Author: Ameeya
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: S.3, during Lover's Walk.
Summary: Spike returns to Sunnydale to kill the Slayer. He's just too drunk to do it properly, and ends up getting himself into the deep without even realizing it. Perhaps worst of all, he has no memory of his actions the next day.
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em; I'm just playing. Please oh please, do not sue me.

Author's Note: Okay, so...ummm, extremely nervous about this chapter. I just want to remind everyone that it is Season 3 Spike, and therefore he is evil. Not to mention drunk. He is very, very drunk.

If my planning goes right (and please don't hold me to it) this is about as angsty as I intend to go. The fic itself is described (in my head, at least) as a fluffy fic, bordering on comedy. However, I didn't want to shorthand the characters...at least not so soon in the story. I'm sure I'll take them plenty out of character later, but for now, I'd like to at least try to maintain the pretense that I know how to write Spike before he gets bitten with the Buffy-lovin' bug.

Having said that, I have major, major issues with non-con, which made very this incredibly hard to write. So, be prepared...some of this may be perceived (and likely will be) as non-con. But hopefully, the fluffiest non-con you've ever come across.

Thanks to my betas for talking me through it.

"Schlaaaayer!"

Buffy tensed, her eyes flying open. While she hadn't been sleeping, she'd taken an honest stab at it, hoping she'd be lucky enough to wake up on the other side of this with the middle conveniently cut out. Her mind, though, was too chattery to sleep, and every time she found herself drifting, the dread pooling in the pit of her stomach would lurch her back to consciousness.

Now Spike was back and—from the sound of things—very, very drunk.

"Still here," he said shortly, stumbling slightly as he crossed the threshold into the small room. Her muscles were killing her, but it didn't stop her from struggling helplessly against her restraints. "Wha's this? Not crafty enough to slink away, are we?"

"Spike..."

It wasn't as though she meant to sound all pleady and breathless; Buffy truly hated helplessness, and not being anywhere near the zone of control had her panicking.

"Dunno what's keepin' you here," he retorted, his eyes glazing over as he raked her body with long, lustful looks. "Thought slayers were s'posed to have super strength."

"Spike, you're drunk."

"I'm very drunk," he corrected, stumbling over to her and shedding his duster. Oh God, he was shedding his duster; from the way his hands went to the hem of his tee, it seemed that wasn't all he intended to shed. "An' I intend to get drunker."

She paused, fighting off the initial swell of mirth that climbed up her throat. "Spike, you're so drunk you're quoting Gone With the Wind. You really wanna be letting me go right about now."

"Yeah. That's what I wants to do with you." He plopped down beside her, his left hand settling on her leg, fingers caressing her inner thigh. Then his head was dipping toward her, and he inhaled appreciatively. "Christ, you smell fantastic. You always smell so bloody fantastic."

Buffy pursed her lips. His touch was surprisingly gentle, and she felt her body reacting against the will of her mind. It was humiliating—he was sniffing at her, touching her, and all she could do was tremble. She was terrified and furious; combined with mortification, the urge to kick and scream was near unbearable. But she couldn't kick, and screaming would do little more than anger him. And while she had little to no practice with diplomacy, it seemed to be the best alternative. "Spike," she said softly. "I really need you to untie me."

He ignored her, and for the second time that evening, his sensuous tongue found her throat, licking at the vamp mark she'd been branded with a year earlier. Never before had the mark been an erogenous zone, so she was quite surprised at the pleasured gasp that tore through her throat and the rush of wetness between her spread thighs.

Spike inhaled and shuddered against her. "Naughty li'l schlayer," he murmured, nipping at her neck as the hand on her thigh brazenly slid upward until he was cupping her clothed pussy. "Mmmm..."

Shock filled every inch of her body. Well, shock and the most potent rush of lust she'd ever experienced. That was sick. She was sick. He was touching her in that way, and her body was reacting to it. She was reacting to him, and he was touching her as only one man ever had before. More than that, she was chained to a bed, no one knew where she was, and he was drunk. She was chained and he was drunk, and she was in no position—aside from screaming in protest—to fight what he was doing to her.

"Show her," Spike murmured defiantly, his lips trailing southward. He dropped kisses as he went, pausing to tease her nipples. In a blink, he'd torn her sweats and panties as far down her legs as he could, and tore the material away before she could hope that he'd unchain her legs to finish the job.

It wasn't until she felt him dotting kisses along her pelvis that astonishment and self-loathing faded into true panic. He was going to—oh God, he was. Her first time experiencing this shouldn't be terrifying. Shouldn't be forced. Shouldn't be with a vampire she hated. The dreamlike atmosphere vanished again, and she was left with the biting smack of reality.

"Spike, no," she whispered, her urgent tone in direct counterpoint to her treacherous body—the same treacherous body that had stretched beneath him invitingly, her hips lifting in want of his mouth. Her mind was at war with her arousal; this was violation. It shouldn't feel good—but God, he was nuzzling her and it did. And she didn't want it to feel good. She wanted anything but to feel good about something so fundamentally wrong. She needed him to stop now before she betrayed everything there was about being female. "Please. You can't do this. You hate me. You don't wanna do this. I don't taste good—God, I'm sure I don't taste good. Please!"

While her mind and mouth objected, her body welcomed him. She was seriously hating her body right now.

This was something she'd wanted with Angel, in the fantasy future she had planned—the one where they eradicated the clause of his curse and had the chance at a crime-fighting life. He'd offered to do it their first and only night together, but she'd been too terrified and nervous to let him. In the months since she'd lost her virginity, she'd opened herself to experiencing any number of things that had seemed taboo at one point.

