The Crypt: In Omne Tempus by Holly

In Omne Tempus

Author's Note: This is the answer to a BSV challenge, and as before, I will post the guidelines at the end of the story. Similarly, this story is radically different from anything I've attempted to write before. It is Spuffy, and after two or three chapters, that should be very obvious...I just don't want to freak people out too badly with the first few. It's all set-up.

I'm molding some popular vampire traditions in some of the vampire romance novels I've read – *sheepish* – so I will be tampering with a bit of the myths outside Whedonverse. As far as I know, these new venues are wholly my interpretation.

Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (For language, violence, and sexual situations)
Timeline: Outside canon.
Distribution: Mandi, Yani, Stacy, Luba...it's all yours. Everyone else, just drop me a line. You can have it as long as I know where it's going.
Summary: For a hundred years, William the Bloody has led a trail of bloodshed and chaos across Europe and the Americas. That all comes to an end when the woman he's devoted his existence to brings his mate to him in the guise of a late-night snack. A small girl with eyes of green and blonde hair. And suddenly, Spike is thrown into a world of color beyond the black and white, and his life is never the same.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of respect and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended.

*~*~*

Chapter Twenty-Five

And Here We Are In Heaven

The night was a perfect archetype for ultimate realization. As the rain washed the old world away, cleansing the tainted earth of Drusilla's dust and Willow's blood, Spike stood in steady acceptance.

It was a baptism of his prior sins. The chaos he'd inflicted upon the innocent for so many years was finally rectified. The horror and bloodshed, the pain he'd caused so many had officially come full circle. He stood in a downpour of the heavens and let it wash off his skin. How often had he snapped a young girl's neck, or indulged in a long, warm drink while his sire terrorized children and forced their parents to watch? It was all there. The years hadn't done anything to right his many wrongs. The full burden of what he felt, or what he ought to feel, was finally shouldered squarely upon his body. He knew then.

Two slayers, both alike in dignity. The third was beyond them. Untouchable.

The third had returned his humanity after so many years of being without it.

He felt he'd been on the verge of an emotional break-through for years. He'd been climbing a mountain steadily, faithfully, and mostly alone since the night he left his family. He'd started such a long time ago. A reluctant acceptance in the face of a young girl that had sealed his fate—the knowledge that whatever life he thought he'd been leading was over. He'd gone with it because there was no alternative, but he'd never pretended to understand it.

So he had watched her grow. He had watched and coveted, craving contact from his self-imposed isolation. He had still killed, because that was what he was. Who he was. Having a human mate couldn't take away his identity. He took because he was greedy. He drank because he was gluttonous. He reveled in destruction because he was a demon, and that was what his existence was built on.

He had watched Buffy from the outside. He had watched her without knowing her beyond her habits, her voice, her tears; he'd never considered the one fundamental element that would make her who she was: him. No, he had never truly understood her until he held her in his arms. Until she had touched him, smiled at him, trusted him, loved him, he'd been lost. Now he was a broken man, crawling back for the light that he'd shunned so long ago. The light that had given birth to him as a man and had been extinguished the second Drusilla sunk her fangs into his throat.

Buffy was his light.

The question about Drusilla was rudimentary, really. After all, he'd known for a while now that the love he thought he harbored for his sire was nothing more than an allusion. It wasn't all too surprising, given the way she'd never attempted to mask how bothered she was by his humanity. How much she'd rather be her Daddy's girl. How fortunate Spike was that she let him touch her at all. That she was even a part of his post-mortem existence. He'd been enchanted with her, yes, but never in love. Not in the way he was supposed to be.

After all, a blind man can't tell colors apart from shapes. Neither could he. As the blind man, living alone in the dark with the promise of a great love guiding him onward. A promise that could have destroyed him had he not discovered the wonders the Powers had in store for him. The life he'd led with his sire was a miserable, hollow shell of empty survival. He'd never been one of the family. Never.

He'd started to reach for light after Buffy came into his life. Only now did he realize he was walking with sight. Somewhere, somehow, she'd given vision back to him, and he knew.

It wasn't a matter of lack of feeling. What he felt for Dru was simply no more than what she'd given him. He hadn't truly grasped it until that night. He'd known it, but he hadn't understood the depths of his knowledge. What it meant backwards and forwards. Dru was to him what she should have been from the beginning—his sire. The years they'd shared together hadn't meant much of anything. Not to her at the time, and now that he had the world at his fingertips, not to him, either.

