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I lost my appetite
I cannot sleep at night
I cannot concentrate
I do not feel too great
The world is caving in
And I'm kinda struggling
But I kinda like it
'Cause it feels like being in love…
…I tried to meditate
But I just medicate
Pour me another drink
Don't wanna have to think
I think I lost my shit
Some kind of fucked up trip
But I kinda like it
'Cause it feels like being in love
— Being In Love, Wet Leg
"What's this?" Spike asked, unimpressed, tilting the contents of the jar Buffy had handed him up to the light from where he was leaning against Giles' sofa.
"It's a spell. A… a potion. Thing," she answered, crossing her arms. It felt rather ridiculous, handing over a potion in a jam jar. Potions should come in mystic little bottles with skulls on the label. This was decidedly anticlimactic before it had even begun. It was green, though, and that at least felt cinematically accurate.
It had been a couple of days since the Will Be Done spell had been unwilled. A couple of days of half listened-to conversations, drifting off in the middle of class, barely eating, sleepless nights that were making her sluggish.
The daydreams were wearing her thin.
He was in her head. Burrowing in deeper like a splinter. One of the really small ones that you could never get hold of, and she needed him out.
After all, it wasn't real. She wouldn't be thinking about how Spike could kiss and simultaneously make it feel like a bite, wouldn't be thinking about his hands clawed, or how his tongue moved across hers if it hadn't been for the stupid spell! She'd know none of it!
She shouldn't know any of it, and now that she knew it she should be ignoring it, should be making googly eyes at the super cute TA with the broad shoulders, but apparently she was so touch-starved that Spike's lips moving across hers was all it took to drive her to the brinks of complete insanity.
Enough was enough. Getting the hots for Spike was completely out of the question. He was a monster, and she had fully sworn off tangling with monsters, (past the amount her calling called for). No. Normal, human, sane; those were the relationship goalposts.
And safe to say, Spike cleared exactly none of them.
She'd barely managed to hide her eagerness when Willow had approached her with the solution. The tentative saving grace. If she wanted it. No pressure.
No pressure except for the growing desperation to forget and move on.
All she needed to do was sell it to Spike.
"A potion?" Spike raised a dubious eyebrow. "From who?"
"Willow."
He let out an unimpressed snort.
"Might have escaped your notice but I'm not exactly champing at the bit to get hexed all over again. Once was plenty."
"It's for forgetting," Buffy persisted. "The whole… you and me nightmare. No more 'Buffy-taste'." She rummaged in her bag for the other jar. "I've got one too."
"Clean slate, huh?" he smiled cruelly, and Buffy hardened her jaw.
"That's the plan."
Spike sucked his teeth as though in disappointment. "You know… never been with a woman so keen to forget me."
"Well, there's a first time for everything." She dumped her bag to free her hand to unscrew the jar top. "Drink on three."
"I'm not taking it."
A hard stone plummeted from her throat and hit her gut.
"Yes. You are. Look, I wanna forget and you—"
"It was a snog or two, nothing to get your panties all twisted over. Grow up," he sneered.
Buffy flinched at the direct jab into her self-confidence. She'd assumed that since she'd been taken very much by the tide, that so had he. That he'd become just as one-track minded, and would be just as keen for an end to that particular track.
She glared.
"You don't care?"
"Couldn't give less of a toss, Slayer," he replied, oblivious to the way her lips had tightened into a thin angry line. "Certainly not enough to drink whatever Red's cooked up this time. Never know what kind of shit I'm gonna wake up into with your lot. Take it yourself if you're so shame-ridden."
"I'm not taking it alone! Then you'll have the memories and I won't and that's like way worse."
"Why do you care so bloody much?" She didn't answer. Which was a mistake because suddenly those toxic blue eyes were focused on her, reading every microexpression on her face. "Ohhhh…" he purred, and edged closer, the jar dangling from his hand by the lid. "My maker's maker still got a grip on you, does he? Know he didn't want you shacking up with another monster after him. Is that what's making you so jumpy?" He leaned towards her, brashly in her space. "Worried he'll find out about our little affair?"
She bit the inside of her lip hard.
"It's got nothing to do with Angel," she lied as her mind stopped playing the remix of normal, human, sane, and switched to the original. The one Angel had sung before he left.
She suppressed it. "I want you out of my head. That's all."
"Yeah. Bet I'm just nestled up all cozy in there, aren't I?"
"And it's a supremely unpleasant experience." He didn't move back even with the acid etching her tone; smirking like he was winning some round off her just by raising her hackles, so she changed tack completely. "What do you want in exchange for taking it?"
