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The panties Spike stole from Buffy’s room are tucked under his mattress. Other men have porno magazines, but no— he relies on his sense of smell.

He’s still unsure why he took a clean pair. It would have been immensely more satisfying if he had rummaged through her dirty laundry like the real lowlife he knows he is and taken out one of her day-old thongs.

But Spike’s vampiric sense of smell wins and he can smell Buffy’s scent on her clean panties, even through the floral detergent.

Doesn’t really matter. He wraps the lacy fabric around the engorged shaft of his cock and strokes— groans the Slayer’s name into the silent air of the crypt around him. Thinks of how her tight body moves when she fights him, how angry she gets, how good she smells when they clash.

“Buffy-!” Spike growls low, letting his cum splash all over the lace of her panties, knowing he’ll do this all over again tomorrow.

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“Hey, what did I just say?”

Spike is sprawled out on his living room floor in his crypt, chest heaving— despite not having to breathe. Buffy had just come barreling in after what seemed like a rather tough night of patrolling, and she’s already got half her clothes off.

She’s straddling him, glaring at him, and he glares right back.

“Hands off me, filth.”

The vampire grins at her wickedly, runs his tongue along his teeth. “Keep talkin’ like that, pet, and I’m gonna come in my pants.”

Buffy rolls her eyes and smacks him across the face. “Shut up.”

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Sex had been fairly vanilla for Buffy before she took up with Spike. Angel had been so gentle with her that it had been borderline boring, Parker and Riley had both been nothing to really write home about either. But leave it to a vampire who strut around in leather like he was sex on legs to be into some of the kinkiest shit imaginable.

And Buffy was trying to feel something. Anything. So why not let him try a few different items out on her? Or so went the justification.

Tonight wasn’t any different. Sex in the crypt? Check. Avoiding her friends? Check. Just got done patrolling and was horny as fuck about it? Check. Spike here and convenient? Check.

What she wasn’t expecting was for Spike to pull out what looked like a small chain with two clamps on either end of it. “What the hell is that?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Oh, you’ll see, pet,” was all Spike had to say before his cool mouth was on one of her nipples, a throaty chuckle as she shivered and pressed up into his ministrations. Her body felt like it was on fire and she wanted to scream, but wouldn’t give Spike the satisfaction. Not yet, at least.

But as her nipples got sucked to pert little peaks, she realized what the clamps were for just as he put them on. The sensation sent a strong shock of pleasure all the way to her pussy and she’s dripping wet. Especially when he took one finger and pulled on the chain.

“Attagirl,” was all the praise she received before Spike’s between her thighs, and Buffy’s definitely feeling alive again.

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It wasn’t that Spike thought he could get away with this. In fact, part of him wanted to get caught.

No, he was bored. He was in the neighborhood. Etcetera, etcetera.

Except there were very few times the vampire actually shimmied up the drain pipe. Even fewer times that he dare a peek into Buffy’s bedroom while she was in it.

And the one night he found her, hand in her pajama bottoms, moaning as she touched herself.

The image fueled Spike’s fantasies for months: the way her nipples pebbled underneath that thin tank top she wore, how rhythmically she stroked herself, and the way he could smell her through the slightly open window.

He would forever be a man obsessed.

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Spike has decided that watching Buffy suck on his fingers right after he has been lazily finger fucking her for the better part of an hour on the couch during a movie that neither of them clearly didn’t care about was infinitely better than said movie.

Those green eyes of hers never broke eye contact with him and Spike was so painfully hard in his trousers right now that he almost came just from her tongue on his digits alone. “Like the taste of yerself, Kitten…?”

“Think I would rather have your cock in the back of my throat…” Buffy purred as she ran her tongue up his middle finger, and Spike swallowed hard.

“No one’s stoppin’ ya, luv.”

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It’s not uncommon for the two of them to find themselves rutting like animals up against the side of a building. Buffy swears that she has more standards than that, but Spike begs to differ.

It doesn’t help that tonight they couldn’t even make it into Spike’s crypt— just up against it. She’s wanted him so bad all goddamn night and he’s been growling dirty things in her ear every time they weren’t busy fighting this rogue gang of vamps.

Buffy’s gotten really good at pulling her panties aside after she wraps her thighs around Spike’s waist, howling out his name as he sinks himself inside her with a feral snarl.