The fantasy was gone. The dark had been chased away by the light. It didn't make him any more of a monster to shun the darkness that had born him—no, he'd spent too many years being deceived by a lie. Killing Dru hadn't simply been to save the face of his true salvation; it had been cathartic. It had solidified the life he wanted. The life that was his now.

He wasn't going to live with his eyes closed. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He'd been given something precious; something holy.

He loved Buffy. Drusilla had attempted to kill Buffy, so he'd killed Drusilla.

And that lack of feeling, beyond what the fates handed him? Beyond the demon mourning the loss of its maker? It was exactly what she deserved. She'd deceived him into believing he loved her; into believing what he felt was love. She'd gleefully taken advantage of William's naïveté and fooled him into thinking that the years they'd had together could ever be considered real. That the bond they shared went beyond physics. Beyond the tie that bound all childer to their sires. There was nothing else there. So yes, his demon had mourned, but not the way it should have.

Had a second of what they'd shared been real, watching her dissolve would've destroyed him. But it hadn't. The only one that mattered to him was Buffy. Buffy, who'd opened up his heart and reminded him what it was like to be human, beyond the suffering and the heartache that had followed him through his years as a man in nineteenth century England. She'd reminded him how to weep for others. How to care. How to open himself up to the world of possibilities beyond hurt and despair.

As a vampire, such connection to feeling should have been rejected. And yes, while he fundamentally opposed the notion that he was any less monstrous than the next bloke, he similarly knew that the finer aspects of life could only be granted through the virtues he was only now regaining.

Perhaps that was what bothered him most about Drusilla's death. Not the fact that she was gone; the fact that she had shaded his pathway from enlightenment for so many years. Watching her die had been a final farewell to the demon he'd once been.

But to him, now, this moment wasn't about mourning.

It was about living.

Buffy had lost her friend. He'd lost his sire. They hadn't lost each other, though, and they never would.

The world had given him love at long last.

It came down with a crash of lightening. It was all there. He understood. He understood perfectly what he was, what Buffy was—and more importantly—who they were together. Beyond slayer and vampire, beyond mates, beyond anything. They were simply themselves.

The past was over. He loved Buffy with everything that he was. And they couldn't hold off life because of death. If they did that, they'd never be anywhere.

The demon roared in triumph as he came to a halt, rain washing over him.

He needed her tonight. Tonight and forever. Apart they were strong, but together they would be undefeatable. But that wasn't why. That was barely a part of why. He needed her because he loved her, because the demon had waited, and because life couldn't stop for death. Death was the natural conclusion to life, despite how it came to pass.

He needed her. And he couldn't wait any longer. They'd built a palace on dreams, but the real world had crashed at the doorstep. That didn't make what they had together less valuable; if anything, his love for her had conquered all odds tonight. And the fact that she could look at him and whisper that she loved him after the church meant more to him than anything else that the miserable world had to offer.

Life would not stop because of death. It never had before. However, time was not a limitless commodity. Even immortals faced their day of reckoning.

He needed her as his mate. Tonight. Not for what they had lost, rather for what they had gained. What they had survived and what they would face. What they had discovered about themselves and each other. He loved Buffy, and he couldn't wait to make her his any longer.

Spike drew in a deep breath, turned, and ran for Revello Drive.

*~*~*

Every roll of thunder seemed to make the ground shutter. The first few had terrified her, but she barely heard them now. Her mind was a thousand miles away, her eyes sore from crying. It felt as though she had lived a thousand years in a number of hours. She barely remembered what life felt like prior to seeing Willow's body, but even then, the event seemed so isolated, so far placed, that the tears she'd shed for her friend had already run dry. Reality had abandoned her. Her skin was hot while her insides shivered. She could still smell the smoke of the factory as it was consumed in flames. She could still feel Drusilla's dust sliding off her skin. And she was sure she would never forget the look in Spike's eyes that night when he realized what had happened. When he realized what he had done.

Knowing that he was gone tonight, that he could've died, had nearly destroyed her. One death could not be outweighed by another, and yet, her life had changed so radically in the past few days that the rest of her could not help but sigh in relief that the night had not stolen more. That the night had not robbed her of the one she needed.

The look in his eyes...