His eyebrows raised ever so slightly—clearly having been anticipating more snippy back and forth—and Buffy let out a short, frustrated huff. His proximity was making her itch. Making those memories flare in a supremely distracting way, and they needed removing.
Spike lifted the jar again, moving the dark green concoction back and forth as though considering its merits.
"I'm not drinking this just to forget a handful of kisses," he replied after a lengthy pause, and stood the jar on Giles' desk next to Buffy's hip. "You wanna mess around with my memories, you can give me something worthy of it."
Buffy rolled her eyes. She'd been expecting this. "You want me to pay you."
He chuckled, leaning closer. "No, honey. I want you to persuade me."
Her eyebrows furrowed into a crease, unsure of what he was angling for even as his eyes crinkled at the edges in cruel amusement.
"How?"
Spike sucked in his cheek, tilting his head to the side in a performance of consideration. "Hmm. How to put it delicately…?" Buffy held tight to her jar as he smiled wickedly. "You want me to forget the engagement, sweetheart? Give me the wedding night."
Her face paled.
"What?!"
He grinned wider. "Too subtle?" he asked, knowing it wasn't, settling even closer to her. "I want you on your knees. I want me on mine. I want everything your pet witch made me think we'd have. All those carnal moments that're promised between betrothed people. No quick roll in the hay either, I want the night." His voice dropped low, and Buffy realized he'd moved so close his hips were flush with hers, his hands either side of her waist caging her in against the desk. "I get kind of a kick outta making slayers scream, luv. Don't much mind how we get there."
Buffy glared like she could make him burst into flames with enough willpower.
She shoved him back.
"You're deranged."
"That a no?" he smirked, the dark look in his eyes still making her gut churn.
"Emphatically."
He picked the jar back up, letting it roll off his fingers so she'd either have to catch it or let it shatter on the floor. She fumbled for it, feeling jittery and less than graceful under his lecherous grin.
"Let me know if you change your mind, pet," he snickered, and without paying her any further attention, slid over the back of the sofa and flicked on the TV.
It took a moment for Buffy to remember how to breathe, standing seething at the back of Spike's head before storming to the door and letting it slam behind her.
It was fifteen minutes before she got to slam another, choosing Revello Drive over student dorms, avoiding Willow's inevitable follow-up on the potion's success.
Cool darkness greeted her.
"Mom?" she called out, confused by the lack of lights as she flicked them on. "Mom?"
No one answered, but the confusion lifted as she strode through to the kitchen and read the reminder scrawled on the wall calendar: San Francisco Art Fair written across four days; Thursday to Sunday.
Buffy groaned; the memory of wishing her mother a safe trip resurfacing from the distracted depths of that morning.
"And the award for Most Attention Paid goes to…"
She dumped her bag on the kitchen island and the jars inside clinked gently. She took them out and stood them side by side: little glass his and hers.
Okay, she thought to herself, taking stock of the situation. Her skin was still goosebumps from how close Spike had stood. Her hackles; still raised. Gut; still tight.
Yet despite the visceral aversions forcing her heartbeat into a higher tempo, her mind couldn't refrain from replaying each kiss, each touch, each whispered word continuously on a loop. Like a tongue searching out a missing tooth. Irritating and simultaneously addictive. She couldn't stop messing with it. With that image of him. Couldn't stop twisting it. Pushing it further. Distorting the memory into a fantasy until she could practically feel his hands on her body, his tongue in her mouth, his nails scratching her skin…
She let out a half sigh, half groan, placing her hands on the island to steady herself, before her eyes lighted again on the jar with the dark green liquid sitting accusingly at the bottom.
She swallowed.
What would it be like? If she said yes?
Would he fuck like he fought? Hard and wild and all-out ready for death?
Would he break her bed—?
She shook her head. Things were really getting out of control.
She unscrewed the top from one of the jars. Brought it up to her mouth. It smelled herby and sweet. Like over-brewed tea and honey, with something acrid underneath.
Maybe it wouldn't matter… if he had the memories and she didn't.
Except up flashed that memory of their fight in the quad, the Ghost of Indiscretion Past becoming the Ghost of Gossip Future. Twisting into the thought of Spike recounting to Angel how she'd squirmed in his lap. Moaned into his mouth. Nearly cried as she'd said yes…
I can't…
I can't be the only one to forget. Everyone else would remember and someone would let it slip. Spike, definitely, but maybe even Xander or Anya and then I'd be all in the dark about what we did and I just know —I know!— that Spike would make it seem a thousand times more graphic.
