Title: Offerings
Author: OneTwoMany
Email: onetwomany@bigpond.com
Summary: The intensity of his love terrifies her. She thinks she doesn't want that kind of responsibility. Knows she doesn't deserve it. Wonders if she has anything to offer in return.
Otherwise known as, "My Contribution to Bub and Ceit's Bitey Fanfic Challenge".
Dedication: To everyone on Fanforum. You guys rock! And especially to BubonicPlague1348, for the confidence-boosting support, and BuffyX, for being a kick-ass beta if ever there was one.
Spoilers: Through Showtime
Rating: I'm somewhat unsure of US ratings, but likely an R all up. This part is PG-13.
Archiving: Want. Take. Have. But I'd love it if you dropped me a line so I can go check you out.
Feedback: Yes please. Email me: Onetwomany@bigpond.com, or feel free to PM me on FF, where I post as 'Sabre'.
Disclaimer: Not mine, and I'm not worth suing.

Chapter 6


It's the first time that she's really kissed Spike. Like, really, truly kissed him and meant it and been all there - mind, body and soul.

And, wow, it's good.

They start slowly, lips touching gently and softly, breaking apart after each brief contact and starting again. Quiet, tentative, taking the time just to get to know each other again. Licks and nips at that lush lower lip - who knew a male pout could be so enticing? Tastes just the tip of his tongue. Her hands run up and down his arms, his back, cup his cheek and the base of his neck. She can feel the warm, damp heat pool in her stomach trickle into her groin.

Time passes - seconds, minutes, Buffy's really not sure - and hands and lips grow bolder, more urgent. The spark of passion ignites quickly in her burning heart, spreads like wildfire across her body, enlivening every nerve. She feels alive - truly alive - the beat of her heart pounding through her body, the sound of her breathing deafening. There's a buzzing between her ears, and it grows louder and louder, becomes a roar as a tsunami of raw need rushes over her, ripping through the last of inhibitions and barriers and leaving her quivering, panting and desperate for more. Desperate for Spike.

Moaning what sounds, she hopes, like his name, Buffy grabs Spike's solid upper arms hard, pulls their bodies together, forces his mouth open and plunges her tongue inside. He growls beneath her, the low, rumbling sound vibrating through his body and into hers, teasing her already raw nerves into a frenzy of sensation. His tongue is smooth, wet, but sensual as velvet. He tastes of cigarettes and whiskey and all things deadly and dark.

He entwines his tongue with hers, strokes and fights in turn. Oh, his long, clever tongue, his wicked mouth. How she's missed this. How she's missed him. She deepens the kiss further; ups the passion a little more, allows their mouths and teeth and tongues to alternately conflict and caress; a reflection of the very nature of their clashing, contradictory relationship.

Never one to be left behind, Spike's reciprocating with equal need, pulling her into the nonexistent space between their bodies, clasping her with a strength no mortal man could ever hope to match. His body begins to vibrate enticingly as he makes that low, growly noise deep in his throat that he must know turns her on. The hairs on her arms bristle in response and she feels a flood of liquid between her legs, the duality of her slayerness laid bare as her body both craves and rejects that which is so obviously not quite human.

It's lust that wins out easily as Spike's knowing fingers trace up her arm, into her hair, along her back and then down her arm again; wrist to shoulder once, twice, then a third spine-tingling, limb-melting time. Her arms are soft and pliable as he finds her hand with his, squeezes gently, the sensation rippling up her jellied nerves. She squeezes in response, kisses him that little bit deeper. This sexy handholding is fast becoming their "thing."

She feels him raise their joined hands, pull them into the spare space between their breasts. He places them over her pounding, over-worked heart, then pulls back from her mouth to meet her gaze. His crystalline eyes are nearly black, pupils wide and dilated, but shot with flashes of rippling gold. Man and demon in one, so very much the essence of her Spike. He holds her eyes for another second, his look all intense devotion and tenderness, and then drops his gaze to where their fingers lie intertwined on her rapidly rising and falling chest.

"Source of both our lives," he whispers quietly, voice ragged but powerful all the same.

Her heart skips a beat, pounding out its agreement beneath his touch. Blood to blood, her life to his, a bond forged in battle and pain and sharing healing. But she's lost for anything to say, be it profound or mundane, and so she goes the action route again. Leaning into him, she captures their hands between them as she twists her free hand into his hair and kisses him with everything she has. She hopes that he can feel her wholehearted agreement, her acceptance of their bond and partnership, even if she can't quite say the words yet.

Spike's trapped hand releases hers, his palm opens to caress her breasts, her ribs, then down her flank to the small of her back. A path of fire smolders on her skin in its wake. His other hand still grasps her upper arm, fingers digging into her skin with a near-brutality born of urgency and need and inhuman passion. A sudden flash of movement, tight muscles flexing, and he pulls her into his lap as she climbs closer to him herself, determined to eliminate every unwelcome inch of space between them.

