She’d woken up in shock, sunlight streaming through the remains of the building. Buffy knew she was a strong girl - even before she’d been the Slayer, she’d landed back handsprings in gymnastics and double axels at the ice rink - but this was ridiculous. Buffy Summers, White Hat, had brought down the house with a creature painted in shades of grey.

Clouds gathered as Buffy fled Spike’s mocking voice and too blue eyes. California sunshine transformed to Boston chill in a matter of minutes as a storm swept in from the coast. Her clothing, already tattered, quickly soaked up the downpour. The heel snapped off her left boot in an alley, but she couldn’t be bothered - or risk Spike catching up with her - to stop and repair it in the morning gloom.

Limping, wet through to the skin, and aware that she’d hastily shoved her underpants in her pocket and that her tank top stayed up only because the rain plastered it to her flesh, she felt utterly foolish.

“There should be a plural form of ridiculous,” she mumbled as she hurried towards Revello Drive. “Ridiculi. Many, multiple versions of the absurd, all right here piled up on top of each other.”

And yet home seemed tranquil. As if mom were alive, busy at her gallery after seeing her daughters off for an ordinary day of school where the toughest problems would be mathematical.

A note caught her eye. Dawn’s girlie-girl scribble.

Buffy,

Willow called, she’s helping Amy find a new place today. I went to school, y’know the place with the books and the lunchroom and the funny smells? I need $15 for my school trip by tomorrow and please, please, please remember that my parent-teacher meetings are next week.

Dawn

Fifteen dollars once seemed like spare change; now it represented a princely sum to a subsistence wage worker. A subsistence wage worker who, fortunately, still had hours to spare before suiting up in her hideous day glo orange pants and dead muppet headgear.

“Again, clearly a use for the word ridiculi.” Buffy yawned and headed up the stairs, stripping off her wet clothes and running a bath.

***

She woke with a start.

Her bath water had cooled from piping hot chocolate to icy lemonade.

Buffy pulled the stopper and stood, reaching for a towel. Combing knots from her hair and facing the mirror, she had to face facts. Or bruises. Her body always looked like a road map. Demon fists left dark continents on her flesh night after night. But this was different. She could still see the impressions of his fingertips on her thighs. Her fingers traced a purpling mark from where his blunt teeth had assaulted her breast.

Unbidden, the sensations from last night returned. The alternately tender and fierce strokes, the growls and moans - his and hers comingled. His hands, teeth, tongue everywhere. He’d been a relentless, reckless lover, happy to give her pain as well as pleasure. Hungry to meet her demands and not shy about his own.

If she were honest with herself, it was the most intense, erotic experience she’d ever dreamed. No, not a dream. His hands were flesh, reanimated dead flesh, maybe. But undeniably real.

Her eyelids drooped as her hands explored her body. How could she be aroused after their marathon? No matter. She let her fingers stray lower, grazing the curls at the juncture of her thighs, imagining that they were his instead.

In a corner of her mind, she heard the door open. Too early for Dawn and Willow wouldn’t disturb her. She slid her index finger over her clitoris, and then lower, to her wet and aching center.

Cool air flooded the room and she pulled away her guilty hands.

“Hmmm ... Slayer. Told you.”

Eyes locked on her own mirror reflection, she felt his presence, heard his voice, but couldn’t see him.

“A taste last night wasn’t enough, luv?”

She heard fabric, a button and a zipper come undone.

His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs stroking her erect nipples.

“How? How are you here?”

“Storm front’s moved in. Black as night outside.”

She couldn’t turn her head. As long as he was invisible, this couldn’t be real. He pressed his cock against her slippery folds, spreading her wide with a gentle nudge. In the abandoned house he’d been swift, but now he penetrated her inch by careful inch. A sharp intake of breath betrayed that his skin was as sore as her bruised flesh.

“Unnnh ...”

“Shh, pet ... I’ve got you. Arch your back.”

She complied and he swiveled his hips, burying himself inside.

“You’re tight. Swollen. Got me good, Slayer.”

