Warning: The following chapter is not romantic. Some have found it disturbing.

BUFFY: This just can't be me, it isn't me. Why do I feel like this? Why do I let Spike do those things to me?
        Dead Things
 

    Spike stood as if he’d been slapped.

    A pained and guttural moan came from behind Drusilla’s closed door. Buffy knew Dru had just bitten her doll. Spike’s lips twitched, and she saw his hand come into a fist. He stood breathing hard for a few moments, and then pointed at Buffy without looking in her direction. “You. Come here.” He pointed to the spot in front of him, still facing Dru’s closed door, where the sounds were becoming less distinct, but more frequent.

    Buffy took a deep breath and came to him.

    “Take your shirt off,” he said as she stood before him.

    Buffy only blinked at him. “Take. Your. Shirt. Off,” he said coldly. “Now!” the last word was a bark, and Buffy almost did it. She flinched. She felt very weak and vulnerable without the strength and power of a slayer, and she would have been lying if she’d said Spike did not scare her out of her wits. It was instinctive, the body itself fearing him, more than her mind.

    “You don’t have to play it that way,” Buffy made herself say.

    She half expected him to snap her neck without another word. “Are you arguing with me?” Spike barked. It was angry, but at least his torso was no longer frozen solid in shock.

    “Are you going to kill me for it?” Buffy asked.

    “I might,” he snarled.

    “You don’t have to order me about,” Buffy said. “I’m already yours.” She decided to show him how much she meant that. She went down to her knees and reached for his jeans. He did not stop her as she unzipped him, and reached for his cock.

    It was soft and disinterested, as wounded by Dru as his neck was. Buffy wished Dru hadn’t interrupted their moment earlier. She’d been getting to him. If she’d had just a few more minutes....

    No good regretting it now. She’d have to play it differently. She wasn’t aroused herself, either. The whole thing seemed scripted, like a scene from a play, and she was not in character. Still.... She took his soft cock into her mouth, sliding back the foreskin with her hand so she could caress him easily at the same time. He still tasted the same – cool clean vampire skin, just a hint of stale cigarettes. He stood very stiffly at first, and then slowly seemed to relax as she turned some of his pain into pleasure. He wasn’t even fully hard yet when he pulled away though, not even giving her the time she needed to play any of the tricks she knew. He went to the table and pulled a cigarette out of a package there. “Open up the sofa,” he said conversationally, and he perched on the table to watch her. As Buffy went to do so he regarded her, taking careful puffs now and then. “So, we know you’re willing,” he said. “But stubborn. Am I supposed to beat that out of you?”

    “Well, I can’t stop you if you choose to, can I?” Buffy asked. “But I was hoping for something else.”

    “The girls who agree to this all have their own reasons,” Spike said. “What are yours?”

    “I told you,” Buffy said. “I told you what I want. You know what I’m willing to do.”

    “Yeah, but why are you willing to do it? You’ve old needle scars, but no bites, so you’re not a blood-junkie as far as I can tell. You’re thin, but not starving, and you followed me here. I didn’t seek you out. You have some idea what I’m after from you. Someone done this to you before?”

    “No,” Buffy said. She found the sofa-bed already mostly made up, so she straightened the sheets and blankets. They were clean, but there were old bloodstains on both. Spike indicated the closet with his cigarette, so Buffy opened it. Four pillows were on the top shelf of the closet, and Buffy pulled them down. More bloodstains on the pillow cases. This bed was for blood games. She didn’t want to think about how many girls had died there....

    The rest of the closet caught her attention, though. A black leather spiked collar with a lock on it sat open on what was clearly a large dog bed. The heavy collar was attached by a thick chain to a bolt on the wall, which did not look at all like it would come undone with mere human strength or ingenuity. It would take power tools. Buffy swallowed, knowing she’d have to spend some time in that closet, helpless and chained, with a mad vampire, a sadistic demonic killer, and a self-deluded pervert. Not to mention the minions in the hall. She suddenly felt very helpless and alone. Spike, she thought again, calling to that disembodied soul, but she didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t know if she was asking for strength, or making a promise.

    She took a deep breath and carried the pillows to the sofa bed, arranging them nicely. “Well done,” Spike said, with a touch of irony.