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It’s a little over six months after they begin dating that Buffy tells Spike that she loves him. Which is really the equivalent of opening floodgates.

Because this time, there is no apocalypse breathing down their necks. No end of the world nipping at their heels. Spike isn’t moments away from death.

No, they are both here. Whole. Together. In love.

Soul or not, however, Spike still has vampiric desires and instincts that call to him— like burning whispers in the back of his mind.

As they make love that night in the shower, Spike’s hands on Buffy’s hips as he thrusts into her from behind, she reaches up and behind her to tangle her fingers into his wet curls and drags him down to the nape of her neck.

“Bite me, William. Do it.”

Her lower lip is caught in her teeth, humming in anticipation as she feels his face shift against her neck. Her lover’s hips stutter a bit at the use of his given name and she can’t help but giggle, but that quickly morphs into a filthy moan of “fuck yes, Spike!” when his fangs sink deeply into the side of her neck and he takes a few deep pulls.

Upon tasting her blood, the vampire comes inside her violently, groaning her name as water and blood mix at their feet and swirl down the drain.

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“Are you seriously hard right now?!”

Buffy’s words are as pointed as any stake, with a glare to match as she flashes the bleached-blond vampire a look over her shoulder. They’ve been shoved into this cage by the latest and greatest demon that has come to terrorize Sunnydale, and it’s so cramped in here the two of them can barely move.

“Well excuse me, princess. Sorry if the woman I bloody love is sittin’ on my lap. Any bloke would be a stupid git not ta be reactin’ right now.” And the wolfish grin Spike gives her is enough for Buffy to punch him in the nose.

“I hate you,” she spits at him. “We need to get out of here, Spike. Not turn this into a gropefest.”

The vampire sets his jaw, flashing his eyebrows at her. The lady doth protest too much. He can smell how aroused Buffy is, especially as she bends forward to try and reach for something just outside the cage bars to have Spike pick the lock.

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They don’t go out together often with Buffy’s friends. Or, rather, Spike isn’t invited to go out with Buffy and her friends. Most of the time he shows up uninvited and sticks himself into the friend group like he belongs there even if they’ve been dating for the better part of a year.

Tonight is different, though: it’s Buffy’s birthday and the group is at a huge nightclub in downtown San Francisco that makes the Bronze look like a playground in comparison. Not a scene Spike is privy to, but then again he didn’t really do much partying on the West Coast before the turn of the century and learning about the Hellmouth in California.

Buffy doesn’t drink— she never does. Not since the incident in college where she went absolutely primal. But Dawn buys her sister a shot of tequila anyway. “You only turn twenty-six once!”

And it was true, she supposes. But the blonde knows she doesn’t hold her liquor well. “Just one drink, Dawn. That’s it.”

Her Slayer metabolism processes alcohol differently, and it’s clear it does. Because even just that one drink has Buffy crawling into Spike’s lap in their corner booth and grinding against him.

“Buffy—“ he starts, and Buffy puts a finger to his lips to shush him before replacing her finger with her own lips covered in beautiful pink lip gloss, and the vampire hears Xander wolf-whistling at the two of them over the bass music blaring.

They have all had clearly way too much to drink. Though Spike hasn’t, because where before he had gotten his soul back he would have taken every advantage of this moment without a second thought, but now he hesitates. Is he really going to do this? In front of their friends?

“It’s my birthday, Spike. And I want you to fuck me in front of them. Show them, baby. Show them who I belong to,” Buffy purrs directly into his ear, nibbling on his earlobe. That’s all it takes for his resolve to snap.

He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. His little Slayer has an insatiable carnal appetite only he could ever fulfill. She’s even told him as much.

“Didn’t know you were this comfy with your mates, luv,” Spike chuckles as Buffy works on undoing his belt, still working her hips like she’s got something to prove. “But god, you feel real bloody good…”

There isn’t much revealed at first, despite Buffy’s whispered encouragement from earlier. But that doesn’t last long. She’s wearing a mini-skirt that’s now hiked around her waist and a thong that leaves little to the imagination— and very little barrier for Spike to have to maneuver around.

The lap dance that Buffy gave him has Spike’s cock rock hard and she wastes no time sinking onto her boyfriend once she’s pulled him out of his jeans, giving whatever friends in their group that choose to watch a show they won’t soon forget in that dark corner of the club —amidst cigarette smoke and the sparse flashing lights high above. 