“Ah!” she gasped in pain, tensing.

“S’alright, pet. Relax.” His hands kneaded the knots at the base of her spine, cool lips tracing a constellation of bruises and faint scars across her left shoulder. “Love this skin ... so golden.” His pace intensified from a gentle rocking to long, deep strokes.

Unthinking, Buffy’s hips reached for him, meeting every thrust. His invisible hands gripped her thighs, eclipsing the bruises his fingers left last night and making her flesh appear unmarred even as he inflicted new wounds.

Denim brushed against her legs, the zipper abrading the soft curves of her bottom with every movement. She felt him pull away just enough to remove his t-shirt and then press closer. She whimpered at the contact.

He blanketed her smaller form, one hand steadying his weight on the countertop, the other reaching around to rub against her clitoris.

She groaned at his touch, bucking her hips wildly now.

“That’s my girl. So hungry for me.” The husky whisper pushed her to the edge of her climax, but Spike had learned her body well the night before. He eased the pressure of his thumb just enough to delay fulfillment.

“No!” She protested, a throaty moan. “Spiiiike ...”

He slammed into her hard now, Buffy’s vials of makeup and girlie potions shaking on the countertop. She met his every move, eyes shut tight and breath heavy with abandon. Tiny contractions deep within signaled a crushing orgasm. She writhed, trying to intensify the friction between the pad of his thumb and her most sensitive flesh.

“That’s right, luv. Just like that, feel so good, baby.”

She heard his panted words, knew that it meant he was within seconds of his satisfaction. His generous fingers changed position, pressing and gliding over her nubbin, sending her over the edge.

A second later, he moaned and followed, spilling into her heated core.

“Buffy! Buffybuffybuffybuffy. God. Oh god.”

In a corner of her mind, it struck her as bizarre that he’d cry out for salvation and the thought broke her reverie. Spike rested his forehead on her shoulder in easy affection. Horrified, Buffy wriggled free of his body and edged away from him without so much as a glance.

“Buffy?”

“We can’t ... we can’t do this here.”

“What?” Pleasure still coursed through his body and a fog of satiated lust clouded his brain.

“We can’t.”

“Love, we just did.”

“Not here.”

“Then where, pet? My crypt? The Sunnydale Motor Lodge, maybe? I hear they rent by the hour if you tip the desk clerk. ‘Course, not sure that you’ll require the whole hour.” He sneered, but she refused to meet his face.

“Just ... we can’t. Not here, not there, not anywhere.”

“Dr. Seuss on fucking. Very original, pet.”

“Just go, Spike.”

“Tch. So much for the afterglow.” But he turned and stalked out, boots thundering down the stairs, front door slamming hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.

Buffy met her own reflection and turned, running for the window in her mother’s bedroom to watch him head down the sidewalk and into the grey morning.

***

4:45.

Grease bubbled and popped, coating the french fried potato products and turning them from suspect yellow to golden brown. Fries had been Buffy’s favorite for years. Now they were just one more way to feel pain, as stray grease splatter hit her wrist.

“Ouch!”

Her protest drew the shift manager’s notice. “Buffy? Everything okay?” She jerked her arm away quickly, but not before Lorraine could see the welts on her wrist.

“That didn’t happen here, did it?” Alarmed, the woman pulled on her employee’s arm, pressing down on bruise and burn alike.

“Again with the ouch! No, the bruises are from ... kickboxing. Sparring.”

“Uh-huh.” Lorraine was not convinced. She turned the heat down on the fryer, trying to meet Buffy’s gaze. “Are you sure you’re alright? Frank can cover for you if you need some time off.”

“No! No, I ... I’m fine.” And I need the money, she added silently to herself.

“If you’re sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. And I’ll be more careful.”

***

The downpour faded to a steady drizzle by the time Buffy headed home, crossing the divided highway and heading back into suburban Sunnydale. Passing Wells Fargo she remembered Dawn’s note.

“Withdrawal - checking - $20.00,” she mumbled as she went through the motions.