So that was it then. Live with the memories. They'd fade eventually right?
…Right?
Her resolve lasted twenty-four hours. Sleep evaded her. Everytime she closed her eyes he was there. It was hopeless, and the day was no better as those psychosomatic tingles still burning her lips drained all her energy, obliterating her concentration for anything but blue eyes and bleached hair and a mean smile around sharp teeth.
Plans abandoned, patrol half-done, Friday night had her striding back towards Giles' home with a jar in her bag at a little past midnight.
She didn't bother knocking.
The living room on the other side was dark save for the flickering glow of the TV, its volume turned all the way down.
Spike turned to face her, and as Buffy moved to switch on the light to see him better he let out a soft 'Ah-ah,' stopping her with her hand on the switch. She met his eyes and he pointed upwards, indicating the snoring Giles above.
"Couldn't sleep, pet?" he said gently with a dark leer as she lowered her arm again. She didn't answer, and dipped into the bag, and brought out the jar. He sighed, and Buffy could've sworn for a second he sounded… almost a little relieved. Maybe it was the shadows cast from the TV, but his eyes looked sleepless too. Jaw tighter than it needed to be.
"D'you forget the terms?" he asked.
"No," she said, just as softly.
He studied her for what felt like too long, before raising himself off the couch. "Where's yours?"
Buffy swallowed. "At home."
Another pause. "We swapping one chaperone for another?"
Her mouth opened, cheeks blushing.
My mom's not home…
Could that sound more childish?
She shook her head rather than say the words.
Another long moment of sizing each other up passed before she left the jar on Giles' table. And walked out, leaving the door open behind her.
Out in the courtyard, she heard the scrape of glass against polished wood. The rustle of a leather duster being pulled on. She started moving, the sound of him following behind her making her chest feel tight and full of embers.
They walked in tense, loaded silence. Even the words she was keeping to herself felt weighted and breathless, only her footsteps' percussion breaking the silence and matching her pounding pulse.
After a while Spike let out a contented-sounding sigh.
"The way you walk, Slayer."
She prickled, waiting for an insult or a lewd remark. It figured he'd try to make this entire ordeal less palatable if he could.
"What about it?"
"It's power," he purred, and she felt his eyes slipping down her form as her ears burned. "It's like you're moving the world with your feet."
She stopped walking, throwing an incredulous look over her shoulder before turning. "Why are… why are you saying something—" she struggled to find the word, and settled with dissatisfaction on: "nice?"
"Why shouldn't I?" he asked back. "Won't remember it. I'm thinking it, so I'll say it. Don't have to hold anything back."
She stared at him. Blinking from the shock of the lightbulb switching on in her head.
Don't have to hold back.
Won't remember it.
So don't have to hold back.
The idea was so strangely freeing she was mesmerized by the possibilities, staring open mouthed at his face as her own thoughts formed on her tongue.
"I know you know you're good looking," she said, feeling the world drop away from her feet at the shock of the words making their way out of her mouth, and he smirked in amusement. "You are. I'm not blind to it. But sometimes you say things… that are almost poetic." His half-grin faltered. Dropped. The Adam's apple at his throat bobbing as he swallowed. "And I have to remember how annoying and rude and psychotic you are," Buffy continued, "because otherwise I might accidentally like you." She paused, but the words weren't finished. "Sometimes I do," she added.
The look in his eyes was something unnameable. His mouth slightly open as they stared at one another.
She was the first to start walking again. They were at the end of her street now, her house in view, every step closer was another skipped beat of her heart.
Twin footsteps up the front path.
Twin footsteps on the porch steps.
She had the key in the lock when he turned her around to face him. Pressed her into the door, and without any further overture, kissed her. A delicate hand cupping her face as his lips crushed hers.
She wrapped a hand around his wrist as he widened her mouth with his, and clung to his shoulder as his free arm wound around her waist—no inches of space to even breathe as she kissed back—before she remembered the key in the lock.
She searched it out, her fingers missing it, before Spike's hand dropped and turned it, causing a sudden lurch of the door behind her back. She tripped backwards across the threshold, and as though crossing from one side to the other was the switch waiting to be flipped, their kiss ignited. No longer gently searching each other out with half breaths and soft caresses, his tongue was in her mouth and his hands clawing her back.
Buffy gasped, bit his lip, bit his tongue, dragged him in harder.
She pushed the door shut with a slam, and without relinquishing her mouth even a fraction he pulled off his coat, letting it thud to the floor, weighted down by the jar in his pocket. The air between them became heated by Buffy's panting and Spike's proximity as outer-layers shed—shoes and boots, jacket, shirt—as he walked her backwards, or she pulled him forwards.