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Spike’s absolute favorite thing in the world is to taste her.

He was certain for many years that the blood of a Slayer was the ambrosia of the gods. But no, no. He had been foolish; blind.

Buffy is always so wet for him, ready to spread her thighs apart for the vampire as he settles between her legs and holds her open with his large, insistent hands. Takes in the sight of her glistening pussy, slick and trimmed— just for him.

She gasps his name as his tongue runs up her slit, relishing in her, before his lips close around her clit so he can drink her essence in deep and drown in her.

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The two of them are under a Persian rug on Spike’s bedroom floor, naked, Buffy still trying to get her legs to work from the multiple mind-shattering orgasms that Spike had just given her. His post-coital voice is deep, rough— and the way he calls her amazing honestly makes something thrill within her heart and she hates it. Wants to tamp it down and extinguish it before it goes any further.

God she so needs to get out of here.

Buffy makes a half-hearted attempt to look for her panties, knowing good and well that Spike most likely tore them off her upstairs and they most likely are in shreds. She’s lost a few pairs as of late, since Mister Vampire here was very impatient most times they came together to fuck (okay, she might have torn a few of his shirts apart, too).

Just as Buffy’s about to untangle herself from Spike’s uncomfortable questioning about actually liking him or not— because she isn’t really ready for that conversation— he holds up a pair of handcuffs with one finger like it’s an enticement. “Do you trust me?”

“Never,” is her automatic reply. It’s a boldfaced lie. She knows it, he knows it. Which is why she doesn’t shrink away when he cups her face with a hand so gentle that it almost takes her breath from her lungs and kisses her with so much passion that no more words are needed and Buffy’s forgetting about running off.

She reaches for the handcuffs, before situating herself so that she and Spike were both above the rug they were just under. The vampire’s cock is already rock hard and Buffy straddles his abs, taking one hand at a time and placing them in the cuffs. “Good boy,” she praises, and Spike’s usual ocean blue eyes are dark with his desire.

“Love bein’ at your mercy, Slayer,” Spike growls, and Buffy lifts her hips, scooting back so her slick, wet pussy rubs against the underside of his cock. “Fuck… want me to beg for it, pet…? Cuz I will…”

She could leave him here like this. Begging, defenseless. She could go get a stake and drive it through his heart right now if she wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to do any of those things. Which was confusing to Buffy. Spike was supposed to be everything she stood against: a soulless monster who didn’t love or feel or stand for any of those emotions. So why was she hesitant?

Buffy doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Can’t think about it anymore. Just leans forward, runs her hands along the handcuffs to make sure Spike is still securely detained, kisses him, lets her tongue swipe along his bottom lip as she pulls away.

Buffy sits back up, slowly taking his cock inside her inch by inch, desperate to ride him until she forgets how to think again. “Don’t come until I tell you to,” she orders, her claw-like nails digging into his slick-covered abs and Spike feels his cock throb inside her.

His arms remain above his head— cuffed; his jaw clenching as he watches her with such burning desire that he can look but cannot touch.

Buffy Summers is a goddess among mortals. Spike hasn’t written poetry in over a century but she makes him want to. The way her back arches, the way her hair moves even though she’s chopped it off to spite him, the way her tits bounce… he wants to compose the filthiest stanzas known to mankind about her.

She throws her head back, exposes her jugular; that pale column of her neck, and his mouth waters. Feels his fangs coming to the surface; fights the urge.

“Now I want you to beg,” Buffy pants, feeling Spike’s cock swell within her, knowing that he’s close and so is she. She’s heady with the control she feels, her green eyes dark. “I want you to ask me for permission to come inside me, Spike. You want that, my little vampire? Go on, beg for the privilege.”

Bloody fucking hell. Spike grits his teeth, resisting every urge in him to vamp out.

“Please, Slayer. Lemme come deep in that tight lil cunt of yours,” Spike’s voice is gravelly and tight, a low growl through clenched teeth as he keeps control to not shoot his load too early. He’s following orders, like a good vampire. “Lemme fill you to the brim. Can feel your quim milkin’ me for all I’m worth, sweetheart… please…”

Buffy can’t hold on any longer. Spike’s words shoot right to her core and his cock hits her overstimulated spot just right and she can’t even get the permission out before she screams and throws her head back, takes him to the hilt, and comes, digs her nails into his stomach so hard she draws blood. Spike’s face shifts as he roars, coming so hard that he is sure the walls of the crypt settle.