“Insufficient funds available. Please make another selection? Damn!” Buffy keyed in $15.00 this time and, to her relief, the machine hummed and cash appeared. So did her receipt, which revealed that she now had $4.87 to her name. And two days ‘til payday.

“Uh ... gimme your wallet.” Thoughts of financial peril faded as Buffy found herself face to fang with a fledgling.

“You’re gonna mug me?”

“Well. Yeah. That was the idea.”

“You’re a vampire.”

“So? Makes it tough to get an American Express card.”

“The undead pretty much leave home without it.”

The creature snarled and lunged for her wallet. Buffy dodged and landed a kick to his midsection instead.

“Speaking of leaving home without it ...” Somehow, her trusty stake wasn’t tucked into the back of her uniform pants tonight. “Guess it’s the old-fashioned way, then.” Before the vamp could rise, she landed on his chest, pummeling him with blows until he weakened. At last she twisted his head, breaking his neck with a satisfying snap.

“Great.” She wiped her hands on her uniform trousers. “Grease and vamp dust and ... ewww ...” Buffy flicked an unidentifiable glob to the pavement and turned towards home.

Last month’s Cosmo advised that, when having a bad day, one should list out one’s challenges, choosing an easily fixable problem to tackle before heading to bed. Since she couldn’t afford - or risk - psychotherapy, Buffy had adopted the strategy. One night she’d thrown out the dead ficus and flipped the sofa cushions to make the living room look as if Joyce were still in residence and on the job. Another night she’d cleaned out the refrigerator, discarding the aftermath of Dawn’s culinary experiments and making a list of healthy fruits and vegetables she’d buy on payday. But tonight her list was overwhelming. Her friends were drifting away into their happy little relationships, her sister needed cash and a mother and a new coat, her boss thought she was at least as daffy as the average fast food wage slave, her neighbors, well ... that hadn’t been right for years ...

And she still had one perilous part-time job to complete before she could sleep. “Find something fixable on that list, Helen Gurley Brown,” she murmured. And then it hit her - she could least she could change into something that made her less of a fashion Don’t.

With a Cosmo-worthy solution to the weight on her shoulders, she headed towards home.

***

An hour later she felt more like her old self. Willow and Dawn were watching a reality show on the couch, drinking Diet Coke like it wasn’t $3.98 a case on sale. And Buffy was the Slayer, clad in jeans, high heeled boots and a sweet top she’d found at Anthropologie marked down to $50, an “I’m not dead anymore” gift to herself.

“Making with the slayage, Buff?”

“Yeah. No rest for the weary. Not that I’m weary. Crazy how I can be zombie-Buffy at the fryer, but give me a normal, non-grease permeated environment, and I’m all new lease on life.” She forced a smile and headed for the door.

“Did you see my note?” Dawn didn’t quite make eye contact.

“Yeah. Your money’s on the counter.”

“Kay.” She popped another handful of popcorn into her mouth. Still no actual exchange of gazes. “Just in case you, y’know, don’t get home ‘til after I leave for school tomorrow.”

“That won’t happen. Promise. Last night was just a ... fluke. A one-time only, total loss of judgment and track of ...”

“No big.” The teenager’s attention was back on the tv screen full time. Willow’s had never really left.

“Okay. So I’ll see you both, um, later.”

***

Four graveyards and three underground caverns later and no vampires.

No demons.

Not a fledgling, not a tiny little Morglor pup, not even any Ghora eggs.

“Whole lotta nuthin’ to kill tonight,” Buffy said to herself as she surveyed the fifth cemetery from atop an oversized tombstone. Of course there was Restfield. Restfield was rarely quiet. It was Sunnydale’s original burying ground, plots still available among the marble crypts and resting places of the town’s founding fathers. It also stood between her and home, unless she took the long way around, detouring past the Sun and the Espresso Pump like most residents.

After all, sprawling Restfield was home to more than overpriced mausoleums and pretty stonework benches.

