delirium with reality, and she threw him off with a hard shove.

Buffy was on her feet in a flash, pushing her skirt back down over her legs as she ran for the door, blocked by a support beam that had fallen down from the floor above. She hauled it off and let it crash to the side, bitterness roiling in her throat at the thought that she was expending such precious energy into returning to a reality she'd come to loathe. That respite from it had finally come on a filthy floor in his company.

She got the door open a crack before it was knocked shut again from behind her by Spike's hand next to her head.

"I'm leaving," she snarled as she turned to glare at him. "Let go of the door."

"Not sticking around for the finish, then, sweetheart?" he hissed, the collar of his jacket back in place and his cock tucked back into his jeans, still undone. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were addicted to being unsatisfied."

He was too close for her to properly pull a punch. She settled for a hard slap across his face, but he barely turned his head from it.

Spike gripped her by the lapels of her jacket, pulled her off the door for a second, and then slammed her back into it.

The building creaked from the reverberation of it, dislodging another beam that crashed next to them, and his lips were on hers again, biting her until she let him widen the angle of their mouths.

He left her gasping against the cracked door as he dropped to his knees and hiked her skirt up to her waist. As his tongue met her clit, Buffy let out a low keening groan, her fingers finding his hair as he sucked her through the lace of her thong. She'd been close so many times already, and it took barely any pressure to work her toward that peak again. He broke away from her long enough to slip off her boots and pull the gauzy fabric down off her legs with blunt teeth. She watched him pocket it, her lungs panting as he urged her bare feet to link over his shoulders, settling her over his tongue as she rode his mouth.

"Spike–"

Release inched closer, and this time, she didn't rear back from it. Instead, she welcomed the weightless liberation she knew it would bring—that her scarred heart and overwhelmed mind had been yearning for since clawing her way out of her grave. She closed her eyes under it as it began with a burn in her thighs, radiating up into her lower stomach and breasts.

And then Spike stopped, halting her on the cliff's edge. He rose fluidly from his kneel position, shrugging off her legs, and dragged her into a kiss that tasted of herself. Buffy shuddered and melted, unprotesting, against him.

"Take your clothes off, Slayer," he purred, and the sound pooled in her belly. "Show me you want this."

Heat burned the back of her neck and surged down to her heart.

She wanted more.

God, she wanted more, but she wanted it in a way that would be reasonably deniable later.

'Caught in the passion of the moment'…

'It all happened so fast'…

Words she was already rehearsing. And he was forcing her to let go of them. To drop them like a hand letting go of a weapon. To do this cognitively.

She swallowed and jutted her chin stubbornly. Bought herself a few seconds more. "You first."

He studied her for a moment, seemingly following the blush that was creeping up her neck before a smirk spread across his face. He took several steps back from her, enough that if she decided not to run after all, she'd have to decisively close the distance between them.

He peeled out of his duster and hung it across a pile of rubble. Toed out of his boots and shrugged out of his dark purple shirt, letting it drop into the dust. He pulled his black undershirt up and over his head, and Buffy's throat ran dry at the sight of his chest and stomach.

She almost averted her gaze as his jeans hit the floor, and he walked out of them, leaning a shoulder against an already cracked pillar as he waited for her, naked save for the rings on his fingers and the chain at his neck.

Dangerous eyes dared her, causing sweat to bead in her palms, but it didn't matter. She wasn't Buffy—but an animal in the dark with another wild thing about to be wrapped around her—and nothing she did mattered. It'd be pure instinct, just rutting and clawing and biting, and maybe she'd never go back to that bright painful world above.

She shed her clothes and, with them, layers of her identity. Her jacket and camisole, the cream slip and bra, and the leather skirt with its extended rip that ended at the top of her thigh.

Finally naked, her gaze met his. His bottom lip glistened as if he'd just run a tongue across it, and his eyes were bottomless inky depths.

She ran at him, and he caught her as her legs anchored around his back, his mouth re-bruising hers and swelling her lips as they crashed to the floor, wound around each other.

Her nails scored his back, leaving bloody welts over his shoulder blades, and he caught her wrists, holding her to the floor. With her laid out beneath him like a sacrifice, he deftly speared her. Surged until he was buried to the hilt inside her and stopped, pinning her with his hips as her eyes flashed to his.

