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.

Again, thank you so much!

Every nerve in his body was on fire; he was swimming in warmth. God, there'd never been a feeling like this. Never in all his years, and he'd been around for quite a while. There were a few things he knew immediately, even if he wasn't completely awake. First, he was balls-deep in the hottest, tightest pussy he'd ever felt. Second, the woman beneath him was very definitely human. Human, warm, wet, and wiggling.

It was quite possible that he'd never been this hard before. Spike moaned, rotating his hips as he began to lazily thrust inside her. His head was throbbing from the effects of more alcohol than the entire Barrymore family line had ever seen, and memories of the previous night came in a series of broken fragments.

Not a surprise. And even though his drinking rarely got so out of hand—he usually stopped before he lost control of himself completely—Spike saw little reason for concern. Obviously, the night had worked out well for him. He was in a bed, he was in a woman; the natural conclusion was, his carelessness hadn't cost him his life. Rather, it seemed he'd had a right decent time.

Now if only he could remember it...

The woman beneath him gasped and whimpered and arched. Spike lowered his mouth to her neck, favoring her sweet skin with long laps of his tongue. "Mmmm..." he murmured. "So sweet."

The words shocked the hell out of him. He'd long ago stopped trying to fill his sexual void with nameless women, especially since their faces seemed to turn into the Slayer's rather than Dru's. But even more than that, Spike wasn't one to go for meaningless sex. He could do it, sure—and when he did, he did it with gusto—but a century had schooled him well and although he'd love to, casual fucking didn't do it for him. He'd already had his revenge fuck. Well, in all honesty, several revenge fucks, but it didn't take long to realize what he was missing. It didn't take long for said revenge fucks to become anything but a reminder of how alone he was. And nothing—absolutely nothing—about those nameless, faceless women had been sweet.

The one beneath him tasted sweet, and Christ, she felt like Heaven. She was moaning and squirming, thrusting up against him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her breath hot against his skin. The whimpers scratching at her throat were driving him mad. There was something about her—he knew, even without opening his eyes, that time had yet to jade her. That was another thing about the few women he'd been with since Dru, and even Dru herself, that he hadn't thought to question until now. Women who were no longer impressed by sex, who performed as though it were a routine to a dance they wished over long ago.

He didn't take it personally, though he did relish the satisfaction of their surprise once he made them come. Bet that hadn't happened in years. But in the end, they were just using each other, and he couldn't give a damn if they got off or not.

How did he manage to get so drunk and find a woman like...

"Spike!"

His eyes flew open.

Oh my fuck.

A long, trembling whimper tore through Buffy's lips, her eyes fluttering shut as she trembled beneath him. Spike gasped along with her; the pace of his thrusts increased. God, she felt so sweet, and he couldn't keep himself from fucking her. Not when she was so hot. When she had been looking at him like that.

"You're awake," she hissed through her teeth, though he couldn't tell if she was strained with pleasure, or outrage.

"Oh my God."

"You're telling me."

Spike stared at her for a long minute, then his head fell to her shoulder, and he moaned. He forced his hips to a standstill, his cock slipping out of her pussy with reluctance that nearly tore his body in half. He immediately lamented the loss of her warmth, and shivered as though he could, after a century, finally feel the cold. "Oh my God. Slayer...I don'...how—"

It all came back in a rush. The library. Buffy jump-roping. Buffy's luscious tits bouncing. Buffy chained to a bed. Buffy sleeping. And then—and then...nothing. There was nothing but a blur. He remembered a bar. Alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol...and then nothing.

Only very obviously not nothing, as he'd awakened with his cock inside the Slayer's succulent pussy. That was definitely not nothing.

"Oh for the love of Pete!" the Slayer all but growled. "Spike, please...don't make me...God, don't make..."

He blinked stupidly. "What?"

"I...I'm..." She was blushing furiously, which intrigued him until he realized what she was about to say. She was close. Fucking Christ, he had the Slayer close to coming. She was close and she didn't want to say it—hell, from the look of things, she didn't even want to think about it. She was mad as hell, though he couldn't tell if he was on the receiving end of her anger, or if she was irritated with herself.

She'd seduced him. That had to be it. Little vixen had seen him stumble into the factory, very obviously drunk off his arse, and she'd seduced him to escape. Fuck, if he wasn't so bloody horny, he might have to punish her by not getting her off. As it was, his cock was only too happy to slide back inside her.

"Slayer," he growled, fangs descending. The gasp that scratched her throat only fueled his enthusiasm. She looked torn between ecstasy and humiliation, and God if the combination didn't shoot another bolt of lust straight to his dick. "So hot."

"Shut up," she hissed through her teeth, her eyes falling shut. "Just shut up and do it."

"Do it?" He grinned nastily, grinding his hips against hers. "The Slayer afraid the Big Bad's gonna make her scream?"

"Shut up."

"Come on. You wanna scream for your Spike." He dropped his mouth, teeth clamping on her earlobe and giving it a good tug as he slid a hand between their thrusting bodies, his callused fingers finding her clit. The gasp that spilled from her lips was worth a thousand of these mornings, hangovers and all. "Tell your Spike how much you love this."

He saw tears pricking at her eyes, but pushed his concern aside. For God's sake, she'd asked for this. What did she expect? Candles? Roses? Sweet kisses and a promise of commitment? Had she forgotten who she was dealing with in her attempt to seduce her way out to freedom?

"Come for me, kitten." He rubbed her clit fast, his other hand tugging her camisole down until her tits were exposed to his hungry eyes, and his wandering lips immediately navigated southward until he had a mouthful of Slayer-breast. "Come on. Come for Spike. Wanna feel your pussy squeeze me into the next sodding life."