She resolved to head through the business district, maybe check out a few alleys. But her feet led her in the opposite direction.

***

Inches from the gates of Restfield, the night exploded.

Bursts of lightning illuminated the sky and the downpour from earlier returned, just as fast and twice as cold in the night air.

A pair of newly risen vampires stumbled into her path.

“Where were you earlier?” she accused the startled pair. “I’m out looking for the good fight two hours ago, but no ...” she landed a high kick to the taller vamp. “... you and your friend have to take your sweet time with the whole rising from the dead bit.”

The shorter vamp tried to run, but by then Buffy had her stake at the ready. Shorter stumbled over a grave stone. She straddled him and drove Mr. Pointy home. The vamp disintegrated, leaving Buffy on her knees. Taller tried to strike, but the Slayer leapt to her feet faster than the eye could follow. A second kick to Taller, this time straight to his gut.

“And now I’m muddy. Perfect. And I wonder why my washing machine breaks.” Taller threw a right hook. Buffy blocked it and countered with a left jab, sending the newborn falling. “Come on, up with you. I was so not Chosen to mud wrestle.”

The dazed vamp struggled to his feet and reached for the girl. Instead she whirled, a quick motion that brought her and her stake inches from his heart.

And then the vampire was gone, and Buffy headed towards home, pushing her soaked blonde hair back from her forehead and checking that her precious new shirt hadn’t been torn in the line of duty.

Which probably explained why the mud-slicked stone pathway sent her skidding. Cat-like reflexes only went so far. The Slayer landed with a graceless thud, smack on her ass.

When she looked up into icy rain, it was to discover three things.

One, a hand reaching out to help her. Unusual.

Two, the hand was connected to the creature that she’d spent her night avoiding. Disturbing.

Three, the creature was standing inside his warm and well-lit crypt, beckoning her inside. Despite her stated intentions, she’d landed on his doorstep.

And he, judging from his dry clothing and carefully arranged hair, had not been out looking for her.

Unacceptable, her inner voice screamed. But if she was honest, and she strived to be honest, her inner voice wasn’t sure if it was the proximity to his residence or his apparent lack of concern for her well being that fueled that last word.

She couldn’t take his hand, but she did push herself to her feet and step across the threshold.

***

A minute passed.

Twenty-four hours ago, she’d been throwing herself at him.

Twelve hours ago, he’d been taking her from behind. Him the aggressor, but her offering only token resistance.

“Just ... just until the rain stops,” she choked out.

“Whatever you say, Slayer.” He stood near the doorway, watching her from a safe distance. “But you do look ... wet.”

“No! I mean, yes ... a little. But ...”

He stepped closer, and then another step.

“Could do with a cup of hot tea? Maybe a towel?”

“Uh ...”

He was an arm’s length from her now. “That’s a nice top. A bit revealing for the workplace. Then again, expect it looks different in the bright light of day.” He extended his arm, reaching out to trace the delicate embroidered patterns with his ring finger.

It had seemed demure with sunshine streaming through the shop windows. Soaked through and seen by candlelight, the white blouse clung to her form. Hand-stitched swirls transformed to extravagant tattoos covering her upper body. Spike traced a design on her bicep, then moved to one on her shoulder.

“You should take it off.”

“Nuh – nnn - ”

He’d moved to trace a figure on her breast.

“No!” she finally gasped.

“I can’t guarantee I’m not going to tear it, pet.” His hands strayed to undo the delicate buttons.

“Stop, Spike. Just stop.”

He dropped his hands and backed away.

Buffy finished unfastening her shirt herself, then looked for a place to deposit it.

Spike gestured to a marble protrusion, originally designed to hold candles, but repurposed as a coat hook.

“Um ... thanks. It’s new.” She folded her arms to cover her thin tank top.

He quirked an eyebrow at her modest gesture, but she kept her arms crossed.

“Cold?”

She nodded.

“Come here.”

“I don’t ...”