"Say you love me," Spike insisted with a hoarse growl.

Her blood turned to ice—made her freeze under his hands as she took in the sober expression on his face. She shook her head, the concrete floor tangling her hair into a knot. "I don't."

His lip curled, and he spread her arms wider so he could dip closer to her. "You're a little liar. You feel it, I know you feel it," he hissed as she shivered beneath him. "Say. It."

She spat in his face. He turned his head, but it still caught him under the eye. He moved her wrists to one hand, the other wiping across his face, and smeared his wet palm down her cheek. "Show me then."

An arm wound underneath her back, forcing her hips up into a grind, and Buffy groaned as the swell of the orgasm several times denied resurfaced almost immediately.

The bundle of nerves that seemed to set fire to every muscle in her body was newly assaulted, and Buffy's thighs clenched hard around his hips. She numbly considered that when they stopped, she'd have bruises down the entire length of them.

If they ever stopped.

Every one of Spike's thrusts was paired with a pull by the arm around her back, a drag down that caused a shockwave that stole the air from her lungs.

Buffy howled in a barrage of curses and screams from the sudden release of tension shattered.

She cinched tighter around him, and he slowed, letting her have the moment as her inner muscles milked him until her orgasm finally dwindled. Buffy met his gaze through half-lidded eyes, watching her steadily as muscle spasms shuddered her frame.

His mouth opened, and Buffy could practically hear the words he was about to say before they even vibrated his vocal cords.

I love you…

But instead of saying them, he dipped closer to her and kissed her deeply in a way that restrung the tension in her body, his tongue tangling around hers before resuming the long, languid strokes inside her.

He raised himself, releasing her wrists enough so that his eyes could travel the length of her. His gaze settled where they were joined, obviously enraptured with the sight of himself disappearing inside her.

His fingers dug possessively into the curve of her back as she rose to meet him, mottling her waist with dime-sized marks. Buffy hissed, briefly bowing away from the sensation before settling down into it like a bed of nails.

Despite the biting hold that demanded her attention, Buffy couldn't help but watch him. His breathing was sporadic. Extremely so. What felt like endless swathes of time would pass without him taking a single breath as he seemed only to focus on the way she moved against him.

Unable to withstand such unwavering scrutiny, she caught hold of him by the neck and pulled herself up to sink her teeth into his shoulder. She dragged the nails of one hand so hard across his back they drew blood from his skin and a choked curse from his throat—setting off panting exhales as he pounded against her with renewed desperation.

He hauled her up as he sat back into a kneel, pulling her legs tight around his waist. He swelled inside her, and she buried her head at his neck so she wouldn't have to witness him come apart, the thought too sickeningly intimate for her to watch.

In answer, he bit her where her neck met her shoulder.

She stiffened, waiting for fangs to slide out and down—mortified at the flush of arousal the anticipation of it caused—but they never came. Blunt teeth held her to him like a cat pinning its mate, his hips jolting her upwards so she could feel the danger at her jugular, but never delivering the final ounce of pressure.

After a few more thrusts he broke inside her, holding her still with brutally arched fingers, nails digging into the flesh of her hips.

She could feel the welt of his bite marks rising on her skin as he pulled back with a nip that stung, earning a jolt from the muscle beneath.

"Like being bit, luv?" he whispered, his voice still raw like he'd swallowed glass.

She blinked slowly, limp in his arms and soaked from sweat and their mutual release, and still, she managed to find just a crumb of denial left inside her. "Who could like that?" she murmured, not caring about the ironic symmetry of whispering it into his neck.

He chuckled dryly. Before, the sound of it would've sent a wave of anger coursing through her, but this time Buffy only prickled at the feel of air brushing down a shoulder blade.

"You, evidently," he said, his tongue darting out to taste the mark he'd left. "Could practically feel your pulse in my teeth." He bit her again, gently in an openmouthed kiss, and she felt her walls tighten around him.

"You're shivering," Spike purred, and she realized she was, violently. And as her body heat left her, he had none to replace it with. He reached for his duster, tugging it down off the rubble he'd draped it over, and keeping one hand on her waist he dressed her in it like a doll. One boneless arm then the other, until she was drowned in the heavy leather.