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Their first time had been against a wall— two years of being unable to fight each other like they used to had culminated into sexual tension that had been building since she had returned from Heaven.

Plaster crumbling, the entire house falling around them, and all they had cared about was chasing nirvana together.

Buffy still remembers the way Spike slammed her into it with every thrust; the way her head fell back against it while he snarled at her throat. The way she felt alive for the first time since being resurrected. And Spike made her feel that way.

So they fuck like this often— against walls. Buffy has lost track now of the places: several alleys on the seedy side of Sunnydale, every single wall inside (and outside) Spike’s crypt, out behind Doublemeat Palace on her breaks, in her basement, in her bedroom, in a bathroom stall at the Bronze, the wall surrounding Restfield cemetery…

Tonight Spike’s hands are on her ass as Buffy’s legs wrap around his waist, fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to bruise as he fucks her against a brick wall right outside the Bronze— her friends all inside listening to a band that is so loud it drowns out her cries of his name as she bounces on his cock, shaking and chasing that feeling of being alive and wanted as Spike mouths at her neck; his growls of her name sending shocks of desire straight through her.

This is all she’s ever wanted, and she hates herself for it. Still, it makes her come so hard she forgets everything for a few moments.

It’s worth it.

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“You’re really surprised that I have a dildo?”

The question comes with a quirked eyebrow from Spike, who is lounging naked in his bed with a cigarette between his fingers while Buffy meanders through his trunk full of sex toys. She’s found things she’s expected— things they’ve already used, and things that she would have pegged him for having. But a dildo?

“Do you… use it on yourself?” she asks, her voice small, like she’s all of a sudden forgotten how to speak.

Spike chuckles, giving her his trademark shit-eating grin as he takes another drag from his cigarette. “‘Course I do, luv. Why, you wanna use it on me?”

Buffy squeaks a bit, her cheeks turning a bit red at the implication. “I um, I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she admits, and he shrugs nonchalantly.

“‘Sfine. Want me to use it on you instead, pet?”

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As a vampire, senses are heightened. That’s just Vampire 101— stuff Buffy learned pretty much straight away when she was fifteen and learning how to slay her first vampires.

Now that she’s been in the Slayer game for almost a decade, she knows how they tick. Or at least knows how their instincts work.

She’s long since resigned herself to the fact that even though Spike has his soul now, he hasn’t changed much. That deep down, there was always some part of him that had his humanity. However, she would never admit that to him. Ever.

The basement stairs creak under Buffy’s weight and she can hear Spike punching the boxing bag hanging from the ceiling. He stops the moment he hears her, and the barrage of jealousy she knows is coming starts spitting out. “So, where’s tall, dark, and forehead?”

Angel. He was talking about Angel. “Let me guess… you can smell him?”

“Yeah, that and I also used my enhanced vampire eyeballs to watch you kissing him,” Spike says, cocking his head to the side as he waits for an explanation. Like she owes him that or something.

Buffy hesitates for a moment. Why though? They aren’t dating. She doesn’t owe Spike anything. He doesn’t own her. She’s only slept in his arms the past two nights, and he’s only told her the most beautiful things any man has ever told her, and he’s only looked at her like she was the literal sun he couldn’t walk in any longer. But no, she doesn’t owe him anything. “It was… a hello.”

“Most people don’t use their tongues to say hello,” Spike starts, sauntering towards her, before he stops and furrows his brow. “Well, I guess they do, but—“

Despite how ridiculous Spike is being right now, Buffy cannot help but feel absolutely enamored of him. If not slightly annoyed. “There were no tongues. Besides, he’s gone.”

“Oh, popped by for a quickie, then,” is out of Spike’s mouth before he can even think about what he’s saying, and Buffy rolls her eyes.

“Good, good. I haven’t had enough jealous vampire crap for one night,” she sighs, trying to brush past him but he catches her arm to pull her close to him. There’s no resistance. No wriggling to try and free herself, no nothing. Buffy lets herself melt into Spike’s arms.

“That ponce should know better than to come round here tryin’ to take what’s mine,” he says in a low growl. The kind of growl that Buffy hasn’t heard out of him in a long time, and it makes heat pool in her core almost instantaneously.