A long, painful sigh shuddered through Buffy's body and she rolled onto her back. Her skin was a riverbed of dried tears; her eyes were sore, and she was thoroughly exhausted, but sleep would not come tonight. Every time she rested her eyes, she saw the look on Spike's face through Drusilla's dust; every time she opened them, she saw Willow nailed to a church with Angelus's sadistic epitaph scrawled over her head.

How much had changed now? She honestly didn't know. If killing her best friend had been the Order's way of separating her from her mate, they were in for a bitter disappointment. Even if Spike never forgave her for being the inadvertent cause of Drusilla's death, there was absolutely no way in hell that she was going to roll over and take it. She needed to be Spike's now more than ever. She needed to know that he still loved her, even after she had shoved him away with spiteful words spurned on by heartache. Even after his sire was dust.

Willow was dead. She shuddered. Willow was dead. She would never ring up her house again and hear her answer in her normal, perky, Willow-way. She would never see her in the hallway, stealing moments with Oz or panicking over assignments that the rest of the class had yet to start. There would be no more girlish discussions over guys, love, life, demons, slayage, and apocalypses. There would be no more of that, because Willow was dead.

Buffy stifled a sob at that. Willow was dead. God, Willow was really dead.

She didn't know what had become of Oz. He'd been lying on the floor in her living room when she left, and gone when she returned to the house. It hadn't taken much to figure out what had happened, and while she knew why Spike had refused to let her friend go after the baddies, she knew Oz wouldn't see it her way. She was also frustrated that her mate had gone in alone, though she knew she would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed.

What had changed? She wasn't living in a fantasy anymore. Her friend was dead. Her mate had dusted his sire to save her life. There were villains in the world, she was the Slayer, and that made her a beacon for pain and suffering. She still loved Spike with everything she was, and needed him now, tonight, and more than ever. To remind her of the good; to bring her warmth and love in the midst of something so cold and painful. To make her feel like Buffy and not the Slayer—not the entity the Order was after. To remind her that she still bled and cried, ate and drank, breathed and slept because she wasn't any less human than she had been at the start of this hellish day.

A crack of thunder pounded the earth and set the heavens ablaze. Buffy sighed and sat up. No sleep. No rest. She feared what her dreams would bring.

Something changed then. A shiver raced down her spine and her heart skipped a beat.

Spike was close.

A fresh influx of warm tears swelled in her eyes. Spike was close.

Spike was coming home to her.

*~*~*

If he lived for a thousand millennia, he would never forget the look in her eyes when she opened the front door.

"You came back," she choked. "You...you came back."

The desperation mingled with relief in her voice made his insides quiver. God, had she thought he'd left for good? He didn't remember exactly how he'd worded his need for solitude, but he was certain that he would never have been as bold as to leave her without letting her know damn sure that he would be coming home to her when it was over.

No, he hadn't known it would be so soon. But even still, only a heartless bastard would leave the woman he loves to cry for a dead friend in an empty house.

"Buffy..."

He couldn't take it anymore.

She was in his arms in a flash, pressing herself against his cold, wet body as her mouth met his in a desperate, hungry kiss. He was lost on first touch. It felt like they'd been apart for years, and he wasn't going to deny himself anymore. With a passionate growl, he slammed the door shut, twisting her so that she was pressed against the frame. Her legs scissored around his waist, arching his erection into the warm apex of her thighs. Her hands were everywhere. God, she tasted like tears and honey. Like blood and wine. Like a homecoming he hadn't known he deserved.

But even in his desperation, he refused to be an outlet of escape.

"Buffy..."

"I'm sorry," she babbled, pressing sweet kisses to his chin. "I'm so sorry, Spike. I didn't mean for that to happen. I didn't mean—"

"What?"

"You...you killed..."

A pang struck his unbeating heart. "Sweetheart, I'd kill her a thousand times to keep you. It din't mean rot beyond what it was s'posed to mean." He brushed his lips across her forehead. "Doesn' matter...it's over now."

She nodded, though he could tell she was confused. "Spike..." she murmured, kissing his lips. "Please...tonight..."

"I—"

"I need you."

Any last reservation snapped at that, a possessive growl clamoring through his throat. "Need you," he repeated, shedding his sodden duster and tossing it to the floor. "No looking back, right?"

"I won't. Please."

