This fic was Runner Up  Best Episode Stealer at:

...BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

AUTHOR: Rabid, Raeann, 1stRab-id

BETA:  Nautibitz, who was right...and the good folks at OGD who answered my question.

SUBJECT: B/S

RATING: NC-17

SPOILERS: Season 6 episodes GONE and DOUBLEMEAT PALACE

SUMMARY:  Hard to say...this is a PWP of sorts, Spike's POV and then Buffy's POV about the reaction of Buffy in DMP's alley scene.  If you have seen the eppy or read the spoilers you know the scene of which I speak.  Many of you are depressed...I was and then was not.  Anyway...this is another interpretive dance.

DISCLAIMER: Ackkk! I may well fall under the great and powerful wrath of the almighty OZ...or his creator Joss Whedon and the parent companies of Fox, Mutant Enemy and UPN...please know that I hereby offer all due homage...not mine, I own nothing but my little idea "hey, JW...you can have that too...if you want.

SPIKE

He swore he wouldn't do this.   Not again.  Not after last time.  A man had to take a stand.  And he had.  He had taken the bloody pledge.  He was better than this...well part of him was at any rate.  Not his heart, of course.  Not his cock either, apparently.

He had thrown her out.  That was the thing Spike held onto in the night.  Shaking and cold and needing, he reminded himself over and over again.  He had thrown her out.  How many nights ago?  Three?  Four...if he could count tonight!  But tonight didn't count, now, did it?

She stood there in the half-light.  In the red and white striped polyester uniform that smelled of stale grease and other people's sweat.  She'd taken off her hat inside.  Brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, she pulled through it with her fingers just as he would do if he was closer to her.  Like he did the last time...when he could only feel her beneath him, surrounding him.  When all he had was touch and sound and scent to remind him of her.  And God, that was the better deal...far better than this seeing.

He stood, under the nimbus of the streetlamp, on the far side of the parking lot.  He was angry.  He stirred the embers of his anger, trying to raise the blaze of it.  It was so easy to be angry with her.  She used him like a drug.  He was her cheap, transient thrill.  He shamed her.  She hid her eyes from him, hid her face, even as she let him access her body.  Because she could disown her body.  Her perfect body, six months dead, that someone had stolen from the grave and someone else had cloistered in invisibility.

Safe behind her blank walls, she dismissed him, belittling his love for her.  She would let him service her or pay her homage.   But she denied him.  Just as she denied herself; his love and her truth.  She denied him everything that mattered.  Everything but the haunted look in her eyes, the quiver in her lower lip and the soft moan of her pleasure.

It wasn't that he didn't know.  It wasn't even that he didn't understand.  Spike knew he was her only joy in life, the one thing that made the blood course through her veins.  But he could not let that sway his stand.  He knew her.  Had known her a long, long time.  Five years and all eternity.  He knew her as his enemy and his judge.  As his battle-scarred companion and his sweet love.  So many variations on the theme.  They circled one another, helplessly, relentlessly, both caught in the gravitational pull of togetherness.

And as he circled her, through the years, Spike watched.  He studied.  He'd seen the other men.  He'd seen them try to reach her.  Seen them struggle, fail and leave.  And still she was untouched behind her walls.  Virginal inside, veiled, and unrelenting in her vigilance.  He meant to touch her, make her burn, make her weep.  He meant to make her his.  Because, in truth, she was already.  He knew her as no other ever had.  He knew her deep and well. She could lie to anyone, everyone, even lie to herself.  But she couldn't lie to him.

"Please don't make this any harder," she whispered in his head.  And yet, she left him no other choice.  She took the hard road, forcing him to travel it with her.

She stepped away from the heavy metal door and tilted her head toward the alley.  It wasn?t a question or a hopeful suggestion.  It was a command.  Spike felt an immediate pull in his groin and the center of his chest.  He didn't think.  He walked toward her reflexively.  Choke chain invoked.  Heel, Spike.  Alright then!

The alley was dim and dank.  It smelled of homelessness, rotted food and stale urine.  She was waiting by the dumpster, half-turned away.  Veiled again, this time by shadows. He opened his mouth to say something.  Maybe to reiterate his stand on being used or maybe to reprimand her on her foolish behavior.  It didn't really matter.

"Don't talk," she commanded, taking his hand and guiding him to the back wall of the restaurant, "just touch me."

So there was no mistake of her meaning, she released him and unzipped her pants, sliding the fabric down her thighs.  Spike felt the anger flare in his eyes.  He glared at her, unable to believe her audacity.

"Bitch," he thought. "Heartless, Demon Bitch. I told you no more! And I won't touch you. I'll be buggered if I'll touch you."