Buffy, again, makes no move to shove Spike away, rather enjoying the feeling of being in his arms. “I don’t belong to anyone,” she retorts, her green eyes holding his blue ones firm, and it isn’t until her back hits the cinderblock wall behind her that she realizes that this encounter is going way differently than she expected. And she doesn’t want to stop it.

The vampire gives her a grin, running his tongue along his teeth. His nostrils flare, and Buffy knows it’s game over. She knows Spike can smell how wet she is, and she tries to swallow a small moan when he presses a knee in between her thighs but it slips past her lips and into the space between them.

“Spike—“ Buffy says in half-hearted protest, but she’s not struggling or making any move to get away. Her pupils have dilated, and he gives her a wicked grin.

Her head falls back against the wall as his lips graze her pulse point, his blunt teeth scraping at her alabaster skin before his cool tongue swipes over the small mark he’s left. Buffy is gasping at this point, rubbing herself against his thigh that he’s so conveniently placed between her legs.

Buffy knows that Spike is working very hard to reclaim her, get Angel’s scent completely off of her. It’s ridiculous and stupid, but for some reason, it’s really turning her on right now. Later she will blame it on apocalypse brain, or something else, maybe. But right now all she can focus on is Spike’s fingers having dipped into her panties as she wraps a leg around his waist. “Don’t you dare stop, Spike—!” she pants out.

Bossy little brat, as always. Spike surges forward to kiss her, feeling every instinct inside him well up at once when he feels Buffy’s tongue sliding against his. He can’t help but chuckle and answer in kind as two of his fingers bury deep within her, finding the spot he knows will make her scream for him, even with a house full of people.

“Mine,” Spike growls into her ear once they break the kiss so Buffy can breathe. “My Slayer. My Buffy. My girl. Mine.”

The words tumble out as he keeps fingerfucking her, feeling her inner muscles clamp and flutter around his hand. Buffy answers by coming suddenly a second later, creaming all over his fingers, her body shaking in pleasure.

Later, after Buffy’s legs work again from that body-numbing orgasm, she slips the medallion that Angel had given her onto Spike’s neck with a gentle kiss to his lips. “Angel said this was to be worn by a champion. My champion,” she says.

A warmth blooms in Spike’s chest where his undead heart sits, and he cannot help but lean into the hand that comes to cup his cheek. “Been called a lot of things in my time.”

Shyly, like Spike hadn’t just fucked her against the wall, “You know, Faith is still in my room.”

”Ya think I’m lettin’ ya spend the possible last few nights of our lives alive without you in my arms, luv? C’mere,” Spike opens his arms, and Buffy slips into them without a word, a long sigh escaping her lips as he guides them back to the small cot, and for now this is enough. 

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This isn’t really what Buffy had in mind when she rented the rooftop veranda of their apartment complex for the evening. But she would have had to have been naïve to have believed she and her boyfriend of two years now wouldn’t be in this exact situation.

Spike had looked so good in a three-piece suit. Different, but so sexy. Still, Buffy can tell he’s just put a fresh coat of paint on his fingernails and retouched his roots.

She has told him over and over again that he no longer has to do that— no longer has to be some tough guy, especially around her. Buffy knew who he was underneath all of that exterior: a sensitive man who felt so much and loved so deeply that it burned.

“Easy there, Kitten.” Spike’s voice was so smooth, his large hands slipping up under Buffy’s skirt to run across her ass as she straddled his lap. The deck chair creaked under both of their weight, and the tie the vampire was wearing slipped from around his neck.

“Happy anniversary, sweetheart,” Buffy purred as she kissed him. Slow, deep, full of love and want. Then, a soft rasp of a whisper in his ear: “I want you inside me so bad, Spike…”

God, if he could swallow her whole, he would.

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If there was one thing that Spike made sure to do as a vampire, it was to keep up with the times. Especially now that he and his wife had been together for a bit over a decade at this point and her libido was slowing down a bit, he was always trying to find ways to keep things just a bit more interesting.

“Got you a surprise, pet,” he said one day while they were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast, sliding a wrapped box across the tabletop.

Buffy looked up from her phone, giving him one of those dazzling smiles of hers. “What’s the occasion?” she asked, taking the offered box and slowly unwrapping it.

“Gotta have a reason to spoil my gorgeous wife?” Spike purred at her, and Buffy felt a rush of heat through her body when she saw exactly what the gift was.

