Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Chapter 1: The Act

She looks fucking pitiful. Lying there, curling in on herself, trying so desperately to gather the shattered pieces about her. But the only thing she is surrounded by is blood.

Poor girl.

Spike watches her, his Slayer. When did she get so weak? She clutches at that gray robe, holding it to her as if it will hide her ruin. As if he hasn’t already taken everything she had to offer. Right now, she is so…human...reverting to infancy: the fetal position. He hears her crying; he wants to laugh. This is Masterpiece Theatre. But her acting? Sub-par.

He shakes his head at her crumpled form, re-buckling his belt and running his mind over the events of the last hour…

“Ask me again why I could never love you! Because I stopped you! Something I should have done a long time ago!”

He chuckles now at her venom. She’d kicked him into that wall, believing she had deterred him. He could’ve let her off easy. He could have awoken, the red falling from his eyes. He could have ran from this bathroom, tumbling his way into his crypt, drowning in her, in guilt, in alcohol. He could’ve…but he hadn’t…

Her words turned crimson in the air. She was treating him like a disease, something she needed to wash from her skin. Fury stoked and features shifting, he charged her. She was overwhelmed easily, righteous hatred no match for his own. It was he who should have stopped her. She’d used him for months, a catalyst to fuck the grave out of her. She’d scattered crumbs, and he’d scrambled after them. She’d robbed him of all things Beloved: his Dru, his Darkness, his Kill. Yet now she was on a stolen platter. And he would devour her whole.

Her struggle became ineffectual. He felt no pain, no remorse, no doubt. She would be his baptism. When he removed himself from her, he’d be redeemed, he’d be what he once was, and always should be: Spike. William was his sin, his transgression, evils against evil. With this act, Bloody Awful would be…slain.

She was pinned beneath him still. So engrossed, he’d forgotten her steady fighting. Placing a hand upon her thigh, the other holding her motionless, he roughly spread her legs. Opening his jeans, Spike positioned himself at her entrance. He smirked as her eyes screwed shut, preparing herself, giving in. But Spike was having none of it. He’d never before allowed her to shield her vision, forcing her to accept that which she desired.

This time was no different.

“Slayer…look at me,” he growled, slipping into human guise. He wanted her to see him, that it was he taking control, power.

Her hazel orbs shone with unshed tears, and an emotion he’d only seen when standing over her all those years ago, fangs bared and 2x4 raised: it was fear. It was intoxicating.

“Buffy, luv,” he said with a modicum of his old affection. He’d decided to provide for a last moment of honesty, test her capacity for truth. “Did you trust me?”

A tear escaped the corner of her eye, a sign of understanding. Lying would be hazardous to her health. Her lips parted, and she spoke, voice raw from pleading,

“Y-yes.”

A rare, genuine, smile played along his mouth, because he’d known. Always. As much as she’d resisted, saying she never would, never could, it was there. Uneasy, tumultuous, but apparent all the same. At the very least, she’d trusted him not to do this.

Moving quickly, he clasped both of her slim wrists in one hand, pressing them above her head,

“You shouldn’t have,” he retorted devilishly, and then…

She ripped like paper…

Spike slides down into a crouch, his back to the closed bathroom door. He’d left her whimpering on the tile, a bruise forming on her inner thigh, blood pooling between long legs. He hopes she’ll take that bath she’d run. Slayer blood is far too enticing. The smell had made him dizzy.

He’d done it before, the possession, but never like this. Never stayed long enough to watch the loss. He and Dru were too submerged in madness and whimsy to be concerned about the aftermath of their crimes. The Demon within had beaten the Poet into submission; the only compassion he had left was for his goddess.

But now, isn't Buffy his Goddess? His new church: deity in a halter-top? So why does thinking of her spilling blood and salt into clear water do nothing but…irritate him? The fact that she has become one of countless victims pisses Spike off, but not in the way he would’ve thought. No remorse. He is disappointed, really. He’d had his Slayer figured for a Fighter. And sure, she’d put up a hell of a struggle, but in the end, once again, the Chosen power had gone to waste at his hands. She should have been a challenge five years in the making. The girl had a death wish after all.