The back of her calves hit the stairs and she lost her balance, landing sprawled up them, his mouth latched onto her neck.
"God I want you," he growled, his fingers under her top, then around the back, tugging it up over her head, leaving her in the mauve cotton bra she hadn't thought to change. "Ever since I first saw you, I wanted you. You're an addictive nightmare and I can't stop dreaming you. Tell me you want me too, Buffy."
"I want you," she breathed back, and all the suffocating denial that had coiled around her lungs like a snake eased back now that she could finally say the words without consequences. Now that she could finally admit it, because she'd forget it all later. "I shouldn't. Have to stop—uh!" His lips caught a spot behind her ear, making her spine arch dramatically off the stairs. "Have to stop… after this. Need to stop. It's getting worse."
"Getting worse," he agreed, pulling off his t-shirt so his bare skin could slide across her bare skin as he straddled her legs, both hands on the back of her neck this time as he kissed hard enough to bruise.
Buffy moaned, getting lightheaded, pushing him back a little for air, and then back crawling on her elbows out from between his legs so she could climb the stairs, scrabbling to turn and sprint for her bedroom, his footsteps loud behind her.
He caught her by the ankle and yanked her to a stop three steps from the top, his lips leaving a scorching kiss on her lower back, then her hip; his hand reaching around to unbutton her jeans before he spun her back to face him.
Her hand shot out and gripped a baluster as he yanked the waistband of her jeans and her underwear down her legs, her thighs snapping shut in sudden overwhelmed mortification. She thought the lights would be off. She thought she'd be under sheets. But his eyes were drinking her in as he pulled everything off her ankles.
"I—" she gasped as he spread her knees, too stunned to move when he pressed his lips to her stomach. She arched into his touch, waiting for his body to cover hers—
Froze when his mouth kissed lower, his shoulders between her thighs.
She caught him by his hair, the heel of her hand against his forehead, yanking his head to a stop as she pulled his gaze to hers, panting. He was panting with her, eyes dark and drunk on her as shivers wracked her frame.
"I… I…"
Haven't.
That truth was still stuck in her throat. A thick fleshy lump containing her first, frightened time with Angel—too high on emotion for pleasure to have any space between them—and a single night with Parker that was full of careful first touches but nothing that brought the fire out in her. In either of them.
So. She hadn't. Not the thing he was planning on doing with his mouth still hovering above her skin, and not the finale it was supposed to bring either, and now she realized that that couldn't be right. Such a big experience couldn't be handed over without forethought.
But she was curious—in this new land of no consequences, she willingly admitted she was curious—with Spike looking at her so sinfully, and the hard muscles of his shoulders spreading her open, bruising her inner thighs.
An explanation to the halt stuttered on her tongue, unable to be articulated, but Spike paused, tilting his head into her grip. Visibly reading the haven't.
"Oh."
He nodded—a difficulty with her deathgrip on his hair—and then wrapped a hand around her forearm, and tugged it gently down. She relinquished her grip, and almost flinched back as he pressed her hand between her legs, covering her fingers over her mons with his own, reassuring pressure bringing her heart rate down an inch.
With a searing look, he laid a kiss in the crook of her elbow. Just below. Against her forearm. Lower still. The top of her wrist. The back of her hand. Ran his lips over her knuckles, then his tongue, until her hand loosened slightly, enough for him to nuzzle her back until her fingers were cupping his cheek.
Buffy's head hit the top step as his tongue licked lower, thighs trembling as he worked her open, light flickering laps that made her strangle a squeal in her mouth.
She hyperventilated as the alien sensation of a tongue pressing into her made her thighs clench tighter, hand pressed between his cheek and her leg as she shivered, the muscles beneath her belly taut and aching. His tongue circled her clit and she shrieked, bucking away from his mouth from the intensity, but he held her down, arms circling her thighs and pulling her up to his mouth.
She was trembling so hard she thought she might shake apart, gasping, but every breath in did nothing to bring the sensations into focus. Everything seemed to be getting tighter, the world getting smaller, everything pressing in as he lashed his tongue against her.
"Oh God," she whispered, eyes wide. "Oh God, too much—"
He groaned, and she felt the vibrations all the way down in her core, her breathing turning to whimpering. "Too much…"
He sucked her clit in between his teeth and she screamed, unable to wriggle back from those terrible heights he was pushing her up into. He added his tongue and her vision fractured, oversensitivity suddenly wildly unbearable and she pushed his head back, struggling out of his grip and running.