A remote-controlled vibrator.

“I want you to wear that out today when you go see Willow,” Spike’s words were direct; firm. Buffy felt heat pooling in-between her thighs already and the vampire grinned, smelling it immediately. “Be a good girl and I’ll give you what you want when you get home.”

Buffy almost melted on the spot for being called a “good girl”, sighing as she looked at the toy. “Spike, if you make me look like an idiot in front of my best friend—“

A wolfish grin was her reward. “Gonna punish me, sweetheart? Kinda countin’ on it. It’s date night and I’ve been itchin’ for a bit of a rough an’ tumble.”

A roll of those green eyes of Buffy’s, but again, her arousal was heavy in the air and Spike was drowning in it. “We’ll see,” was all she said, giving him a peck on the lips as she grabbed her gift off the table and sauntered out of the room.

On her way out the door later, Buffy pressed the small remote control into her husband’s palm. “Don’t make me regret this,” she said, and all she got was that infuriating cocky smirk in return.

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Buffy hardly gets her period anymore. The stress of slaying definitely saw to that. Plus whenever she did, it put a damper on any slayage. Smelling like menstrual blood would have her a living, breathing vampire homing beacon, and she wasn’t up for much of that if she could help it.

She had thought about birth control and going on the pill back when she was sexually active with Riley, but that was on the back burner once they broke up— and of course went out the window completely once she died.

The first time she woke up to her monthly visitor after she had been resurrected was like a bad joke. Buffy was squarely in the midst of trying to make life come together for her and Dawn, and her hormones running high weren’t helping.

It didn’t help that patrolling that night went exactly the way she predicted: even though she wore a tampon and cleaned herself incredibly well, Spike still came sniffing around her like she was literally a bitch in heat.

“You smell good tonight, Slayer,” Spike offered, licking his lips as she scoffed, blowing right past him.

Alright, they were doing this today.

Undeterred, the vampire slammed his arm against the nearest mausoleum to block her from running off. “Gonna attract a mob, baby. An’ I dun like to share what’s mine, yeah?”

Buffy glared at the bleach-blond vampire, nostrils flared in anger. “You’re absolutely disgusting, Spike.”

Ah, so he wasn’t imagining things. “And yet, you’re out here in my neck of the woods. Funny, that,” he grinned wolfishly at her. “Need I remind you, Miss Prude, that you’re shaggin’ a vampire and you smell like a fine wine right now?”

Before Buffy could say or do anything else, Spike was trailing a hand down her chest and she was melting into it. Goddamn him. “C’mon pet, let Daddy have a taste~”

Every nerve in her body was screaming for him and she hated it. “Fine, Spike.”

Then that stupid cocky smirk of his when he was victorious made Buffy want to punch him in the face. She really hoped she didn’t regret this decision.

Buffy found that she, indeed, did not regret the decision.

Down in Spike’s bedroom in his crypt, the vampire has taken Buffy’s clothes off, yanked the tampon out by the string with his teeth, and made a display of sucking it dry. She wanted to be disgusted with the whole display but she couldn’t… there was something deeply erotic about all of it.

Then Spike held Buffy’s hips in the air and licked her like she was the most delicious meal he had had in years— probably because she was. Years of pig’s blood weren’t cutting it for him and this was his first taste of human blood in quite some time. His tongue delved into her, desperate to taste all of her menses.

And Buffy found she was so sensitive that she was shaking, close to the edge of her climax and only needing just a tiny bit more. “Spike…” she whimpered as his impressively long tongue kept licking her clean, relishing in the taste of her menstrual blood. “Please, Spike, need more…”

When he pulled back, his face was covered in blood and he had vamped out while he had been working diligently but he looked pleased, licking his lips seductively. “Relax, pet,” he said, the low growl of his demon coming forth sent shivers down Buffy’s spine. “Daddy’s gonna take good care of you.”

The whole scene was so indulgent to Buffy: Spike vamped out, face smeared with her blood, his fangs gleaming in the low light of his bedroom. Hormones running high, and she actually trusted the vampire to do as he said: take care of her.

Spike adjusted himself a bit further back on the bed so that he could lower Buffy’s hips down flush with his own, feeling her rub her wet, hot cunt against his insistent hard cock. “That’s a good girl,” he praised when she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing into her and marveling at how Buffy instantly came on his cock with such force that she squirted all over him.