Spike claimed her lips again, warm sparks seizing his body. He needed to know that she wasn't doing this because of what had happened, but hadn't the heart to ask. Her eyes were filled with aged understanding, as though a thousand years had already come and gone, and a part of her had made peace with the torments of the night. She still loved him; god, what a miracle that was. Buffy still loved him. Still wanted him, even after everything. This small lifetime that they'd squeezed into a few endless hours. She was an older woman, now, a different person—wiser—than she'd been before. She was in his arms, wrestling needy kisses from his lips as he attempted to walk her up the stairs.

Not a girl. Not a teenager. A woman.

It didn't occur to him until they were in her bedroom that this was really going to happen. Buffy peeled his wet tee from his chest, her mouth pressing kisses to his nipples with guised innocence. The darkness of the night was suddenly disturbed by a reckoning larger than himself and he realized that the goddess he'd waited for was stripping him down, the scent of her arousal unmistakable. God, she was going to do it. She was going to let him into her body. Like this. Tonight.

"Buffy..."

She dropped to her knees before him, working his shoes off his feet before turning her attention to his zipper. She was shivering, but not from cold, and as his cock sprang into her hand, he was sure he'd been welcomed through the gates of paradise.

"Buffy, you need to—"

Her tongue lapped at his head, her hand pumping him masterfully. The weekend they'd shared had boosted her confidence in nearly every facet of their sex life, and the feel of her lips around him now nearly made him lose all restraint.

"Buffy...ahhh...you need to...ooohhh, god...stop!"

She released him abruptly, and he nearly roared in frustration.

"What's wrong?" she asked, eyes wide. "I...was I not doing it right? I thought..."

Spike shook his head. "Baby, there's no way you can't do that right. Felt wonderful...I jus'...are you sure you wanna do this tonight? I don'...I don't want this to be about loss, sweets. When we go to bed, it's jus' us. Not my sodding family, not what's happened...I don' want you to...I can't make love to you as a way for you to forget."

Buffy was still for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she rose to her feet; eyes trained on his, and brushed a kiss against his lips.

"I love you," she said. "Whatever else happens, that doesn't change."

"An' tonight—"

She stiffened, but shook her head. "Right now, it's just us."

"I'll still be here tomorrow if it's not, luv."

"I know." She smiled. "So will I."

Heat flooded his body, and he stared at her for a long moment. There was no fear in her eyes. No hesitation—only resolution. And that solidified it. There was no going back now. A passionate rumble tore through his throat. He cupped her face, bringing her mouth to his. Her lips were soft and welcoming, her kisses eager and needy. As though she feared he would vanish. As though this moment they were having was fragile enough that if she handled it roughly, it would no longer exist.

"Sweetling," he gasped as she broke from his hungry mouth, nibbling a wet path down his throat. Her small hand wrapped around his cock once more, stroking him with tender veneration. "God, you drive me outta my mind."

"I love you, Spike," she replied simply, heartfelt.

He quivered. The words could positively unmake him. "I love you, too," he whispered. "I love you so much." Her grip around his erection tightened, eliciting a long moan. "But if you keep doin' that..."

The thought never saw fruition. Buffy ignored his warnings, pumping his length as her mouth played across his skin. His control was teetering on edge. Christ, wasn't she supposed to be the fluttering virgin, here? She unwound him with the slightest look, the gentlest touch. And now she was tugging his jeans down his legs, dropping to her knees before him once more. Her mouth nipped at his erection, her tongue lapping at his sensitive head, murmuring her approval lowly in the back of her throat.

She had him fully naked while she was still in her sweats and that tank top that he'd admired a lifetime ago. She placed her hands tentatively on his hips, capturing his cock between her lips, suckling him deep into her mouth.

"Fuck!" he hissed, pushing her back. His body groaned in protest at the absence of her warm cavern, but if anything, he owed her tonight. "Buffy, god..."

"Spike?"

Buffy was sitting back on her legs, her eyes wide as she met his hungry gaze. That was it. Seeing her there in her simple pajamas, looking at him with burning lust that he was almost certain she was unaware of, and the rest was gone. A low rumble ripped through his throat, and the last grasp on his control snapped completely. He seized her by her upper arms and pulled her flush against him. He tore her camisole from her body, growling again as her breasts spilled into his hands.

"Guh..."

"I'll buy you another," he retorted, tugging at her nipples as his mouth dipped to sample a breast.

"Spike..."

"Bloody gorgeous, you are," he murmured, laving a wet path around her areola. "Drive me outta my mind."

"You said that already."