    “Does he spend any time in there?” Buffy asked. She was ashamed at how quiet and frightened her voice was.

    “What?”

    “Dru’s doll.”

    “No. He has his own kennel,” Spike said. “I don’t really like her taste in toys.”

    “I could tell,” Buffy said softly.

    Spike snuffed out his cigarette in a well used ashtray. The sounds of Dru and her doll were rhythmic, now, and clearly Spike found them distracting.

    “Why don’t you kill him?” Buffy asked.

    He looked up at her. “She sulks,” Spike said. “Dru gets what she wants. If she wants to kill you, I’ll let her,” he added.

    Buffy swallowed. She was going to have to do her best to stay out of Dru’s sight. “But otherwise, I belong to you?” she asked, nervous.

    “Until I kill you. Yeah.” He came up to her and touched her hair, examining it more than fondling it. He was still unsure about her. His hands smelled of cigarettes, and a soft, feminine soap. Dru’s shampoo. “You can call me Sir.”

    Buffy choked back a laugh. “No.”

    Spike looked at her in surprise. “No?”

    “No,” she said. “It’s silly. You don’t even want me to.”

    “No?” he asked again.

    Buffy came up to him, and he moved his hand between them to stop her. He was seriously on his guard. “Come on,” she said, trying to make her voice heady. “You don’t want me thinking about some random ‘sir’ like I was just a mindless thing, bought and sold. You don’t want it not to matter whose arms I’m in. Who it is that I belong to.”

    She touched the hand that held her away, caressing it sensuously. “Wouldn’t you rather I was just here... thinking about you... wanting only you... your name heavy on my lips. Spike.” She let the word linger as she gently moved his hand aside. “Spike.... Spike....” She reached up for his murderous mouth, willing herself hungry for him, hungry to get back to him as she knew him, and to try and touch as much as she could of him as he was. “Sspii-ke...” she hissed into him.

    She found him hesitating. “I don’t usually let–” She pushed forward anyway, knowing she was charging him – or she would have been, if he was the Spike she knew. “Dru is... Dru sa....” He was breathing hard.

    “You keep your name for her,” Buffy realized. “So when she finally calls out ‘Spoike,’ you can feel it’s really all about you. But I know who you are. I’m not wasting my time with you calling you only sir. You’re worth more than that...William.” She said the last word in an almost silent whisper. She moved for a real kiss.

    He made a small noise of surrender, and then stopped cold. “How... do you know that name?” He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her head back, glaring into her face, but his eyes didn’t match the grimness of the rest of his expression. He was panting with arousal. She’d almost gotten to him. He was just so bitter right now, so guarded. “Where did you hear it?”

    “In my heart,” Buffy said. “It knows who you really are. It knows all your names.”

    He didn’t want his heart touched, she knew. He didn’t want to feel anything for her. He wanted her to be a receptacle for his bitterness and his pain, something to pour his jealousy into as Dru gave her attention to another. But Buffy knew she’d be nothing but a meal if she let him do that. She had to reach inside him and find his tender heart, reach the spot where there should be a soul, and make the hollowness ache for her. “Who do I belong to, Spike?” she asked. “Tell me who I belong to.”

    “Me,” he said darkly. “You’re mine. You belong to me, you’ll do what I want.”

    “Yes. Spike. I will.” She stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Whatever you want. Whether you say it or not.” She nibbled on his earlobe. “I know what you really want. Just let me show you.”

    He pulled away, swallowing. “I don’t trust you.”

    “If I betray you, you’ll kill me instantly. I know that. I’m helpless before you, you fiend,” she said with a bit of a smile. She knew he’d programmed that phrase into his Buffy-robot a long time ago... or a long time from now, if she thought about it.

    “Why, when you say it, does that sound like a joke?” Spike asked.

    Buffy grinned wide.

    “You look like you think it’s a joke, too,” Spike said, his eyes hard. He grabbed her hair and yanked her down onto the bed, half covering her with his own body. “This isn’t a joke, you know. This is life and death.” He glared down into her face. Buffy tried to quell her grin. She knew his face. His anger was tempered, heavily, by lust. She didn’t just read it in his eyes – Buffy could feel his erection on her thigh. “And from this point on, your life, and your death, both, belong to me.”