“That’s what Daddy likes ta see,” Spike growled, not caring what kind of mess she made. “Fuckin’ Hell. I gotcha, babygirl. Someone’s real sensitive, arentcha?”

Buffy’s mind was still reeling from the strength of her last orgasm, though her nerve endings had different ideas and were already screaming for another as Spike fucked her, his face now back to his human visage. When did that happen? God, she was so far gone at the moment and she didn’t even care anymore.

The scent of Buffy’s menstrual blood stained the air around them and it made Spike rut into her like an animal, and she’s so wet that every thrust made a squelching sound.

There’s a cacophony in the room: his balls slapping her ass, her fluids lubricating every single thrust, Spike growling filthy words into the air between them, and Buffy crying out in complete ecstasy as she came not once, but twice again.

She was shaking and exhausted by the time Spike held her hips against his so hard she knew she was going to bruise, feeling him come inside her so ferociously that it overflowed out of her, dripping onto the bed to join the other fluids she was currently lying in.

“Mmn, Daddy made a right mess of ya,” Spike said as he pulled out to admire his handiwork— his cum and hers mixed with her menses dripping down her cunt. “Thing of beauty. Stuffed like a Christmas goose.”

Buffy would have kicked him… if her legs worked. Or her brain wasn’t buzzing with the dopamine from the multiple earth-shattering orgasms she had just had.

Instead, all she could do was let out a gasp of the vampire’s name as he went down on her, tongue determined to clean her up and get another taste.

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It wasn’t until Spike that Buffy even learned that there was a term for what she was. “Size Queen” was the term the bleached-blond vampire had used.

At first, she thought it was Spike being Spike— a smartass. A joke, perhaps.

But no, this was absolutely justified.

Turns out there was a reason the infuriatingly good-looking vampire walked with a swagger. His cock was huge. And that swagger was absolutely well deserved. Because he knew how to fucking use it.

Buffy didn’t know she preferred being so full until she had that glorious nine-inch cock of Spike’s inside her balls deep, and she knew that she never wanted anyone or anything else inside her ever again.

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Every time Spike came inside her, it triggered her own climax. Without fail.

That was among the first clues for Buffy that “normal, living men” didn’t do it for her.

The few men she slept with in the year that she thought Spike had died after Sunnydale caved in— normal, alive men— it had been fine, they had been nice enough, but it hadn’t been the same experience.

Warmth. It had all been hot and sweaty and just… warm.

The night Spike came to find her in Rome, eight months after she thought he was dead, Buffy swore to whatever higher power that brought him back to her that she would never do anything to hurt him again.

And as he comes inside her again, for the first time since the night before she thought she lost him forever, she weeps into his shoulder. It’s a cool sensation— all of him is, but that’s part of what makes Spike who he is.

“I missed you. I love you. Don’t leave me,” she whispers into his neck, and Spike curls around her.

“I love you, too, darlin’. Not goin’ anywhere,” he promises, and he means it.

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They’ve been fucking for hours at this point.

Stamina is not an issue for either Slayer or Vampire, and Spike’s room is again torn apart by how brutal their session has gotten. It’s always half violence, half pleasure. But this is definitely the longest the two of them have been going at it since their situationship began. They’re covered in enough bite marks, bruises, and scratches to make a demon blush.

Buffy watches Spike as he gets up to stride across the room and pour himself a glass of whiskey and light a cigarette when it hits her: she has to pee. Badly.

“I should probably get going,” Buffy says, trying to locate her clothes in the destroyed bedroom and failing to by just doing a visual sweep. Meanwhile, Spike has downed the shot of whiskey he poured himself already and he’s sitting on the bed again with the lit cigarette.

“Thought we were havin’ fun, luv,” Spike says, looking and sounding rather pleased with himself as he watches her, looks at all the marks he’s left across her skin, and how he has the matching set on his own body from her. Wild fucking animal she is, his little Slayer.

She sighs, a particular movement making the pressure in her bladder painful and she winces a bit, biting her lower lip a little and rubbing her thighs together. “Dawn will start to wonder where I am. What the hell did you do with my clothes?”

Spike isn’t stupid, however. He’s so in tune with Buffy at this point that he can tell something is wrong. “Mmn, and if I remind you that we undressed each other upstairs… will you tell me why you look like you’re about to piss the bed?”