Clasping each other, bodies melded together like this, hands exploring and chests pounding, it's vividly, evocatively reminiscent of their coupling the night before. She can feel her blood pulsing through her again, beating at the covered holes in her wrist, moving with such urgency that it is heating to near boiling beneath her skin. The bite marks, the nerves down her arm, even the already-fading scar on her neck, tingle in expectation and her body shudders dramatically at the memory. Something within her cries out for more.

Unbelievable, she thinks distractedly, that they'd never tried the biting before. She'd allowed him to penetrate her in every other way, with cock and tongue and clever hands, through his darkened, tempting gaze and slick, smooth words, but never with his fangs. He must have thought about it. Had he been afraid of her reaction if asked? That she'd say "no"? Or maybe that she'd say "yes".

She thinks that if he had dared ask, she probably would have let him. He would have gotten quite a surprise. God, if he asked now...

It's not just the physical, although that was fantabulously satisfying. She's simply never been so close to anyone before, never opened up and let anyone that far in. Closeness is good. She knows that now. Wants to create it again, and again, and again. No more fears, no more hiding...

Buffy's thought processes fizzle out again as Spike scoops her up, turns their bodies over and settles her against the soft, wood of the porch. It groans slightly beneath them, and her hyper-sensitive body can feel the grain of the wood beneath her, smell the slight dampness and the worn lacquer that coats the boards. He positions himself across her possessively, holding her down with his slight weight. It's familiar, and comforting, but way too polite. She grabs his hips and hauls him fully on top of her. He doesn't resist, indeed shifts for maximum contact. They both gasp as he presses his hardness against her softness, as she yields and bucks beneath him.

Their combined sounds are exceptionally loud in the still, night air, and seem to echo through the trees, bounce off an air so thick with passion that it's almost tangible. Spike breaks the kiss to stare at her in alarm, but right now, Buffy can't bring herself to care. It's late and, besides, what's one more spectacle for the neighbors? God knows this place is freak show enough. Filled to the brim with the weird and wonderful and not-so-unique. Filled, too, with duty and solemnity and things that, for this moment, she'd rather just forget in favor of making out with her boy on the porch.

Determinedly, Buffy raises one leg and wraps it around Spike's, pulling him as close as she can. An instant later, he reaches down, runs his hand along her thigh and then pulls her other leg into the same position. Yes. Good, good, good. She pushes herself up against him, and he starts to grind himself into her, pointedly, almost desperately, swallowing her escalating moans with a brutally intense kiss. She responds by running her hands down the plane of his back, over his tight, hard ass and then back up, under the T-shirt,t-shirt, pushing the fabric up as she goes. Spike's skin is cool and dry, familiar in its difference to her own. Her hands are drenched with sweat, red and flushed against his milky white.

Spike continues to push himself against her, eliciting shocks up her back and tremors through her limbs. His fingers continue to trace a line up the muscles of her thigh, under her skirt, drawing small circles on her skin.

Only to draw to a trembling halt on her hip.

Spike's not quite sure how it came to this. Wonders if perhaps he really is still dreaming that there's a hot, trembling Slayer beneath him, holding him close, wanting him near, allowing him to tease her, and love her and touch her with everything he is. No, not a Slayer. The Slayer. His Slayer. His Slayer, letting him kiss her with love and tenderness and passion, kissing him back like she really means those same things too. Like she doesn't just want this, but wants him.

It's a dream, it's gotta be a dream. Except it can't be, because not even in his most glorious delusions has he imagined anything quite like this.

It's good. Beyond good. Splendid. Marvelous. Bleedin' fantastic.

Totally, fucking terrifying.

Her closeness, the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her, wet and ready and willing beneath him, the knowledge that she wants him, the concern in her eyes. It's almost too much, and he's losing control.

His dick is achingly, painfully hard, his hands are trembling, his balls feel like lead and he is seriously scared that he is about to come in his pants for the second time in twelve hours. Fuck this, what was he? Eighteen again? Or even twenty-five? A trembling virgin who got off on the thought of Cecily's décolletage and the stocking clad ankles of the daringly dressed New Women? A pathetic child in a demon's body, desperate and sad and liable to do anything for love... No, not again. Never that again.

Suddenly, he needs to stop. Needs to take control, to think. Needs to make sure she wants this, that she's okay with this after...after what happened. Before. Needs to take this somewhere else, someplace not rushed or urgent. Need to not shag her on the porch beneath her sister's bedroom window.

But also needs to do this now, to finish what they've started before he literally bursts.

Needs to do anything, really, but lie here paralyzed with his hand up the Slayer's skirt.

Buffy makes his decision for him, takes control, but thankfully softly, gently not in the General-like manner she's been adopting lately.