"Still true." He jerked her sweats and her panties down her legs in one swoop, nuzzling her pussy with a hungry growl. "Smell so sweet. Smell as good as you taste." To affirm his theory, he plunged his tongue inside her, nimble fingers finding her clit and caressing her roughly. "Buffy..."

"Oohhh..."

Spike's eyes trailed up her body heatedly. Her head was thrown back, a look of ecstasy on her face. Despite the words between them, he could feel tension that wasn't at all sexual blazing across her skin. The outside world was shut out, though. He wouldn't let it inside her room. Not now. He'd believe her, though, if she said she was ready. If she said she wanted this because she wanted it, and not to keep that world from spilling inward.

There was nothing else in her eyes when she looked at him, though. It was just the two of them.

"Mmm," he purred into her, lapping at her juices as his fingers massaged her swollen pearl. The sounds she made, the little gasps and sputtered confessions of endearment, had his mind in a furious spin. He could've sworn his heart was pounding. "Fuck, you're delicious."

"Uhhh..." She fisted his hair and held him to her. As though he would wish himself away for anything in the world; as though there was anywhere else he wanted to be. Spike murmured wordless rumbles into her skin, sliding his free hand under her hip to anchor her into his mouth.

"Spiiike..." The grasp on his head nearly became painful, but fuck if he cared. If she kept making that sound, she could do whatever she wanted to him. "God..."

He drew back just slightly, smacking his lips. "Feel good, sweetheart?"

"Oh!"

"Like feelin' me devour you?" His tongue encircled her clit. "You taste like heaven."

"Spike...please...I can't..." Buffy mewled and tugged him to his feet, losing herself in his arms. "Please...I need..."

This was new. All of this was so new. The feel of her nude, trembling in his embrace, the perfume of her arousal teasing his tastebuds...the decades had taught him many things, the most important lessons learned over the course of the past fourteen years—and if he were entirely honest—the last few days. True intimacy was so much more than he had ever before fathomed. And while making love with Buffy promised to be groundbreaking, there was something that moved him so inexplicably about being held by her. With his erection prodding her stomach, her sweet face buried in the crook of his throat, her arms around him. Such simple bliss—there was nothing else in the world like this. Moments like these were too few and far between, and too many people didn't recognize them for what they were. He did, though. She was letting him tear down that final barrier, and he was doing the same in turn. She was inside him, now. More than blood. More than anything they could obtain physically.

It struck him then out of nowhere. What this meant for him, and for her. Beyond the demon's need or the pain caused by separation. Beyond anything that made him what he was, or had been before Drusilla brought her into his life.

Buffy didn't release him as he lifted her off the ground. Rather, her legs wound around his waist and she pressed soft, sweet kisses against his throat as he carried her to the bed. "I love you," she whispered into his skin. "I love you. I love you, Spike."

There was something desperate in her voice, as though she was afraid he wouldn't believe her. Whatever her intent, the words, her urgency, the heartfelt caresses of her hands, completely undid him. "Lay back, pet," he murmured, grasping her hands and brushing his lips against each wrist. "Just relax."

Her breathing was labored, her eyes wide, but she did as he asked. His angel, splayed out on her bed. Her body was an offering plate, her blood his holy communion. He released a deep breath and shook the thought away. And for endless minutes, it seemed, he was content to simply look at her. Look at the woman he loved and understand that fourteen years had come to an end in a night that tickled his Aristotelian fancy.

Buffy fidgeted, lifting her hips toward him. "Spike, please..."

His eyes darkened at that and he prowled forward, nipping at her inner thighs. "I love you," he told her hoarsely.

"I know."

"Love you," he murmured again, turning his attention to her mound. "Love this pussy. Love the way you're always warm an' ready for me. Love your clit." He suckled her clit into his mouth. Buffy mewled and thrashed and thrust her hips against his face. He merely grinned and left her with a parting lick. "Love it when you do that," he continued, crawling up her body. A shrill gasp tore through the comfortable air around them as his erection caressed her sodden folds. "Love the way you look at me," he continued, dropping his mouth to her neck. "Love the way you love me."

She giggled and clutched him tighter. The sound inspired a smile to his face. Of the many things he knew he could make her do, tonight of all nights, laughter was not one of them. "Sweet?"

"That's a country song."

He smirked. "Well, I don' bloody well listen to country, do I? How was I s'posed to know that?"

"You could listen to country behind my back. You could be a secret country-fan." She grinned. "You could be cheating on me with a man who thinks he has a sexy tractor."