“Not gonna ravish you against your will, Slayer. Just wanna get you dried off before you catch cold.” He turned to descend the stairs to the lower level and she followed, her inner voice insisting it was just for a towel. But her flesh still burned from where he’d traced designs across her skin.

***

Spike handed her a robe, an elaborate heavy silk affair, more smoking jacket than dressing gown.

“Is this for indulging your Hugh Hefner fantasies?”

“At the moment, it’s for keeping your skin and bones from expiring in my bedroom.”

“Your bedroom?”

Buffy glanced around the space. Thick carpets, a worn chaise, a battered dresser and, dominating the space, an impossibly large bed piled high with linens in shades of red and navy, burgundy and black, not matching but somehow inviting in the flickering shadows.

A brocade curtain draped across a corner and Buffy stepped behind it, eager to change out of her muddy jeans but equally unwilling to do so in front of her audience.

He stifled a laugh as she disappeared behind the curtain.

“Shut up, Spike,” she mumbled, depositing her wet socks and jeans on top of the hamper.

And then it struck her that a large wicker hamper belonged in her grandma’s laundry, not in the lair of the undead. Her eyes adjusted to the dark space. It wasn’t a bathroom in the House Beautiful sense, but a pipe jutted out from one wall, with a showerhead duct taped in place and plastic sheets draping three earthen walls to keep the space from crumbling in on itself. A hamper and an old table with a basin and stacks of towels and soaps atop filled out the room.

Drying off and slipping into the robe, she couldn’t help but sigh. Her hands pulled through her hair, straightening out the worst of the tangles. Nipples pebbled against the heavy silk and goosebumps covered her skin. It was the cold, she insisted, ignoring the fabric’s caress and the heady scent of her lover.

“Gonna hide in there, pet?”

With a gulp, she composed herself and tightened the belt.

“I was just drying off,” she apologized as she pushed the curtain back.

“Hmm,” he murmured speculatively. Her limbs were dry, true, but other parts of her had gone liquid again.

“So, you’ve got a shower?”

He smiled, almost a leer.

“Any chance you’ve got a dryer?”

“Sorry, Slayer. Creature comforts only go so far. ‘Specially in a low rent district like this.”

She perched on the edge of the chaise. “This looks more Park Avenue than Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You like?” An eager little smile crossed his lips.

Almost like a normal guy ... and that thought snapped her back to the real world. “No! I mean, it’s nicer than I expected, for a vampire’s crypt. But I don’t really approve of ... jewel tones.”

“Jewel tones?”

“Yeah. All the sapphire and ruby and gold, it’s oppressive.”

“As opposed to the virginal pastels in your boudoir.”

“Enough! Enough with the innuendo!” She stood, almost tipping the chaise over as she stalked towards him, standing in front of his bed. “I am not having sex with you again. Ever! That was just ... wrong. Just me, vulnerable and sad and confused. And lonely. And you, right there. It was a mistake.”

“Don’t recall mentioning any of that, love.”

“Please! I’m in your bedroom. Wearing your robe!”

“And, despite that, I’ve been the perfect gentleman.”

Buffy glowered.

“Within certain limits, of course. Look, you’re soaked. It’s still raining cats and poodles up above. Have a sit down, wait for the storm to let up.”

She nodded, biting her lip, and turned to reclaim the divan.

“I won’t, Buffy. If you don’t want ... I won’t.” His look was sincere, a small nod and a deep gulp punctuating the quiet phrase.

The gestures only made her pulse quicken.

Spike settled onto the foot of his bed, wincing from the strain of his erection against his button fly. Only her studied determination to look at him exclusively above the neck saved him further discomfort. But bloody hell! The sight of her drowning in his dressing gown, a souvenir from the 1920s, worn and frayed but still easily the most luxurious garment in his spare wardrobe, was enough to arouse any man. He took a few unnecessary breaths and forced himself to relax.

In ... out.

In ... out.

In ... and ... whoa!

Buffy had stood and was slowly untying the belt.

“Making this perfect gentleman routine a sight more difficult to maintain, love.”