"Spike? What's wrong?" she asks calmly, as she stills her hands. Her beautiful face is as open as he's ever seen it, and even the shadows can't hide the warmth and concern that radiate from her. Nor, if truth be told, the slightly worried, anxious look in her eyes.

What isn't?

Spike swallows hard, concentrates on taking control of his willful, rebellious body.

"Buffy...this, this is wrong. Me here, like this, after...everything that's happened. It's too much...I don't deserve...I mean, we need time."

He feels Buffy's body relax beneath him, the sudden tension draining from her limbs again. Her hand resumes its passage up and down his back, stroking more gently this time, and he feels nerves settle in response to her touch. When she speaks again, her voice is even, steady and comforting. It's so long since anyone has spoken to him in such a way, probably just as long since Buffy has spoken to anyone at all like that.

"We've been over this Spike. I forgive you. You forgive me. Time to move on." Reaching up, she kisses him again, then adds with a teasing smile, "Yadda, yadda, yadda."

Yes, move on. Move on. Move on to the sex, which they're so good at, and then move past it and onto something more this time, too. And, oh, how he wishes he could box up all those fears and regrets and leave them by the roadside as he rides away. But letting go of the past is always so difficult, and he clings to emotional mementos like a drowning man clings to a thrown rope.

Spike drops his head to Buffy's shoulder, rests his face in the hollow of her neck. Buffy's skin beneath his nose is soft and smooth and smells of soap and sweat and lingering body lotion.

"Just never thought we'd get this far again," he admits. It's almost a sob, and he can't believe how pathetic he sounds; how pathetic he is, lying here between the slayer's legs, surrounded by the sweet scent of her arousal, and blubbering like a baby.

Get a grip, mate.

Now.

He gently nuzzles deeper into the area between her clavicle and her neck as he concentrates on recapturing control over his traitorous body. He's almost there, when her next question gives his precariously balanced emotional equilibrium a vicious push.

"Is it different?" she asks quietly. "This? You know... with a soul?"

Spike raises his head abruptly, stares at her. For a moment, the need to protect himself is sharp and intense, and he's tempted to lie. To say what the lady-killing Big Bad should say. But he can't, he's so tired of pretending, and the honest truth tumbles out unbidden.

"I... So far? Yeah, I would think... well, not the mechanics, don't think, but maybe the connection... I mean, never burst into tears before...." He draws a shuddery breath, decides to just come clean. "I'm not rightly sure. Least, not yet."

A second later, Buffy's eyes widen with surprise as the full purport of which he just said hits her.

"You mean, you've never? With a soul?" She nearly squeaks out the question.

He sucks his cheeks in. Opened a potential can o' worms now, another reason for her pity. But what's the point in denying it? Better to make a bit of a boon out of it, maybe. He forces his lips into what he hopes passes for a sexy smirk.

"Like that, wouldn't you slayer?" he asks. "Getting to deflower the Big Bad and all?"

She doesn't bat an eyelid. "Maybe I would."

He can't help it, she's too adorable and plucky, so sexily coy that he just has to laugh. A second later, and she's giggling too, burying her face in his shirt to muffle the sound or wipe the tears. He's not sure what's so funny, and isn't convinced that she is either - unless she's cracking up at how totally ridiculous he is, which is a likely if somewhat disconcerting possibility.

Doesn't really matter, though, not when it feels as good as this. Not when she's actually happy. Happy with him.

Finally, she pulls back from him, captures his eyes with a warm, open gaze.

"Spike, I want you. Okay? The rest? So over it. But we don't have to do anything. Not if you don't want to."

"Want to do everything...but take things slowly, yeah?"

She nods. "Can do. I think."

He shoots a quick look up at the bedrooms above them. "And maybe also take things elsewhere?" he adds as an afterthought.

"Good idea." She says as she pushes him off her gently, climbs to her feet and then offers him her hand. "C'mon Spike, let's go to bed."

Bed.

The word has an instant effect on him, and he can feel the blood rush south as the words escape her lips. Her bed, her room. Finally her lover. He feels like he's about to faint from the happiness. Or maybe just from lack of blood in the brain. He's so completely, painfully hard that he doubts there's any blood left for any other functions.

Grasping his hand in hers, Buffy leads him inside, and he follows her as always. Will follow her to the ends of the Earth; would walk there himself if she ordered. Still, he's not sure how he makes it up the stairs, not when he's this hard and high and Buffy's firm little ass is swinging mere inches from his face. It's a matter of concentration, he tells himself, of putting one foot in front of the other, of not tripping and making an even bigger ponce of himself than he already has.

Once the landing is reached, it's a dozen quiet steps down the carpeted hallway until he finds himself standing paralyzed and mute in her bedroom doorway for the second time in just three nights. Releasing his hand, Buffy busies herself turning down the covers. The new sheets are pale and blue, the quilt-cover an intricate quasi-patchwork, the kind of cheap but attractive thing you picked up at the local Home Decor. Spike chooses not to dwell on how he knows that.