He said it more for her sake than out of desire. In all honesty, Spike didn't want her to climax so quickly—he wanted to enjoy this, draw it out, because he knew it would never happen again. It was a realized fantasy that he'd never again get to taste. So when she finally cried out and trembled around him, drenching his cock with her juices and biting a lip to keep from screaming his name, he couldn't hope to hold on. He suckled on her nipple a second longer before releasing her with a wet slurp, massaging her clit speedily as his eyes took in the sight of her.

God, she was a glorious creature when she came.

"You're gorgeous," he gasped, his voice near reverent.

And somehow, the Slayer managed to ruin that moment with a well-timed glare. "Shut up," she spat.

Fucking bitch.

Spike snarled and dove for her throat, but his fangs decided to bite into the pillow instead. God, she was squeezing him mercilessly, her beautiful body in spasms as he spilled himself inside her, his growl of completion lost in a sea of goose down feathers.

It took several minutes for him to come back to himself. When he opened his eyes, he found his head pillowed at her breast. Her very-much heaving breast. A long moan rumbled through his throat. He felt spent, but his cock was on a very different train of thought. Staring at her ruby nipple gave a bloke ideas, and when he began to harden within her for round two, it was only her sharp, panicked gasp that had the power to send him spiraling back to reality.

The Slayer was staring at him, horrified. Horrified, and gloriously bedded. God, she was edible.

"Don't," she said shortly, ruining yet another moment. "Don't. Just get out of me."

"Slayer, never let anyone tell you that you don't know how to romance a fella."

"I mean it. Get. Out. Of. Me."

Spike rolled his eyes and obliged, biting back a whimper when his cock was suddenly deprived of her warmth. "Don't see what you're so brassed about. You're not the one that woke up with a hangover."

"I swear to God, you're counting away the seconds until you're dust."

His hands came up. "Oi! I just did what you asked for, you stupid bint. An' after that, don't you think it a mite rude to start makin' death threats? It's not like shagging the Slayer was my number one priority when I came back here. Fuck if I know what—"

God, the stupid bint looked ready to cry again. Women were so bloody fickle.

"What?" he demanded.

"Let me up. I wanna go home."

"Yeah. Two seconds after you've threatened to stake me." He rolled his eyes and jerked his jeans up. "Sorry, luv. You're good, but not that good."

He regretted the words the second they escaped his lips. The Slayer's face crumbled completely and she dissolved into tears. And he didn't know why, but the sound of her crying tore at him from every feasible angle. The next thing he knew, he was approaching her slowly, his hand diving into his jean pocket for the key to her shackles.

Stupid bird's guiltin' me into letting her go.

But guilt wasn't on the menu—at least it shouldn't be. However, he couldn't deny the twist of something that took command of his body. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her brow, and tell her that everything was going to be all right. Didn't that just beat all?

She was twisting so much by the time he knelt at the foot of the bed that it took several minutes before he had one ankle free. But it only took a second for her to kick him across the room.

Ungrateful li'l...

"You stupid bitch," he growled, fighting to his feet. She was still crying, only she'd turned over—best she could—closing her legs but showing him her ass, which really wasn't in her best interest, but he wasn't one to complain. "I'm tryin' to help!"

"You've done enough."

"What? You want me to apologize for shagging you? Sorry, Slayer, but you asked."

There was an angry pause at that, and she twisted to face him, her legs remaining stubbornly pressed together. "I didn't ask for last night!" she screamed. "I didn't ask for that."

A very, very still beat spread through the room.

"What?" he replied slowly. "Wait a mo'. Start at the beginning. How's it that I ended up in bed with you in the bloody first place?"

Buffy stared at him, then shook her head incredulously. "You don't remember?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be asking."

"I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "Believe me or not, that doesn' change anything. Near as I can figure, you wanted outta here so bad you put that scrumptious body of yours to use. Not a bad ploy when a man's drunk, but—"

"Me?!" she shrieked. "You forced—"

The word stopped him dead, an ugly, heinous accusation that made even him shudder. He was many things—many cruel, nasty things, but a rapist wasn't one of them. He wasn't Angelus; he didn't need to get his jollies off in order to, well, get his jollies off. He'd tortured girls till they cried and begged for death, sure—living with Angelus for twenty years, pre-soul, there hadn't been much choice. His Yoda, after all, demanded that he be an obedient student.

Of the many terrible things he'd done to women, though, rape was simply inconceivable. Most female blood that stained his hands post-Angelus had been at Dru's jealousy. She'd see a girl, make a snide accusation toward his nonexistent wandering eye, and the next thing he knew, she had dinner in a Victorian dress.

He hated to be a cliché, but really, violence against any woman—save those with a sacred calling—had never been his thing. There was something about his upbringing that refused to be shaken by violence and hatred—some residual William factor that kept popping up. It didn't keep him from inflicting pain without bias, of course, but when possible, he avoided drawing blood that wasn't male.

Fuck, he hadn't even offed Cecily, and God knows, the bitch deserved it.

So Buffy telling him now that he'd forced himself on her...well, that was just impossible.

Only, the look in her eyes didn't make it seem so impossible. Rather, it inspired a suddenly sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew without a doubt that she was telling the truth.

Oh God.

"Oh God." Spike expelled a deep breath and turned away, his body trembling.

There was very little in his past that inspired guilt. Siring his mum for one. Dru's run-in with the mob in Prague. Somehow, a whole past full of wrongs had washed away, and he was bathed in something he didn't recognize. Beyond guilt. Beyond remorse. This was something no vampire should feel. Never.

Never before had his demon wept, but for the way in which his insides were shattering, it could be nothing else.