But he touched himself.  His hands moved of their own accord.  His impatient fingers tugged at his belt buckle.  Pulling down his zipper, he fondled himself free of the restraining denim.  He was already lubricated.  Holding himself and holding her gaze, Spike circled his thumb over the head of his shaft, spreading the pearl of fluid.

He stepped in and positioned the tip of his cock against her.  He stroked her with his slick velvet softness.  She wasn't ready for him.  She wasn't even close.  She was barely damp and locked down tight.  Beyond tight, actually.  There was only the finest hint of an opening between her legs.  His eyes flickered up, questioning.  She turned her head away.  Her face was impassive, like a Renaissance painting.  Something portraying the rape of the Christian martyrs.

"What?" he wanted to scream at her. "What do you want from me?"

But he already knew.  He had seen it in her eyes, in that brief second of contact.  She wanted to feel alive.  She was dying inside.  And it wasn't the hero's death that was her due.  It was a death by inches, the birthright of everyone in this bloody harsh world.  She didn't want sex.  She wanted her lover's touch.  She wanted her body to take over and make things simple for her.  And Spike had already told her no.

Three nights ago, he'd said it aloud, surprising himself.  Jerking her up off her knees.  Pushing her toward his stairs.  Impassively, taking the struggle and the slap and the petulant squeak from her.  No more.  No more mindless, breathless flesh.  No more reacting without feeling, stumbling blindly forward.  No more handing off of the hard decisions to someone else. No more denying and having at the same time.

No more denying and having?  Spike snorted, mocking himself as his mindless, breathless flesh pressed hard and wet against her.  Of course, she would have her way.  He could deny her nothing.  He was her prey.  She knew just how to take him down.  But he wasn't going to help her do it.

There was no possibility of entering her like this.  Nothing to be gained against Slayer resistance.  She needed his touch to open her.  But that's where he drew the line.  Instead, he let his shaft slip horizontally between her thighs.  Thrusting along her surface, Spike stimulated them both with the friction.  But he kept his hands on the wall.  He was determined not to hold or kiss her.  Not to give her anything more than gravity demanded.

She was hobbled by her slacks.  They were pushed down past her knees but still they kept her legs closed.  Too close together for him to have easy access.  Finally, she reached out.  Took him in hand.  Fingers trembling, she settled him at Heaven's door.  He dipped low at the hips to accommodate their difference in height and waited for her to make the next move.

Buffy took him in.  She eased herself open, relaxing her thighs.  She gripped his upper arms tight as she rocked her pelvis back and forth and side-to-side.  She worked her vaginal muscles around him, taking him in a half-inch at a time.  He was large and she was barely damp.  He knew it pained her as she stretched to fit him.

Spike's fingers fanned out and his head dropped low as his lover swallowed up his entire length.  Her inner walls pulsed against him and she melted, just a little.  Now that she had him all the way inside.

"Oh, god, Buffy," he whispered and immediately cursed his traitorous tongue.

But his tongue was unrepentant.  It continued murmuring barely legible words.  His mouth watered, craving the taste of her.  But he denied himself.  He began, instead, to move, bobbing and swaying with her, taking the lead in their dance.  It was a slow dance.  It made him long to hold her close.  But she avoided him.  She tossed her head back and shut her eyes.

She didn't want intimacy or love from him. She wanted to whore herself.  To pretend that's all she was to him, a conquest.  To pretend that all he was to her was a convenience.  She wanted cigarette-break sex.  Nasty, back-alley sex.  The kind that pays the bills.

And Spike complied, knowing it wouldn't satisfy her.  It failed to satisfy him.  But at least, it made him come.  It was over far too quickly, like masturbation.  Nothing more than a mechanical exercise, the right fit, the pumping slickness and the shuddering release.  He waited inside her.  Waited for her to offer him some sign of desire, some further need he could fulfill.  She pushed away.  And, still spurting, he slid free of her confines.

They adjusted themselves.  Both looking down, preoccupied with zippers and buttons.  A tiny rivulet of his seed trickled along her inner thigh.  A token.  From him, not her.  She never let him go that easily.  It wasn't much.  But it captured Spike's attention.  It was enough to remind him that she'd trapped his seed within her.  She held him, now, inside her body.  The thought was enough to arouse him anew.  He shifted toward her, inhaling their intermingled scents.

"Later," he said, not making it a question. "My place. I'll make you feel it, too. Make you happy again." She ducked her head, already moving away.

Spike pounced.  He slammed his fists into the wall on either side of her and Buffy jumped, looking up.  Their eyes locked.  He mesmerized her.  He matched her ragged breathing with his own and held her gaze for ten long seconds before he came in close to her ear. Rubbing against her cheek like a contented tabby, stirring her hair, he whispered the words she dreaded and yet longed to hear.

"I love you,"he said, roughly.

And the Slayer broke and ran.

GO TO PART 2 ...BUFFY

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