    Buffy moved her shoulders evocatively. “Then show me,” she said.

    He hesitated for only a second, and then finally kissed her. Buffy kissed him back, passionately, enough teeth to count as carnivorous, clenching his shoulders with her hands, devouring him as he devoured her. She knew exactly how he liked to be kissed, and he pulled away, startled. He looked down on her in confusion, surprised by her ardour, and then kissed her again, experimentally. She kissed him back again, just as deeply as before. Her skill clearly disturbed him. Buffy knew his kiss, knew how to please him. That troubled him.

    Troubled, he decided to take control. He pulled away and held her down with one hand while he reached up under her skirt with the other. He found and ripped the crotch out of her fishnets, tore open her underwear, and reached inside her with two fingers. Buffy was startled at the sudden – she didn’t want to think the word attack, because she’d pretty much asked him to, in so many words. But it was very sudden, anyway. She was very, very glad Sarah hadn’t been a virgin. She hadn’t thought so, but now she was sure.

    Spike held her by her cunt, his thumb firmly on her clit, and he moved his hand to see what her reaction would be. She trembled a bit, but shook off her discomfort – it was only from being startled, after all. She tensed around his fingers and thrust upward, letting her breath come hard, her eyes flicker for him. He regarded her for a moment, his face suspicious. “Well come on, bad boy,” Buffy said, and again, it came out sounding like a joke. Probably because it was. It was easier to think about it all that way, a game she was playing with her long-term lover. She didn’t let herself think about the fact she probably couldn’t say no. If she didn’t want to say no, the fact that she couldn’t didn’t matter.

    She was the one who had walked into this. Life was worth it. Spike was worth it. He had to be, or she’d been making a mistake the whole time, anyway. Buffy reached down and caressed the front of his jeans. He was still hard. It was obvious.

    Spike seemed to lose patience then, pulled his hand back, and fully unbuttoned his jeans. Without bothering to undress, he pulled his cock out and plunged it into her, nothing gentle or seductive about it. His head was at least two feet away, and he studied her as he thrust. He was utilizing her, as if she were a tool for his pleasure, not a person. Not even a victim.

    And Buffy knew she had to let him.

    Strangely, she didn’t hate it, as she’d feared she would. It was still Spike. She could see the man she loved in every movement he made, every flash of his eyes, every twitch of his expression. But he was so young, so impulsive, and so very confused by her. She suddenly realized, he was frightened of her. Not for his heart, and not for his person, but for whatever she meant. He didn’t understand her, and that frightened him. But he was intrigued, now. So long as she didn’t give him a reason to kill her, he was going to wait this out, and see what she brought him.

    What she brought him, or what she tried to bring him, was acceptance. Despite the emotionless, callus thrusting that he was almost inflicting upon her, Buffy reached up for him and caressed the back of his neck, carefully avoiding Dru’s scratches. She let her hands squeeze his shoulders, and she thrust up into him, enjoying his body. It was the same body, the same cock. She recognized it. Even without his soul, even without their history, even with her in the wrong body, he felt like himself. Spike let her fondle him, without bending any closer, no trust in his eyes. Then he reached up – still thrusting – and took hold of her right arm. He bent her elbow, brought her wrist to his mouth, and turned his face dark. He bit into the vein at her wrist and sucked, and sucked, and sucked.

    Buffy groaned, and tensed. “Ow!” she gasped. It hurt a lot. It felt like he was bruising her, and it ached all the way up her arm. She knew the tension of her pain was probably feeling pretty good around his cock, but most of her enjoyment had been killed by it. “Ow!” The second one came out a whimper.

    Spike let go her arm and looked down on her with blood on his lips. “Does it hurt?” he asked through his fangs.

    “You know it does,” Buffy said, without accusation. Then she thrust her hips up against him, and wrapped her legs around him. She grunted and pulsed under him, trying to bring the pleasure back into her body, and he stared at her in blank confusion. “You’re trying to hurt me,” she said then.