Buffy’s cheeks flash bright red at that, all the way to the tips of her ears. “I-It’s not my fault you don’t have indoor plumbing, Spike! I need to go!”

That infuriating grin, and a drag from his cigarette before Spike says nonchalantly, “Well, sheets need to be changed anyway.”

Before Buffy can even fathom what he even means by that, he stubs the half-smoked cigarette out on the bedside table, grabs her by the waist, and pulls her on top of him. Spike is already hard again, and her bladder aches as her cunt presses against his cock.

“You cannot be serious,” Buffy grumbles.

“It’ll feel good. C’mon, sweetheart,” Spike encourages, slipping just the tip of his cock inside her. “Let me feel you.”

It’s all incredibly erotic for Buffy— she can feel the tip of Spike’s cock pressing against that ache in her bladder and she closes her eyes. Her bladder lets go, and she feels herself pissing all over Spike’s cock and abdomen in a steady stream.

The vampire watches her intently, the warmth of her urine splashing on his cool skin making him throb within her as he moans her name. “That’s a good girl… mark your territory,” he growls, and Buffy can’t bring herself to open her eyes. She just wants to relish in the dirty, taboo act, and for some reason, she can’t look at Spike while she does so.

The way Spike groans, the sound of the stream of piss still cascading over her lover’s cock sends a jolt of desire right down her spine. She feels so much relief that it borderlines on pleasure… that and her lover’s got his cock pushed right into that spot that makes her see colors behind her eyes. Fuck, is she actually going to come from this? Is he?

Buffy feels the stream tapering off, but Spike holds his cock firm, swollen and wet against that spot inside her and she slowly rocks against him, opening her green eyes to lock with his blue. “Fuck-!” is all the vampire manages before he’s coming again against her g-spot, adding spurts of his seed to the mess of urine pooling on his abdomen.

His climax triggers hers and Buffy lets out a throaty moan, panting as she still only has the tip of him inside her. At this point, however, she’s being drawn back in and all notions she had about leaving are completely out the window as she sinks all the way down on him once again.

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Buffy found it extremely unfair that, as a Vampire Slayer, the thing that turns her on most is when Spike vamps out.

Those golden yellow eyes, the way his face morphs into something feral, those fangs…

Tonight he’s got her spread on the hood of his DeSoto after a rough night of patrolling. There had been a vamp in the mix who had gotten a little too handsy with her and Spike is huffing and puffing about it now, both of them still feeling the adrenaline from the fight and drowning in it.

He’s vamped out, demon growling, those golden eyes shining at her as he undoes his belt. “Not lettin’ any lowlife vamp whelp touch what’s mine,” he growls, and Buffy thrills at how wild and possessive he is, pure desire for him running through her.

“Yeah? I’m not yours either, last I checked,” she teases, though she’s eagerly rubbing up against him, panting hard as she feels molten heat between her legs as he tears her panties off her.

That’s the biggest delusion by far— she’s his every single time he fucks her, every single time she goes back to him for comfort; for companionship. She’s Spike’s more each time Buffy sinks deeper into him.

Spike is inside her to the hilt with a low, deep snarl against her neck, fangs scraping her pulse point but not piercing her skin. “Buffy—“ he rumbles, and she submits to him completely. Tonight she lets the vampire take her body for his pleasure without argument or putting up a fight beforehand. She wants him as badly as he wants her.

Though Buffy knows she’s in control, the way Spike’s jaws could snap at her throat right now and kill her; that she could be William the Bloody’s third Slayer victim right here on the hood of his classic car. But she knows he won’t do that. As much as she says she doesn’t trust Spike— her actions speak volumes louder.

But she’s also got a stake strapped to her thigh and the vampire is hyper-aware of it.

“You wanna bite me so bad, don’t you?” Buffy teases, and Spike lets out a long, low growl from the back of his throat. He can hear the blood in her veins; her heartbeat. He’s so close and yet so far to tasting the ambrosia that is the Slayer’s blood.

“You’re being such a good boy, Spike,” she praises, and he purrs as she runs her fingers through his loosening curls, shivering when he kisses and licks and nibbles at her neck instead with those fangs as he pumps into her with slow, deep strokes.

The Vampire Slayer, once again, lets herself be sucked in and drowned in desire by the one thing that she should be repulsed by; should have been against and destroying— a Vampire.