Okay, if she was totally honest with herself, the Angel part of the future equation was more out of lack of options. His behavior since returning from Hell had been understandably distant, and she wasn't stupid enough to think that things could ever go back to being the way they once were. God, at this point, she wasn't even sure she wanted that. Angel as a soulless killing machine had robbed her of her innocence in ways that no amount of violence or slaying or apocalypses could ever have. No. Going back to Angel wasn't an option. She'd seen him as she'd never wanted to, and it would never be the same.

However, her girlish mind hadn't quite been willing to let go of the fairytale, and thus, all her fantasies about the future she could never have had starred Angel as the male protagonist. There were things that she wanted to experience someday, and yes, the female dream of pro-cunnilingus boyfriends was one of them.

Spike nuzzled her pussy, his fingers massaging her skin through her curls. "Show her," he murmured again, his tongue lapping at her folds. Buffy threw her head back and screwed her eyes shut, determined to feel nothing—enjoy nothing—and let him get whatever he needed out of his system. All she needed to do was get through to morning—or to a point where he was confident enough in her complacency to make a mistake and let her go.

She was determined to not enjoy this, no matter how good it felt.

"Slayer," he growled, sucking her clit into his mouth. Buffy inhaled sharply and pulled at her restraints, her hips thrusting upward. He purred approvingly, spreading her pussy lips wide with two fingers. "My schlaaayer."

"I'm dreaming," Buffy gasped, arching into him again. "I'm dreaming I'm dreaming I'm dreaming."

Spike's tongue curled around her clit, his wandering fingers imploring her opening. God, this was so humiliating. Women were not supposed to react to coerced sexual acts like wanton hussies. She was not supposed to react to Spike like an under-sexed porn star. And yet, she found her legs were straining the chains to open wider for him, rather than close. Her pelvis thrust determinately against his mouth, and the moans that scratched at her throat were definitely not in protest.

"My slayer," he repeated, his tone primal. His tongue abandoned her clit the next second, his eager fingers stretching her pussy lips again. Then he was lapping at her exposed skin, suckling at her, and at last, plunging into her tight, wet hole. Her eyes shot open at last, latching onto the attentive blond head between her legs, and Buffy trembled so hard that the bed rocked against the wall.

"Oh God," she moaned. Reason abandoned her completely. "Oh my God."

"Show her...show her. Covered with you. Covered."

"Wha...?"

"My schlayer."

"No...oh God, please..."

"Mine."

He captured her clit between his thumb and forefinger and began massaging her rapidly. Ecstasy split her veins, and she trembled hard around him. Her body exploded into a thousand tiny spasms, and she cried out hoarsely. For a few seconds—a few, glorious seconds—nothing around her mattered. Nothing at all. She was drowning in pleasure and nothing else mattered. Nothing.

And then it happened. Spike slipped his tongue out of her pussy, filling her with two fingers as his thumb settled over her clit. He rubbed her attentively as his mouth moved to her inner thigh, licking at her tender skin with a purr.

Awareness shot through her. Buffy gasped loudly and attempted to sit up. "Spike—no, you can't—!"

Her words were wasted. The next second, his fangs pierced her skin, sending her spiraling down a second orgasm. He feasted on her, growling and drinking his fill. And when he finally retracted his incisors from her flesh, she was too weak to fight him.

"Mine."

Buffy blinked. She was numb all over.

Spike growled and slammed an angry fist into the mattress, his tongue sliding over her bloodied skin again. "Mine," he insisted. "Say it!"

Defiance rose and died. At some point, she had simply stopped caring. "Yours," she agreed, her voice small but satisfied. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to cry for him. He could have her blood—hell, even her body—but he wouldn't have her tears. Not tonight. "Yours. Whatever. Just please...let me go."

Her demand wasn't out of desperation anymore; rather necessity. She'd been taken from a world guarded with rules—many, many rules. She might be a novice to the whole sex thing, but she was certain that what had just happened should not have given her the pleasure it did. She should not be trembling with the aftermath of an orgasm—let alone two. His fangs should have terrified her. Everything that had just happened should have terrified her. Instead, she was terrified of herself. She'd just experienced something that women dreaded, and she'd enjoyed it.

God, she was disgusting. And even knowing that didn't change anything.

Again, Spike ignored her. Instead, he purred in delight and licked her clit again before pillowing his cheek against her thigh. And then he stilled, two fingers locked inside her. He stilled.

And slept.

His mate was crying.

Spike was barely awake—barely aware of anything. His senses and instincts were on autopilot. His conscious mind was completely absent, and only the demon was present. And all the demon knew at the moment was that his mate was crying. Crying and struggling beneath him. He sensed her displeasure at her tears, her fear and repulsion. He felt her disgust, both with herself and with him, and the awareness made him want to weep.

Instead, he groggily rose to all fours, his hand going to the clasp on his jeans. He didn't know how he knew, but something told him that those new to a vampiric claim often craved a physical bond to soften distress. It was the best way, especially with the new sensations spreading through them, to soothe fears and concerns.

His cock was erect, which did little to surprise him. The rich scent tickling his nose always made him hard. He rumbled several encouraging growls and nuzzled her throat, his eyes remaining shut. She was his mate—sight wasn't needed for this. All he needed to do was calm her. Calm her for now by giving her the physical connection she craved.

His tongue darted out instinctively and lapped up her tears, the head of his cock sliding sensually against her slick opening.

But this wasn't about pleasure. Not now. Pleasure could wait.

Spike nipped at her neck and purred soothingly as he slid inside her. So warm, he thought, curling his arms under her shoulders, his head resting against her breast.

So warm.

Perhaps tomorrow, he'd think to question her near-virgin tightness. The strange presence of a heartbeat. The tears that refused to stop flowing down her cheeks. The whimpers that itched at her throat, and the foreign heat radiating from her body.

Right now, though, he'd done all he knew to do. He'd done what was needed to calm her.

So he rested.