She nodded, her eyes glazing over as she let the robe fall open.

Resistance was futile. In a half second, he’d crossed the carpet to stand in front of her form. His arms enfolded her, lips finding hers and hands exploring soft flesh under fabric.

Buffy’s hips arched insistently, and he eased her to the chaise, hands stroking from breasts to curve of hip to thigh, drawing her open. She writhed, a mute plea.

“S’okay, love, I know what you need,” he kissed and nipped at her inner thighs, impossibly gentle. Her hips bucked towards him.

“Patience, pet. It’s a virtue, doncha know?” He returned to his ministrations, feeling her settle, relaxing into the cushions, his robe still covering her arms and caressing her back.

Spike had a couple of talents, six things he could do better than anyone. He listed them mentally, attempting to maintain control as his lips explored her most tender flesh. One, outstanding thief. Two, excellent stalker and sneak. Master of the quick, clean kill. Once. Decent poker cheat. Four, five ... amazing pool shark. What else? He licked and nibbled and lathed her with his tongue, arousing but never fulfilling. She moaned, a low guttural moan. That’s it. He was doing the other thing he excelled at - and he directed his tongue to Buffy’s sopping wet pussy, his hands steadying her hips and opening her wide for him.

His tongue thrust, penetrating her with impossibly gentle strokes. She panted, clenching her thighs tight enough to snap his neck.

“Now, now pet ... just relax and let me do for you.” He eased her body back down, hands soothing with slow caresses. Her breathing slowed and he resettled himself between her legs. “You taste like honey, love. So sweet on my tongue,” he added two fingers, thrusting in a steady rhythm. “Can’t ever have enough of you, enough of your hot, luscious little quim,” he bent his head and blew cool air across her sensitive flesh.

Buffy wailed, and with a smile Spike darted his tongue out to rough her clitoris.

“More?”

“Unnnh ...”

“No, then?” His fingers kept pace, but his tongue retreated.

“Unnnh!”

“Another finger?” He inserted a third digit into her center, curling them inside just slightly.

“Oooooh!”

“You wanna come for me, beautiful girl? You wanna, don’t you? I can feel it.” His searching fingers were rewarded when she arched her hips, eyes opening wide. “Just say the word, pet and I’ll give you what you need.”

“Ahhh ...”

“That’s it, princess, my dearlingest, darlingest ... arch those pretty hips towards me.”

“More!”

“Not the word, love.”

Spike almost hated to watch her attempts to find The Word in her lust-addled brain.

Almost.

Buffy thrashed, forcing Spike to steady the divan with his free hand. He added a fourth finger, widening and stretching her.

“Aah, aah, aah ... Please!”

“That’s it, sweetness. My good girl.” At her little mewling plea, he lowered his head and with infinite slowness, drew her clit between his lips and sucked gently. Then a nip and her body twisted, nearly bucking him off. And finally a lick, at just the right angle, and she was screaming and gasping for air. But it was the last breathy moan that did him in. Just above a whisper, but loud as a thunder crack.

“Spike.”

***

She was still convulsing with pleasure when he picked her up and carried her to his bed. He’d dreamt of her here, fantasized countless times. But the technicolor version, her drowsy with fulfillment, clad in his dressing gown ... more than he could conjure in his overactive imagination on the longest summer day.

He drank his fill, memorizing the contrast between blonde hair and burgundy sheets, tan thighs and the dark silk that lined his robe. Her eyes stayed shut, whether from satisfaction or from a reluctance to see her lover’s visage, he couldn’t tell.

Meaningless, her shuttered eyelids, he insisted to himself. But it cut. And stilled his body. Poised above her, palms planted on either side of her shoulders, he stopped and held perfectly still, drawing on patience he didn’t have.

And then her eyes met his, a mute plea. He burrowed into her in a second, neither rough as she’d like nor gentle as he’d wish.

Silent this time, slower than any time before, he varied the tempo of his strokes, adding the hip swivels and deep, forceful thrusts only if she kept her gaze locked with his.