    Spike regarded her for a long moment, as if waiting for her to protest more. She only let him keep pushing into her, and trying to push back, despite the fact that her arm felt like it was in a vice grip, even without the pressure of his mouth.

    After a while, Spike took her arm back, and Buffy waited for the pain to increase. It didn’t. Not gently, but very completely, Spike licked the wound he had made, kissing it deliberately, activating the local anaesthetic, if not the euphoria. Buffy sighed, and almost smiled, and arched her hips. The cessation of pain almost made her come. “Spike,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

    His thrusts redoubled, and he ground into her quickly, almost perfunctorily. She felt him grow harder within her, then he grunted, tensing above her as he came. He pulled out of her then, his face back to normal, and looked down at her. He was still breathing hard, but nothing intense. This had been another test. She had no idea of she had passed or failed.

    She hadn’t come. It was the only time Spike had ever bedded her without making doubly or triply sure of it. He pulled away and looked down at her, regarding her, her hands, her clothing, her eyes. He stared into her eyes for a long moment, suspicious. The sun had fully risen by now, and the sounds from the other room had faded. “Go to bed,” Spike said, cold, but not ungentle.

    Buffy swallowed and nodded, looking up at him with eyes she hoped were accepting of his coldness. She knew she had to keep thinking of him as wounded, not cruel, or she’d never find her way through this. She rolled off the bed and crept into the closet, meekly taking her position on the dog bed. She felt like she wanted to cry, but her eyes were dry. This wasn’t her Spike, dismissing her like this. There was no love for her at all in this creature. She was just a thing to him.

    She realized how very painful it must have been, back when she’d used to call him a thing, and not a person.

    Spike followed her and set the collar around her neck. The leather was softer than she’d been expecting, and he didn’t buckle it tightly, but it was very noticeable. Every movement of her head told her that she was bound, and she was his. Her hair caught on the spikes. The lock clicked, and unless she found something very sharp to cut the leather in this closet – unlikely – she was trapped until he chose to let her out. Spike pocketed the key and stood to leave her.

    “Spike, could I....” She looked up at him, and she knew her eyes were shining. “Would you get me some water? Please?”

    He regarded her silently.

    “You know I need it, if you’re going to keep feeding from me,” she said.

    He turned away without a word, but a minute later she heard the sink running. Soon Spike returned with a large whiskey bottle, refilled with water, which he set by her door.

    “Thank you, Spike,” she whispered.

    She wasn’t really thirsty. Yes, she needed to keep hydrated, and yes, he knew that, but she had asked him only to make him do something for her. It was an investment, no matter how small, that he had now made in her. It made her belong to him more in his mind, made her more of a pet, less of a thing. Someone he had to take care of.

    It was a step.

    He turned away and took off his safety pinned black shirt, crawling into the sofa bed he’d just fucked Buffy on. Not into bed with Drusilla. Buffy made a quick glance around her “kennel” and noted a terra cotta pot with a lid in the corner. It looked like something to cook chickens in, but given Spike’s Victorian roots, it was most likely intended as a chamber pot. So at least she wasn’t going to be stuck if she needed the facilities. She took an obvious swallow of his offer – the water still tasted faintly of whiskey, which meant if nothing else that it was probably sterile – and curled up on the dog cushion, bunching a corner up to support her head. She lay and stared at Spike on his sofa bed, wide awake. Regarding him.

    Spike turned and realized she was staring at him. She looked shyly away for a moment, and then looked back. Think of him as you know him, she told herself. Think of his heart. Think of his soul. Think of his devotion. Don’t let this purely demonic past destroy the man you know and love with all your heart. See him properly.

    Spike gazed back at her for a long, long while, regarding her unabashed eyes. After a long while, he sat up. Buffy wondered if he was going to shut the closet door, so she’d be forced to stop looking at him.

    Instead he crossed the room and opened a trunk there. He pulled something out and came back to her. She thought at first he might be about to release her collar, but no. He had brought her a blanket. He draped it round her shoulders and sat back on his heels.

    Buffy pulled the offering close around her. “Thank you,” she whispered.

    He said nothing for a long moment. “‘Night, pet,” he said then. He climbed back into his bed and turned his back on her. Within a few moments, he was asleep.