The scent of two slow-burning sandalwood candles covers the faint aroma of his vampire and pigs' blood. Did she light them in preparation for tonight? It causes a shiver of pleasure to think that she did. The Slayer; his seductress.

As she turns back to him, Buffy pulls the band from her hair, lets the golden waves fall over her shoulders. It's possibly the most erotic thing he's ever seen. He's suddenly not exactly sure what he's meant to be doing.

"Buffy?"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she stands, walks back to him, runs her hands down his cheeks and up on tippy-toes, kisses him. Kisses his nose, his eyes, his cheeks and forehead, everywhere she can reach. He tries to capture her lips, misses, and ends up kissing her cheek, then her temple. They break away and smile, the look on her face happy and indulgent. She's glowing.

The air crackles with nervous expectation.

"Welcome home, Spike," she whispers gently, and his unnecessary breath hitches in his throat at her words. Maybe, finally, he's found a place where he belongs.

He's not exactly sure how, but they manage to stumble back to the bed, and she pulls him down next to her, runs her hand down his cheek and leans in for another kiss. This time, they get it right again. They set a slightly different pace now, long, languid kisses, slow and deep. He can still sense the blood pounding under her lips, through her veins, and his demon rumbles within him. But there is no longer the same agonizingly frantic energy that there was before, the same need for instant gratification. He can be gentle now; there's no contest between them, less urgency. It's a new kind of dancing, the intricate movements of partners with all the trust and time in the world. Gonna take it slow, accordingly. Prove that he's good for more than a quick fuck in an alley, or a fast screw on the crypt floor.

Yeah, gonna prove he's as good at this with the soul as without. Damn good.

He moves to kiss her cheek, teases the hot, flushed skin with lips and tongue. He continues down the sensitive underside of her chin and neck, before gently pushing aside her hair and running the tip of his tongue up the side of her neck, drawn to the quivering pulse point and the messy scar. She hums at his touch, a low, rich sound that starts deep in her throat and reverberates through her entire body. He nips at her skin with blunt teeth in response, tries not to think about the others who marked her, and stamps hard on his demon as it screams its jealousy and anger. Who cares what Angel got to do to her when she was a kid? It's he who's here now, he who she is clutching to her and bucking beneath.

Possessively, he slides a hand down her ribs, over her tummy and hipbones, and then lower still. She gasps when he runs his fingers along the delicate crease between leg and torso, and then over her skirt until he reaches the naked skin above her knee. Her skin is fire to his ice, river to his desert, a clash of opposites drawn together beneath the potent power of an electrical, emotional storm. He grabs her knee for a moment, as much to steady himself as to seek contact with her, and then boldly runs his hand back under her skirt, along the top of her thigh.

Warrior's legs, she has, toned and strong. He can feel her taut muscles quiver and jump beneath her soft, womanly skin. Steel encased in silk, that's his woman. His hand moves higher, and he's slightly surprised but overwhelmingly pleased, to find that the skin between her thighs is already heavy, slippery with delicious moisture. She's ready for him, wants him, and he isn't about to disappoint her.

Her eyes open and meet his and he gently tickles the warm skin on the inside of her thigh, then higher along the silken edge of her panties and the so-soft skin that lies outside. Her eyes dilate, lips part, and she shifts and widens her legs a little further in response to his attentions. Boldly, he runs his finger over her sodden panties, and she gasps and jumps at his touch, gasps and grips his arms. He smirks, proffers a few more quick strokes, and then grabs the delicate fabric and yanks it away. It gives easily, leaving her bare beneath the skirt, and an intense wave of her arousal flows into the air around him.

"Hey, those were expensive!" she gasps.

Spike's allows his smirk to widen into a genuine grin, then deliberately brings the sodden dark green lace to his nose and inhales deeply. Essence of Slayer, dizzyingly rich and potent aroma. Fires his brain better than the best absinthe.

"Much appreciated, pet," he says, before throwing what is left of the garment onto the bedroom floor. Makes a note to collect it later.

Buffy answers him with a patented Summers' eyeroll, but it's offset by a devilish grin of her own. He stares as she runs her hands down her lace blouse, pulling the material tight over her breasts, then clasping the hem teasingly. He swallows hard, licks his lips, as she begins to pull the clothing up, revealing a swath of golden skin stretching across sharp hipbones and sensuous, defined stomach. She's beautiful - did he really forget how much? - and the need to touch every inch of her is suddenly overwhelming. He reaches for her again, and she shudders as he caresses the skin above the hem of her skirt, then runs his hands up her flanks and over her ribs, chasing the teasing path revealed by the escaping blouse. His hands are still slicked from his earlier explorations, and his touch leaves a slight trial of her own arousal on her already sweat-coated body.




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