She didn't get far, Spike's arm catching her around the waist and pinning her to the hallway wall, lips that were wet and warm slanting over hers.
"Wasn't done," he growled as he unlatched her bra with deft fingers and pulled it off her.
"Spike!"
His mouth was on her neck, already heading lower again, clearly intending to be back between her legs.
Buffy scrabbled at the buckle of his belt—needing respite, needing to distract—as his fingers dug into her hips and his mouth brushed her collarbone. She reached down between his jeans and his stomach, and as her fingers met hard flesh, he jerked to a stop. Gasped. Let out a low moan when she wrapped her fingers fully around him, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder.
"Oh, Slayer's such an agreeable little thing after a bit of pleasure," he whispered against her neck.
"More than a bit," she countered, squeezing as his hand linked over hers, the other pressed into the side of the wall next to her.
"You were close, right?"
Buffy's skin prickled, honesty still a stranger.
Don't have to hold back, she reminded herself, her tongue darting out to wet her lip.
"Too close."
Spike snickered, but it didn't sound cruel, it sounded like they were sharing a private joke and he loved the punch line.
"Take me to bed, Buffy."
He slipped out of his jeans as she pulled him across the threshold of her room—the last damning breadcrumb of clothes trailing from the front door—and Buffy squeaked as he picked her up by the back of her legs.
"We'll get you close again, sweetheart," he growled between kisses so hard her lips darkened. "Push you right off the fucking edge."
Her back hit the bed as he toppled them down, his sharp teeth scoring a line down her neck, but panic at touching that blissful void was still stuttering in Buffy's veins. She spun him with her legs, on top of him in a blink and pinning his forearms to the mattress.
"You first," she said, buying herself a little more time, chest tight as another inexperience was unearthed, but she barreled over the apprehensions. "Show me how to do you first."
Spike let out a dirty chuckle as he read her intentions.
"Gonna get on your knees for me, Slayer? Bet that mouth feels like heaven."
"Don't be a pig, Spike."
She pressed her lips to his neck, and he let out a pleased groan as she worked down his chest with her tongue. She left kisses over the hard line from sternum to belly, feeling his purr vibrating her lips as he arched into her touch.
She licked lower, savoring the taste of his skin as her knees found the edge of the mattress. She lowered herself off it, carefully not looking up as Spike raised onto his elbows to watch her.
The sight was intimidating; his cock rigid in front of her, legs boastfully wide as she arranged herself between them. She ran both hands up his thighs, steeling her nerves with another moment of hesitation.
Don't have to hold back, the voice in her head that sounded so much like Spike whispered, and she took its advice, licking a line along one inner thigh, running her nails against the white flesh of the other. Spike cursed, and with a wicked smile on her face Buffy bit him, sucking a bruise into his skin as he bucked from the feel of her teeth.
She left another mark slightly higher, and his hand came down to cup the back of her head.
"Knew you'd be a tease."
She shot him a glare, and kissed inwards, lips brushing the base of his cock with barely there pressure. His fingernails massaged encouragingly over her scalp, steering her closer, and her heart twinged a little. Soft touches making her feel dizzy, only possible because they'd be forgotten later.
He groaned as she wrapped a hand around the base, laying an experimental lick on the tip. He was cool against her tongue—cold silk wrapped around stone hardness—and as she took the tip into her mouth, he gasped. The soft fingers in her hair as though needing to hold on to something, to her, before he made a shivering noise like slipping into a hot bath.
"Heaven." Spike's hand tightened in her hair. "Keep going."
Buffy stiffened, waiting for his hand to push her down without waiting, but when he only stroked her temple with his thumb she shivered, lowering her mouth until her lips met the circle of her fingers. He let her linger there before pulling her back, setting a rhythm that was easy for her to keep, and as her shoulders relaxed, he started joining the bob of her head with shallow thrusts.
"Use your tongue, luv," he murmured, his hand guiding her head. "Let me feel your pulse."
She glanced up, scanning his face for signs of malice. An indication he was taunting her. But her gaze was only met with a look of hungry reverence in return.
She pulled back enough to roll her tongue against the underside of his cock, swirling around the tip as he groaned out a curse, the hand in her hair tighter still, moving her head faster as she instinctively sucked deeper.
"Buffy," he growled as momentum became unstoppable. "Fuck, I wanna remember this."
Her heart inexplicably stuttered at his words, fingers of one hand scoring his thigh before he filled her mouth in a rush. She swallowed reflexively, gasping as he finally released her head enough for her to pull back.