His eyes narrowed. "Doubtful, pet."

He would do nothing to discourage her, though. Seeing mirth in eyes that had been filled with grief just hours before made him thoroughly warm. He thought for the hundredth time that she was so much older than she had been earlier tonight. Since she collapsed in front of a church. He loved her girlish innocence, but this womanly knowledge became her nicely. There was something to be said for that.

He wanted to show her so many things.

It only took half a minute or so before she was serious again, her hands flying to his upper arms, her nails digging into his skin. "Spike, please."

He nibbled on her ear, the head of his cock caressing her opening sensually. "Please what?"

"I need..."

"Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me."

He shivered. Her words were tame compared to a lifetime plus of experience with Dru—the years that he wanted to erase. However, her small, loving voice did more for him than anything he had experienced before. He released a steady breath and kissed her forehead, reaching between them to position himself.

"Buffy. Buffy, look at me."

She did. Her eyes stole the unneeded air from his lungs.

"Keep looking at me. Don' look away. This is gonna hurt a bit." He swallowed hard. "Tell me if it's too much."

She nodded, her nails digging just a little deeper into his forearms. Good. He'd know how badly she hurt by how hard she gripped him. Even if she couldn't manage the words, he'd know to stop.

God, he hoped so. He hadn't been inside a woman's body in over a decade. And never had he made love like this—with someone who loved him, with someone that was truly his. With someone he loved without reservation, without pain, without any of the hurt that had painted his weary existence.

Granted with Dru, he doubted he'd ever made love at all. The suggestion of that had shattered right along with her, and good riddance to it. Good riddance to anyone who tried to mimic the purity of what Buffy gave him. The simple beauty of what they had.

His body trembled as he began to slide into her. Her heat enveloped him wholly. The slightest touch, the barest hint, and he was swallowed in warmth. Completely lost. He felt he would combust with the feel of it. She was tight—tighter than he'd ever imagined. And Christ, so hot. His skin was surely peeling from the heat of her pussy. Her walls strangled him, clenched and squeezed and inspired a symphony of fire through his cold blood.

"Buffy!" he gasped, resting his brow against hers. He arrived at her barrier. That precious gate that he had killed to preserve. His now. Everything was his. "Oh God..."

She peppered his face with small kisses. "You okay?" she asked, her voice strained.

He nearly laughed at that. Of the two of them, he was definitely more the believable virgin. Her heat nearly convinced him that every sexual encounter in his past had been nonexistent. This was it for the first time. It was real at last.

"'m fine," he told her, kissing her mouth. "Hold on tight."

Then he slammed into her to the hilt. Like taking off a Band-Aid, or so he'd been told. Pain flashed across her face and she clutched at him tighter, but she didn't moan in complaint, didn't tell him to stop, didn't voice her pain beyond what her eyes told him. He stayed still for long seconds, though he truly didn't know for whose benefit. He felt he'd kissed the sun, only it was sweeter than he could have ever foreseen. He'd opened his arms and faced the heavens, and for once, they had not rejected him.

"You okay?" he asked her, unbothered by the irony.

She nodded. "Oh yes. Good..."

"'m gonna start thrusting now. Tell me if it's too much, yeah?"

That was more for his benefit than hers. He feared dispelling the myth of vampiric stamina if she so much as wiggled.

Buffy opened her eyes and looked at him. "It gets better than this?"

Spike grinned at that and kissed her, withdrawing from her heat only to slide inside again. God, he would almost be sorry when her innocence was all used up by his ravenous passion. "Oh sweetheart," he murmured, "you really din't learn anythin' in sex-ed, did you?"

"Sex-ed? They teach us about girl parts, not boy parts." She threw her head back and moaned when he began moving within her. "A-a-and they didn't t-t-tell us about...how to have...sex."

"'Course not," he agreed, mouth dropping to her neck. "Then it might've been fun."

"Spike..."

"They tell you that holdin' hands results in pregnancy? That's one of my faves."

She giggled again and his heart sang. He kissed the pulse in her throat and began moving in slow, tempered strokes. Allowing her to adjust to the rhythm of their bodies moving together, of the feel of him inside her, betraying his innate need to slam into her hard and fast and send them both over the top before his mind could catch up. She was honeyed bliss. He knew then, if he'd never known before, that the eternity he had with her would never be enough. That he could wake up with her every morning and fall asleep with her in his arms every night, and he would live to want more. More time with her. More of that awed look on her face that made him more a saint than a sinner in her eyes. That made him anything other than what he was.