It covered them both and smelt like cigarettes and whiskey and the cold stone walls of his crypt. She wound her arms around his shoulders and slumped into the cradle her elbow and his neck made, thinking strangely that unconsciousness could take her now and she wouldn't protest. Considering the circumstances, she would welcome it.

Calloused hands slipped up her legs, and his thumbs squeezed where thigh met hip, earning a twitch of muscle before he continued stroking upwards. Up over her stomach, round the hourglass shape of her waist underneath the coat to settle on her ass, pulling her into a flusher embrace against him.

A dirty snicker tickled her ear and Buffy shuddered at the sound of it.

"What?" she mumbled. Her eyes were so heavy she could barely raise them to the grin wrinkling his eyes.

"Just enjoying the symmetry of you wearing this leather," Spike said as he squeezed the flesh under his hands. "It's got a sick sorta poetry to it…"

Her brow furrowed as she tried to follow his meaning, but understanding felt so unattainably out of reach. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He caught her up in a kiss, and it felt more perverted than all the others, full of twisted intentions as his tongue flicked across hers. "Tell you another time, maybe," he replied and rolled her back down to the floor.

His lips devoured hers, moving slowly in tandem with the rhythm of his hips. He wasn't fully erect, but he still filled her impressively, and every movement sent sparks of overstimulation up through their connection.

Spike nipped her with his teeth whenever she didn't keep time with him—pulled her back into the moment whether she wanted to be there or not. Each time he did, her walls answered in a pleading twitch. He snickered when he caught on, biting her harder with each kiss. One such bite drew blood, a tiny speck of it from her over-swollen lower lip. His mouth clamped hard over the puncture, sucking until the flesh was practically numb before releasing her with a growled "Fuck" as his pupils dilated wider.

He hardened inside her immediately, and each subsequent thrust made him harder still. Buffy gasped and whimpered beneath him as her clit began to ache from the continuous friction. She pushed at his stomach in an effort to slow him or remove him, but instead of releasing her he forced her hand lower until she was cupping her sex. He held there by the wrist to stop her retreat, with her index and middle finger either side of his cock, as he ground into her at a punishing pace.

"Can you feel how much you want me, Slayer?" he gloated, pulling out further so their mutual spend coated her fingers in silky tendrils. "Feel how wet you are for me? Could fuck you to death, Buffy. Give you your death wish this way, luv, wouldn't that be gorgeous?"

Revolting as they were, his words seemed to burn as the pressure of her palm and a handful of thrusts pushed her over the crest of a wave. She broke in a scream, her bones liquifying in her legs and arms.

He came moments after her, chasing her heartbeat with the buck of his hips until he fell across the edge and down on top of her

Maybe she lost consciousness for a while. And maybe she didn't, but there was certainly a drowsy abyss where memory should be. A bottomless chasm that was simply dark and warm and wet and smelled like sex and leather. Full of writhing movement that she both took and gave.

When she resurfaced, it was to Spike's lips on her neck, sucking at her pulse point as a hand cupped her jawline tenderly.

She moved her head and felt stiffness along her throat heralding fresh marks, more love bites and dimples from his teeth that proved how diligent he'd been in his attention. She swallowed and felt the movement of it against his teeth, which in turn triggered an obscene moan from him. She raised a leg—intending to shuffle herself away from him—and came up against his erection over her thigh. Her eyes took in their position with hazy delirium; his knee at her center as he straddled her leg, his hand underneath her thigh urging her upwards into him.

"Mm… there you are," he purred as he released her neck, pressing into her leg with a roll of his hips. "Thought I'd lost you for a bit, pet."

Buffy moved under him and felt the duster swaddling her—heavy and warm from her own heat, supple against her naked skin. "Didn't exactly seem to stop you," she whispered, her throat too tight for the venom she intended it to convey. She made to move back again on her elbows, but he caught her forearms and pinned her in place.

"Uh uh, no scuffing the leather, sweetheart," Spike grinned, picking up one of her hands and tracing her fingers down the side of her neck. "Stopped here. Just a little something to remember me by. Didn't think you'd mind-" he cocked his head to the side, and Buffy's eyes took in the bruises she'd left on his throat like a dog collar, "-since I've got a set of my own."

Her stomach tightened in revulsion at herself, but something sinister unfurled too. Something that was possessive and lustful, and her fingers curled inside the sleeves of his coat as if reliving the feeling of it all over again.