"Sorry, baby," he sighed as she rose weakly off her knees. "Forgot you need to breathe."
"I'm not your baby," she replied, incredulously, letting him drag her back onto the bed by her hips.
"That's the line, eh?" Spike chuckled, prowling after her as she moved to lie back against the pillows. "But you're my pet? My sweetheart? My lovely Slayer?" He kissed her, and Buffy almost pulled away, thinking he'd be revolted by the taste of himself in her mouth, but he pushed his tongue between her teeth, uncaringly, and spread her legs with his hands. "My Buffy."
He was hard, still wet from her mouth, pressing in between the crux of her legs, and Buffy moaned, clinging to his shoulders as the moment threatened to devour her.
"I thought…" she started, swallowed, still tasting him on her tongue. "Thought you'd need longer."
Spike snorted, and pulled her sharply down into a sprawl beneath him by the back of her knees.
"We're enemies, luv. We don't get time outs." His hands wandered up to her hips, and Buffy's breathing hitched as she felt the undeniable pressure of his cock at her core. "Got all night though. Gonna really take my time with you."
She swallowed. The words sounded practically threatening for the gravel in his voice but her hips were raising to meet his. As he slid in she let out a high pitched squeak, the stretch painful for just a single heartbeat and she heard him gasp as the chip in his head likely sent out a little warning note. He pushed deeper anyway, and that breath-stealing fullness she still hadn't had enough practice to acclimate to made her cinch tight as she gasped.
"Oh—" She held her breath in her lungs as he withdrew, and the next thrust expelled it again, her hands suddenly on his biceps as she curled inwards. "So big…so big…"
She didn't even blush at the unintended compliment. It was a throw-away moment, and she could say what she liked in it.
His muscles flexed beneath her fingers and she gripped tight enough to leave a ring of bruises as his hips rolled against hers.
"Mark me up, sweetheart," he growled as her feet hooked over his calves, their bodies connecting in a writhe. "Scratch me and bruise me." He paused, a strange half-grin twitching the side of his mouth. "I wanna be all covered with you."
The next thrust into her had her nails biting into his skin, scratching down his arms in welts, He caught her lips, kissing her hard to keep her grounded, to keep her present as sensation threatened to overwhelm her. She bit his lips, kissed back so hard their teeth clashed, one hand in his hair as her claws sank into him.
He moaned into her mouth.
"That the best you got?" he purred between kisses as the movement between them became more bruising. "Don't be gentle now."
"You think I'm being gentle?" she asked back, feeling the scratches over his arm with her fingertips as she pulled his hair harder, her calves linking across his thighs. It still burned, every push and pull, but it was a burn she wanted to feed now. Wanted to stoke it into a flame as she pulled him in tighter. He groaned as the hand in his hair brought his head back, his neck taut.
"I think you're holding back," Spike answered, the dark slits of his eyes gazing down at her as she stared back, twitching beneath him. "Make it hurt."
She surged up into him, catching his mouth with hers as her hands wound around his waist, hugging him close before drawing her nails down his back. He bucked into her, bringing his knees up beneath her as her hands dug into his hips. He brushed the hair back from her face, grinning wickedly like he'd won a round.
"That's my girl."
Buffy screamed as the head of his cock hit something deep, an intense shockwave arching her back as her nails broke skin again. He didn't let up, pressing into that spot over and over as her thighs tightened brutally, fingers raking his back.
"Spike, that's too much!"
Her walls around him were quivering. Shivering as something started to build and she tried to pull away from it; tried to wriggle back from that terrifying brink.
"No more running, Slayer."
He didn't break rhythm, and the relentlessness forced her higher, up into that pulsing ether she couldn't comprehend surviving.
"Can't—can't we—?" Whatever plea she was about to make was cut short by a scream, every muscle suddenly razor tight as electric fire fried every nerve in her body. "Spike!" She fell bodily off the brink, winding so tight around him he halted, letting her pulse and shiver and clench beneath him until the flames eased back to a honeyed glow, sweat dappling her skin as she finally relaxed.
The ringing in her ears lifted to the sound of Spike panting. When her gaze drifted to his, he kissed her softly. He nipped her lower lip. And raised into a kneel, still buried to the hilt in her, rolling into her as he brought her legs up.
She arched her back, trying to breath as his cock hit even deeper, pressing into her in ways she hadn't thought possible.
"God, you're pretty," he purred as he crossed her ankles over his heart, hugging her thighs close in one arm as he leaned forward and deepened the angle further. "Good thing I won't remember tonight, pet. I could fall in love with you like this."