Her head rolled to the side and he withdrew slightly, teasing her with shallow penetration. She looked at him in protest and was rewarded with a fierce ramming, forcing a gasp from her lips.

Buffy’s eyes clouded over, unfocused.

Spike lessened the intensity of his assault, slowing to a glacial pace. He willed his lover back to the moment, and as her vision sharpened, he lowered himself to a bent arm, freeing his other hand to pinch her nipples.

She moaned, arching her neck and breaking eye contact. His hand withdrew, his cock pulling out too far, too slow.

Did she understand?

A disgusted growl and she flipped him over, straddling him and grinding down, frenzied.

Didn’t matter. As soon as she looked away, he grabbed her hips, frustrating her search for contact. She met his quirked eyebrow with a scowl, but this time her sight was unwavering. She drove herself against him, a crazed pattern that caught him, too.

She climaxed without breaking away and he followed her over the edge.

Despite himself, he closed his eyes at the peak.

***

It had been a little head game, and in the heat of his bed, Spike had felt himself the victor.

But as his lover pulled on soaked denim and squishing socks, he realized he’d overstepped another Buffy boundary.

“Don’t go,” he whispered.

She didn’t answer, scurrying up the ladder without a backwards glance.

***

Outside, rain had turned to mist. Under yellow streetlamp glare, Buffy watched the curtain shimmer with night air and precipitation, California’s perpetual heat meeting an uncharacteristic storm front.

Could it explain away a bakers’ dozen of sexual escapades since Tuesday night?

She kicked a mailbox that offended her with its jaunty red flag and fresh white paint.

It didn’t have to mean anything, she told the splintered post. “Lots of people have sex just ‘cause. I’ve seen Cruel Intentions.” Buffy retrieved the red wooden flag, twirling it between her fingers. “I’m not hurting anyone. Not shirking the sacred duty. I’m just ... I just need. Lots of people need. There are whole websites about ... need.” A crack startled her, but she was alone on the street. And then she found the source of the noise.

She’d snapped the flag in two.

Having slayed the mailbox, the breakfast shift at DMP only hours away, she found herself entering the back door of 1630 Revello on quiet feet.

Buffy had meant to slip in, shower and sleep. Morning would bring sanity, or at least a slipcover for the madness of nighttime.

But Willow’s iBook beckoned from the dining room table. Wasn’t like her to keep it powered up, Buffy thought, approaching the machine hesitantly.

She touched the space bar and the screen saver evaporated.

“Downloading a bootleg copy of the Paris Hilton video? Willow, you naughty thing.”

A click and the “download complete” window closed, leaving Buffy looking at a website that was clearly brought to her by the letter X.

“Kink.net?” Buffy knew Willow had been lonely since Tara packed up, but this was just skeevy. The list of links started with the recognizably dirty - girl/girl, threesomes, bondage - and quickly descended into the bizarre - what the hell was pony play? She wasn’t about to click.

In fact, she was about to rip the cord out of the wall, claim she’d tripped gracelessly while returning after patrol, when the link at the bottom of the page caught her eye.

Vampires.

“No way!” Was she horribly normal? Were there whole legions of women, college athletes and soccer moms with buff bodies who craved supernaturally endowed men?

Ick.

She followed the link anyhow.

The series of thumbnails loaded slowly. Her heart pounded, but the house was silent. And, hey, Willow’s website anyhow. Could she help it if she was a curious cat? Or maybe it was ... research. Yeah.

Research.

She clicked on the first tiny image.

Ick wasn’t a strong enough word.

First, the woman’s breasts were clearly not naturally occurring. Second, the vamp’s black satin cape and theatrical blood smeared on faux fangs and his victim’s tawny flesh were also not the real McCoy.

She snapped the window closed and hit the back button on the browser.

But instead of heading upstairs for her bed, she found herself clicking through the links. Vampires was a bust, but what about Boys & Their Toys? Or Candlewax?

One more furtive glance towards the staircase, and then Buffy was transported into a hidden world.