He didn't try to kiss her. He must've seen that darkness in her eyes and thought better of it. Instead, he tugged apart one side of the duster and ducked a head to her breast, licked a line up to her collar and grazed the bone with his teeth before kissing his way back down.

"I'll be thinking about the way you taste every time I put this coat on now, luv," he whispered against her skin, and she knew the sight of him wearing it would provoke sinful thoughts in her too. Prayed there wasn't light enough for him to notice how that thought was burning her cheeks and her neck and her breasts.

Her breathing betrayed her. Swelling her lungs if she dared try to hold back the panting that was straining her ribcage, as he sucked a nipple into his mouth her head fell back with a gasp. Cruel teeth pinched as his tongue lapped at her generously, soothing the sting even as he supplied it.

Hard fingers worked their way inside her—uncaring how swollen and tight she was—and curled, beckoning her upwards. She obeyed, bowing off the floor towards his hand, chasing the flutter between her legs as he worked her breasts mercilessly. A caress that felt like she'd had a scalpel blade scraped across the nipple between his teeth made her eyes flare open to see his demon features in place over the already harsh lines of his face.

She nearly lurched back, but that would have caused his teeth to sink deeper into the puckered flesh, and so she forced herself to stillness, let go a shaking exhale, and watched.

He was so careful even around a mouthful of fangs. Gentle. When he bit her it was with the least amount of pressure the action could afford, though it still sent a jolt through her core and her heart skipping a beat. Her skin raised in goosebumps as a cool tongue flicked over her, the sensation causing more wet warmth around the two digits inside her.

With light fingers, she traced the split road of the scar over his eyebrow, elongated over the ridges of his demon's face.

As though he'd been waiting for her touch, he sighed deeply against her, sending a hum shivering through the trapped nipple down to her clit. The squeeze of her walls around his fingers eased somewhat as if waiting for such devotion to counteract her overworked nerves. She swallowed a moan, still with enough presence of mind not to give him everything. Not to promise too much.

He took her hand from his face and ran his teeth across her wrist before settling it over his cock. He closed her fingers around him with a squeeze, holding her in place even though she didn't pull back, and had no intention to.

His hand moved over hers, urging her into long strokes as he rocked into her fist. The head of his cock grazed her leg with every thrust, and she instinctively brought her knee further up to bring more of her skin in contact with him.

Spike grunted in appreciation, sucking harder on the nipple trapped between his teeth. He added a thumb to her clit and she flinched, but he didn't add any friction, perhaps sensing just the pressure would already be bordering on overstimulation after his previous assaults. Instead pumped his fingers harder into her, mirroring the pace of her hand under his.

The rhythm quickened, and her breathing deepened, the extra oxygen being dragged into her lungs making her lightheaded.

"Spike-" she gasped, as the feeling of a taut string ready to snap pulled every muscle in her body tight.

As though his name in her mouth was the trigger he needed he came hard into her hand, releasing her breast from his mouth as he growled out a curse, quivering under her fingers and leaving a smear that ran from her thigh to her hip. He kept her fingers around his cock until the last spasms died before unclasping his hand from around hers.

He pulled his fingers from between her legs, causing a choked whimper to slip uncaught from her throat.

Wasn't finished… a needy voice in her head moaned, almost unrecognizable in its lustful greediness.

Dazedly, Buffy took in the mess he'd left over her skin, glistening over the muscle of her thigh and cobwebbing between her fingers. She flinched internally, shards of memory haunting her—of Angel, and Parker, and Riley— taunting her with how clean and sweet and romantic their affections had been in comparison to this debasement.

And yet how far away they felt. How inconsequential. Not even the deep trench-like heartache that thoughts of Angel usually elicited seemed able to touch the moment. They were nothing but ghosts, and as Spike shook off his demonic features—settled back into the cruelly chiseled jaw and cheekbones below—they evaporated completely.

He barely paused before working his way down her front, halting over the jut of her ribcage to score her with blunt teeth and worry a new mark. Buffy hissed as he caught a nerve that caused her legs to jerk closed around his knee at her core.

The duster had slipped off her shoulders, pooling at her elbows, and a fresh shiver rippled her pebbling skin. She didn't feel like she could wrap herself back into it with his come still coating her fingers, the digits loosely curled as if holding an invisible piece of fruit, not touching herself or him, nor the coat, nor the floor. Trapped in inaction.