Buffy struggled to keep hold of his words. They seemed ephemeral, but they hit just as hard as that first kiss through the door had.
"You really think that?" she managed. Bewildered. It seemed so unlikely for him to be admitting any of this, future memory erasing or not.
Spike sighed in acknowledgment, turning his head to score his teeth over the bone of her ankle. "Gorgeous," he murmured, his eyes closed as her thighs spasmed from each excruciatingly deep thrust, his pace increasing and stealing her ability to do more than pant beneath him. "Stunning," he growled, his face pressed against her calf. "And bloody aggravating. I like that."
Buffy swallowed. Everything in her was overwhelmed but there was a confusing warmth in her heart now. More truths deciding they wanted to be uttered before being erased.
"I like your eyes," she whispered. "I hate that I like them. They're so blue."
She felt his Adam's apple bob against her ankle, before he hooked a finger under her chin and turned her head into a gaze that burned with intensity. Hypnotizingly lustful.
Before folding her almost in half, her hips completely off the bed.
"Spike," Buffy pleaded, her spine bowed as though trying to lessen the angle as he ground into her. She struggled, and he let her legs break free, her thighs winding tight around him, then his arms around her waist as she gripped his shoulders. He grunted, cock swelling and twitching before spilling into her as his arms wound tight around her ribcage.
"More," he growled, not slowing for a second as Buffy tried to pull air into her lungs. "Tell me more. Tell me all of it."
The tenuous bravery fractured under the weight of his demand and Buffy shook her head fitfully.
Said too much, said too much!
He pulled out of her and she gasped in shock, suddenly empty, head spinning as the loss of the pressure inside her felt like a gut punch.
But with a rough hand on her arm he flipped her onto her stomach, straddling her thighs before she even had a chance to cry out.
"Tell me." He slid in between her soaked thighs, pressing into her now swollen lips as she groaned, hips raising instinctively up to meet the hardness pushing in. "Tell me you think about me too."
Buffy gasped as the head of his cock rubbed over that same excruciating spot that made light dapple her vision, fingers curling into fists in the sheets as he rolled his hips with teasing, obnoxious slowness
"Tell me you think about this as much as I do."
"I think about you," she relented, burying her face in a pillow as his hands settled on her hips. "And I hate it. I hate you. I hate thinking about you. How you'd feel. How we'd… fit. The way you kiss. The way you taste. I hate thinking about all of it because I don't hate it enough."
He brushed the hair back from her face, carding his hand through it, encouraging her to turn her head. She kept her eyes closed as cool kisses decorated her shoulder up to her neck.
"We should've killed each other when we had the chance," he whispered. "Wanting you like this is killing me."
She nodded in agreement, letting out a shivery sigh as his mouth latched over her jugular, gentle teeth squeezing the muscle without any intention of applying pressure.
"Spike—"
A hand snaked down her side as he sucked harder. Lower. Marking her in every sensitive spot until her skin was covered in goosebumps. His fingers slid down between her stomach and the mattress, down to that bundle of nerves. She bucked as his third and index fingers pressed in on either side, trapping her in a grip that was almost a pinch.
"Scream, Buffy," he growled into her ear as he pumped into her, squeezing and releasing her in synchronized rhythm. "Let me hear you loving this."
She was already howling, the fingers of her left hand wrapped around the bars of the bed, her right gripping his tightly. Everything was so hot and tight and wet, and beginning to glow in her belly was a cool release that felt like an approaching oblivion. As it broke he pounded into her, forcing more dizzying, shaking bliss into her very bones as he growled out his own ecstasy.
"My girl…"
He collapsed on her, plastered to her back in his own exhaustion. After a few moments he turned her; held her close. His mouth over hers as unconsciousness threatened to draw a curtain on her awareness, but she was kissing him back, arching into his touch. His lips found her neck again and every new kiss left a bruise.
Buffy supposed she must have passed out at some point, wrapped in his arms. When she woke, it was still dark, but with a grayish hue of early morning.
She kissed Spike awake. He took the cue, untangling from her as she slid out of the bed and slipped into a robe to go collect the clothes they'd left scattered, along with the jar still in his coat pocket.
He was pulling on his jeans as she came back into the bedroom.
"Oh wow. Your… your back," she uttered, mortified, taking in the deep welts and marks her nails had left behind.
He glanced back at her over his shoulder. "How's it look?"
Buffy winced, dumping their combined heap of clothes on the bed.
"Uh… bad."
He grinned, and picked up his shirt, pulling it over his head and hiding the massacre of scratches from view.