"You feel so good," he murmured. It was the understatement of the century. If he ever found a way to articulate just how she felt around him, he'd have to put it in a poem somewhere. Open up another wound from the past and give it more fuel, but he was too lost to give a damn. Her vaginal walls tightened around him, encasing him in warm velvet. She was a wet inferno.

"Ohhh, good," she agreed throatily. "Spike. Oh my god."

"So fuckin' good," he gasped rapturously. He couldn't stop watching her face; looking at every shade of euphoria that flashed across her eyes, every pleasured gasp that tore through her throat. He bade worship to her body, suckling at her nipples, kissing the skin that mapped the valley between her breasts, murmuring how wonderful she felt into her ear as his mouth journeyed and played. Her juices coated his length, her pussy swallowing him over and over again. The slippery dance between their bodies sent him spiraling down a new path of discovery. He'd never known it could be like this.

"Harder," Buffy whimpered, squeezing him for everything he was worth.

"Oh my God," he gasped, plunging into her with newfound desperation.

"Harder!"

Spike groaned, helpless to deny her. He was drowning in her scent, drunk on her taste, his senses overwhelmed with the feel of her. His thrusts grew needy; desperate. The demon had started its wail. Blood, now. He had her body, now he needed her blood. He needed to make her his wholly. He needed it like he'd never needed anything.

"I've never felt anythin' like this," he panted, tugging at her nipple with his teeth. His other hand had wheedled between them, massaging her tenderly where they were joined. "Never felt anythin'..."

Her eyes went wide. "Spike!"

"You like that?"

"What...oh my god!"

He was bruising her with his body now, slamming into her so hard, he'd be feeling the echo for days. The mattress squeaked noisily, the headboard beating recklessly against the wall. He'd lost all concern with gentility. She was so tight, so hot and wet. So bloody perfect. Her pussy squeezed him into a new life with every plunge. His fingers fondled her clit as his mouth worshipped her nipples, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Buffy," he gasped, lips abandoning her breasts, his fangs calling him home. "My hot, fiery goddess."

"Ohhhh..."

"I love you. Christ, I love you so much. You feel so good. So fucking tight. God, you're gonna burn me up." His fingers were stroking her clit speedily now, her pussy growing tighter and wetter with each drive. He could taste how close she was. God, he could taste it. And he needed it now.

His fangs had already decided. His face shifted and his incisors burst through his gums. "Buffy!"

Her eyes shone with understanding and something else. Something feral. "Do it."

"Oh God..."

"Make me yours, Spike. Please."

That was all he needed. He lowered his face to her throat. "I love you," he told her, licking her pulse point sweetly. "I love you."

"Love you."

Then his fangs sliced into her skin, and her blood spilled into his throat. The demon roared and the man fell to his knees, and he was home. His body thrust madly into hers. Her warm essence flooded him wholly as she shuddered into release. There wasn't anything he didn't feel. She was coming hard, sobbing into him as he feasted on her. Holding him to her body, as though her skin wanted to swallow his so they would truly be inside each other.

He retracted his fangs with some difficulty and brushed a kiss over her bloodied skin. "Mine," he whispered into her. "You're mine, Buffy. My girl. My Slayer. My mate."

A shudder ran through him. "Yes, yes," she gasped. "Yours."

That was it. The skies parted and he was bathed in light. Every severed connection in his body was made right again. Every wrong, every stupid mistake, every flaw corrected. Every incomplete thought completed. He touched the sun but did not burn. He was swallowed in vigor, made whole, broken, and whole once more. The lines of right and wrong meshed, his nerves tingled and his insides sang. The dead blood in his veins surged with new veracity. His. God, she was his.

But there was something else. He needed to be hers, too.

"Buffy...you gotta—"

She was already there. Her teeth clamped into his throat, biting him hard enough to draw blood, and his body exploded into hers. "Mine," she gasped, suckling at the mark she'd given him. "Mine."

"Yours."