As his head reached her hip, Spike seemed to register the stiffness in her arm and snickered.

"Don't like getting dirty, Slayer?" he asked as he caught her hand by the wrist. "Shoulda said, luv, let me clean you up."

To Buffy's incomprehension, he licked over her palm with the flat of his tongue. Her mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he sucked her fingers into his mouth.

That's… so gross, she thought hazily but couldn't stop a groan from escaping her as his tongue lapped between her index and middle finger, then middle and ring, her eyelids fluttering closed for a heartbeat. Glossy with his saliva, he settled her palm on the needles of his hair—already starting to break loose—as he sank down between her thighs, replacing the evidence of his release there with hard sucking bites that made her muscles twitch. He worked his way inwards, painting her skin a palette of reds, pinks, and mauves.

She watched him with a half-lidded gaze, jolting like she'd been shot when blue eyes flicked up to her just before he lay a kiss on her folds. Her legs jerked at the sensation. His lips were warm from where they'd been pressed against her, but as his tongue flicked out and over and into her a cool balm eased the raw feeling of being so overworked and swollen.

He hooked his hands under her legs and pulled her thighs wider apart, lowering her knees practically to the floor. Her muscles strained against his hold, trying instinctively to close even as his tongue massaged her in long, tortuous licks. Her hand tensed into a fist as his lips brushed her clit, and she felt the gel in his hair break apart between her fingers, releasing curls as he worked deeper into her.

"Please," she breathed, unsure what she was begging for as his strokes turned wild. "Please, please, please, please-"

At the height of her desperation, he sucked her clit hard. Held her against the pressure as she screamed, the last pulses of a near-painful orgasm stealing the final ounce of resistance from her limbs and pulling consciousness out from underneath her.

The sound of the ceiling finally caving in on itself roused her out of a strange half-slumber. She had no idea how long she'd dozed, but Spike had worked his way into her side, his arms inside the coat with her. Warm from her body heat, he clasped her lightly in sleep, his head pillowed on the bitemarks he'd decorated her breast with.

A girder creaked and she glanced up to a plume of dust settling where a floorboard had landed not too far from their heads.

Buffy moved carefully, pulling away from him and out of his embrace. She made to stand on shaky legs, but before she could get her feet underneath her his hand was on her bicep—a fierce, sudden grip that was only matched by the cold fire in his eyes.

She froze.

He didn't let go.

He shook his head once, telling her no, she wasn't going. Even if they were buried alive here, she would endure it, and she knew she had no choice. He'd made an animal out of her, and she belonged here with him. His mate. Belonged beside him in the wreckage of their carnality.

A strange sort of peace accompanied that knowledge.

She let him pull her back down and met his lips with hers. The pressure of his fingers on her arm eased as she sank against him in a languid kiss that spoke of eternities together.

A fresh wave of desire tightened her grip on him and she gave way to the instinctual need to move against him, cupping his face as she slid onto his lap. She sighed into their kiss when he widened it, filling her mouth with his tongue until she felt weightless.

More. More, she wanted more. Wanted the taste of him deeper. Wanted the smokey dark perfume of his skin to coat her mouth. She broke away from their kiss to taste his throat, and his head fell back obligingly with a groan, a soft hand curled in her hair as she worked her way downwards.

He eased himself back into a recline against the shattered floor, his breathing shallowing into a purr as she slipped down him. Her tongue flicked over his nipple, and he cursed lightly, his cock twitching in answer against the plane of her stomach.

She kissed over his stomach muscles slowly, taking time to fully taste him, lingering anywhere that earned a gasp; the shallow of his ribcage and the V of his groin muscles. They'd never do this again, never ever ever, but when they did she already knew where her lips would linger, what line her tongue would trace, what sound he'd make as she grazed him with her teeth.

"Buffy…"

He sounded so worshipful, so sickeningly in love, that she nearly lost her nerve as she positioned herself between his legs, pushing apart his thighs enough to lower her head closer to him.

She wasn't sure if he watched, uncaring if he did or not, as she licked the length of him with the flat of her tongue. He quivered and pulsed as though every inch of skin was pleading her for more. She teased him until her jaw began to ache and his breath started to rattle, before taking him inside her mouth as his hips bowed off the floor.