"Guess we didn't think that through," he said as he turned back around. He ran the back of his index finger down her neck, brushing the dark red marks littering there. "How you gonna explain that to yourself?"
She shrugged, knowing she couldn't possibly explain it. Any of it. Not how he'd made her legs quake and her heart pound. Not how the soft moments and devoted kisses had made the highs almost too sweet to bear.
Not how ominously heavy the jar in her hand felt.
"I get all sorts of bruises," she replied weakly.
He pouted, mockingly amused.
"Don't make me jealous now."
Buffy refused to let the moment drag. Breaking the pull of his eyes as she handed the jar out to him.
He stared at it for a second, and for a heart-stopping, heart-soaring moment she thought he was going to refuse, a complicated look flitting across his face, his tongue running across his teeth in thought. But he took it, and unscrewed the lid.
Held it tilted towards her, and she unscrewed hers and clinked it with his. Downing it at the same time. It didn't smell as acrid as it had the day before.
I wish I hadn't done that, she thought as she set the jar on her bedside table, regret souring the taste on her tongue. I want to remember…
She jumped when his hand caught hers, pulling her closer towards him as he set his own jar down next to hers, freeing his hand to cup her face. His lips tasted herby and somewhat sweet from the potion, and Buffy shivered as his arm banded around her shoulders, hugging her close as he slipped his tongue into her mouth. But the kiss was over too soon. A last brush of his lips across her cheek.
"Don't forget me, luv."
Buffy swallowed as he pulled away, watching him leave as her heart continued to thud. She waited for the click of the door downstairs before relaxing out of her flinch.
"I'm not in love with Spike," she reminded herself, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth in a juvenile display of revulsion that was so overplayed it felt ridiculous. "I'm going to forget all of this. All of it."
She showered, the water scalding. Washed her hair, every inch of her skin, and scrubbed under her nails. Not a single atom of Spike left on her. Nothing to jog the memory. Except for the vivid lovebites adorning her neck. She only glanced at them in the mirror as she brushed her teeth.
Maybe I'll think it's some sort of chicken pox.
She didn't know how long she had with the memories, so she changed her bedsheets as quickly as she could, stuffing them deep into the laundry basket along with all her clothes that had been shed on the way to her bedroom.
She dumped the jars in the trash.
In bed, she buried herself in her pillows. Trying not to breathe in too deeply. There was a lingering scent of smoke and leather in her room. It'd be gone by the morning. It would all be gone soon.
Early morning passed in fitful sleep. More tossing, more turning.
And when she woke, he was still there in her head.
"Uh oh."
Shaky fingers slid across the buttons of the hallway phone, and she counted the rings.
"Hello?"
"Will," she breathed, and tried to calm her tone. "Uh. Hi. Uh… morning, and then hey, by the way, the potion didn't work."
There was a sleepy pause on the other end, the susurration of a sleeve being rubbed across eyes.
"When did you take it?"
"Last night?"
"Oh," another rasp against the phone as Willow nodded. "It only works if you take it within twenty-four hours after brewing. I can remake it, no problem."
Buffy opened and shut her mouth, frozen in indecision.
"Thanks," she managed, letting her mouth run on autopilot as every lewd thing she'd done the night before hurtled through her mind. "I'll… thanks, Will."
She hung up.
And dialed another number.
"Pick up," she pleaded. "Pick up, pick up, pick up."
The phone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
He's not going to pick up, she told herself. He's not going to pick up. He's not.
The sound of the other end of the line clicking as it was picked up made her slam the phone back into its cradle in a panic.
Stupid. You're so stupid!
She froze as the phone trilled suddenly, its harsh chime making the empty house around her feel cavernous, rooting her to the spot.
One ring.
Two rings.
On the third she picked up.
"Hello?"
A pause, and then a hum of satisfaction. "Hello gorgeous. Your old watcher's got redial."
Buffy's cheeks burned an embarrassed red.
"You remember."
"Every perfect second."
"...The stuff doesn't work after twenty-four hours."
He sucked his teeth in acknowledgement. "That right?"
Another agonising pause.
"We could take it again." She tried not to let it sound like a question. She didn't do questions with Spike, she did commands—ones that he hardly ever obeyed, but it was the principle of the thing anyway. It didn't seem to matter, since he only chuckled lecherously into her ear.
"You know the terms, sweetheart."
Time stretched. Buffy bit her lip and willed her heart to beat just a fraction quieter. He could probably hear it through the phone.
One more night… what harm would it do?
"Tonight."
He let out a softly pleased sigh. "Don't forget."