He stands, reaching for the doorknob. Before his fingertips touch metal, however, he stops to listen. Senses perked, Spike hears the soft sloshing of water against porcelain. After a moment, he moves quietly into the room, observing as she washes herself mechanically.

He says nothing, striding over to the sink and seating himself upon its counter. Buffy doesn’t look his way, unsurprisingly. Letting his eyes roam, he notices that she’s cleaned and discarded all traces of their violent scene. The floor is spotless; her ruined robe has been stuffed into the trashcan at his left.

He clucks his tongue, mock-offended by the actions she has taken to erase him. Buffy flinches at the sound: harsh and loud in the empty-silent bathroom. He knows he has her attention.

“Denial can be a wonderful asset, lamb,” he whispers, and at his words, the washcloth in her grip stills, “Some things, though, you should learn to accept.”

He waits for a sign of comprehension, and as new tears blaze trails down her face, he nods slowly and hops down from his perch. In a moment he is kneeling at the side of the tub, fingertips skimming the water she sits in.

“Vampire, remember?” he murmurs, grazing her calf with an amount of gentleness never before displayed, “I can feel you.” He’s spoken these words before, doesn’t expect a response from the nearly catatonic Slayer. His fingers move to her inner thigh, leaving goose bumps in their wake. Breathing deeply her scent as she trembles in spite of herself, he continues, “Smell your fear, anger…desire.”

With a wicked grin he watches the flush of humiliation stain her cheeks, “What is it, pet? What were you keeping from me?”

“You made me…” her broken reply, as she buries her face in her hands.

“ ‘S right,” he says smugly, pleased with her awakening from emotional paralysis, “I did.”

He told her he’d make her feel it. And he was a man of his word. She had gone limp, resolving not to fight. Complying with his demand, her eyes were open, but unseeing. Spike did not want her unresponsive, escaping into her head. An important event such as this should not be missed.

Deciding to shock her back to him, Spike slipped a hand between their bodies. She may have numbed herself to pain, but pleasure had become an unexpected sensation. Halting himself within her, he then began a series of long, languid thrusts, coupled with the increased pressure of his fingers on her clit.

Almost immediately, she came to life beneath him. And that smell, the one he had reveled in for months, years—undiluted Buffy: vanilla-tinted arousal—hit his nose. He grinned. She would resist it, of course, but he always knew how to make her body betray her.

He watched her crescendo build. Her hands found no purchase on a floor slick with her own blood. Having no choice, she gripped his forearms, legs wrapping around his hips, independent of her mental rebellion. He knew she wanted to scream ‘no’, but her lips remained pursed. If she opened her mouth, Spike sensed the bellow would be of a rather…different variety.

And he was correct. Upon the first of many arrivals, his name sprung from her lips, more of an accusation than a compliment…

“The first three were simply to thaw you out,” he concludes, words sounding lazy, pleasant, but he knows she’ll hear the menace coating them. He lets his palm rest upon her thigh, moves his lips to her ear, “Then, a challenge presented itself. How many orgasms does it take to make the Slayer love her own rape?”

A sob shreds through her, strangled, as if she is trying to retain her dignity. Stupid bint.

“So tell me, baby, as I lost count. How many times did you cum for me?” he punctuates this question with the sudden travel of his hand to her mound.

She can ignore him no longer. The contact makes her jump, and resembling a startled animal, she scrambles from the tub, spilling water everywhere. This works to her disadvantage, as she slips and her head connects with the solid basin. Dazedly, she slumps upon the floor, weakly retching her response to his touch.

Spike merely looms above her, smirking at her horrid condition. He’s unfazed by her reaction: her disgust with them both manifesting itself. He would expect nothing less from the headstrong warrior, still struggling against him, even after he’s overpowered her. Not worried, he lets her lie.

And then he hears it.