"God, your mouth," Spike huffed, the fingers in her hair that had been gently stroking suddenly gripping tight. "Your mouth-"

She swirled her tongue lightly around his tip, earning a groan that had its own set of teeth, and as she dipped to take him fully, it deepened into a purr that vibrated through her.

With her hands on his thighs for leverage, she bobbed on him lightly, uncaring for the thrusts that threatened to breach her throat, each downstroke taking him a millimeter deeper until his breathing halted. She hollowed her cheeks in a hard suck just as he had over her and swallowed as his hand held her tight against him, swallowed again as he swelled to breaking and spilled into her.

With hard shuddering gulps for air, she collapsed onto Spike's stomach, still swallowing reflexively as the muscles of his legs spasmed against her.

Without resistance, she let him haul her back up, pillowed her head on his chest as he pulled the coat around them both, and oblivion took her...

...Buffy swallowed, holding tight to the cross in her hand, as she buried her head in her arms. The room was cold and seemed to be leaching heat from her skin when she wanted to burn. To burn under his cold holds.

She could still taste him.

That was the worst part, maybe. The love bites would fade. The scratches would heal.

But the taste of him lingered. Despite how much she tried to rid herself of him it was like a part of him had clung to her permanently.

She could still taste his tongue in her mouth. Could still feel his hands on her body and his duster over her shoulders.

Could still smell his cigarettes-

Her head jerked up.

That wasn't a memory. She really could smell cigarette smoke.

Dread shivered through her, and she trembled from it. He was in her house. Downstairs waiting for her.

She dropped the cross on the bed sheets and padded barefoot to the door, unable to resist the pull of him as she slipped out into the hallway.

Outside her room, the lights were on, and as she descended the stairs, the sight of Spike smoking on her sofa filled her blood with a hot wave of nauseating need that shut out everything else. Diminished it all to a pinprick of inconsequence.

He stood as she reached the bottom step, grinding out the cigarette into a coffee cup left on the table. They faced each other in silence for a heartbeat before he opened his mouth to speak.

"You should go," she said in a hushed tone before he could say anything, alerting the rest of the house to his presence.

His eyes snapped to hers, nostrils flaring that she'd dared ask for his help only to kick him to the curb now. Buffy shook her head, not intending to plead but not seeing any other way. "Please. Go."

"Buffy-" her name was a careless whisper of desire as his eyes traveled to her lips, slipping down to her neck.

He reached out a hand, and she froze. Let him dip two fingers underneath the wool of her turtleneck and slide it down, revealing the mottled mauve of her throat.

"Please, go-" she repeated like a mantra, her eyes on his as they dragged her in. As her feet moved her closer without her permission. "Please—" the last was swallowed by his kiss as he held her by the collar. She pushed back into him, hunger breaking like a cracked dam as they tumbled onto the couch.

He spun her underneath him, blunt-tipped fingers already working at the button of her jeans. He had them off her legs with a couple of hard yanks and stripped her of her sweater so he could trace the color of his marks over her chest with his tongue before he was inside her.

She bit him, buried her teeth in his shoulder as he growled her name, and she held on to him just as hard. Scratched and clawed and devoured him and was devoured in turn. His lips found hers and she let him kiss her deeply, rutting brutally, the only sound the huff of their mutually desperate breathing.

This is the last time. This last time and never again…

Naked beneath him, wrapped around him, there was some twisted tranquility. A strange unity in the savage hunger between them.

A bitter taste flared in her mouth at the knowledge that she would never feel such peace again without him, but the thought didn't last long as he wound his arms around her back. With a strangled exhale he came, gasping from the feel of her the way had so many times before and Buffy shuddered to hear it. Could hear both the pleasure and the pain in it and her heart surged.

…Just another fight, she pleaded with herself. It's just another fight.

…They'd had so many, what was one more?

End Note: Thank you eternally to my beta's RavenLove12 and foxfaceinthewindow for your unflinching concrit, encouragement, and spicy pepper emojis (queue Josh Groban belting out You Raise Me Up) I couldn't do this withoutchu guys T_T

I try not to do things by halves, or shy away from a challenge, and this absolutely challenged me (the brief specified "explicit" I DID MY BEST). Comments and reviews are, as always, treasured!