That was it. The ceiling fell and the room no longer existed. He felt blood wash off his hands, the past full of errors forgiven. It was a ritual cleansing, and he felt it with everything he was. The death that had followed him for a century was replaced with life. Knowledge that he'd carried transformed into wisdom. He felt her essence, felt her beyond the body he could touch, the eyes he could see, the skin he could taste. Felt her inside him, around him, over him. It was a plane of existence he'd never known before—something he hadn't believed in. As though the errors of the world had come full circle, and he was beyond it now. He could see without looking. Every vibration that rang through her body was shared by him. Every shudder. Every sigh. With her words came darkness, the earth, the moon; full absorption. It meshed with the light and created something new. Something he understood, as though he'd been gazing at it for years but only now truly recognized.

Her presence tingled through his body. Christ, he really could feel everything.

When he opened his eyes, he felt as though he'd lived with them closed. The world was made new. The room he returned to was not the same one he'd entered. He saw the stuffed pig that he'd given her forever ago resting on her dresser. He felt her trembling beneath him, her body cradling his. And when he finally met her eyes, he found hers full of tears.

"Buffy..."

"I..." But there were no words. She just shook her head and cried.

He hadn't known this was going to happen. He didn't even know what this was. Only that it felt he was alive all over again, but not the way he had been—he'd been given something new. She was inside him in ways she couldn't have been before. He felt her as vibrantly as if he were in her skin.

"I love you," she cried.

Spike smiled. He would never tire of those words. Never. "I love you."

"Spike...I feel...god, I feel..."

"I know, sweetling, me too."

"I can't..." Buffy willed her eyes closed. "I didn't...oh god."

He eased himself out of her body, earning a moan of complaint that he was certain she wasn't even aware of.

A ritual joining. Yin and Yang met fully. His body tingled with awareness that hadn't existed before. His mind was swarmed with implications, but he was too tired to think them through. Instead, he welcomed Buffy into his arms and kissed her soundly.

"Everything feels different," she whispered into his skin. "Everything..."

"Yeah."

"Spike..." She shivered against him. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

He had no idea what she was thanking him for, but he hadn't the heart to question her. Instead, he kissed her forehead, then her cheek. "That was amazing," he told her. "I've never...I've never felt anythin' like that. Never." He tugged her closer. His mate. God, she really was his mate. In name, in blood, in spirit, in everything. Her blood was his blood. The demon was at peace. His mate was in his arms. "You're a goddess."

"Ohh..."

"You're all right, though, right?" He drew in a breath, searching her eyes for truth. "I din't hurt you, did I?"

"No. That was...I..." She shook her head. "No, you didn't hurt me."

"Thank God," he murmured, burying his face in her hair. "Wanted so much to make it good for you."

"You did."

"Really?"

Buffy looked up, kissed him, then snuggled into his arms. "It was perfect," she said. "Better...so...it felt..." Her voice began to crack and tears filled her eyes again. The night had been hell on her—an emotional rollercoaster if he'd ever known one. Demanding this of her now was unfair. "I never..."

Spike smiled and coaxed her head to his shoulder. "Okay, kitten. You jus' rest."

"Stay..."

As if he could do anything but. "Never leave you," he promised. "Never."

She needed her sleep. He knew it. Her body was warm and satisfied, the ache in her soul calmed for now. The night had been endless and tomorrow there would be truths greeting them in their wake. And despite his own fatigue, he wanted to keep her up for hours. He wanted to explore this connection. The richness of something he had thought truly couldn't get better, despite what the romantics of his kind said. He was feeling sensations that no book had even alluded to. Feeling things beyond the convention of a claim—it was a step above existence.

The starving ache in his body was gone. There was nothing but peace.

In a night of bloodshed, he'd found peace, and given it back in spades. He felt purified thoroughly. The past was gone; forgiven. His hands were no longer stained. That was over. That life was over, but more than just a simple statement or an understanding.

The claim had changed things he hadn't anticipated. The claim had washed away the sins of his colorful past. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew. This was a new order. This was a new everything. The world was bright and dark, soft and harsh, cold and hot all at once. He felt more connected to the earth than he ever had before, and where his skin touched Buffy's, he reveled in absolute peace.

There would still be blood on the church tomorrow, but the hands of the demon were clean.

For the first time in a hundred and twenty years, his hands were clean.

He belonged. He was in the bed of his mate, of the woman he loved, and he belonged.

Peace. For now, for a few hours, she needed the comfort of sleep. The fight wasn't over. They still had the reality of the night's sins to face. But not now. The philosopher within him retreated. While the town came back to life, he and his mate would rest.

Curled in each other's arms in a world made new, they would rest.

To be continued in Chapter Twenty-Six: These Loving Arms...