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Title: Desired
Author: Flywoman
Fandom: BtVS
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: Nothing big
Archive: Sure, but please let me know.

Dressed, he's all leather and metal, from his gleaming platinum hair to his steel-toed boots. He struts with a swagger that gives a sexy swirl to his battered black duster, head high as if he owned the night. Undressed, he's defenseless, as vulnerable as his exposed and eager cock. Naked as a newborn, he's totally helpless. I take what I want like the proverbial candy.

Thinks he's the Big Bad, but he's a puppy who lets himself be kicked - he raises his hackles and shows his fangs, but throw him a bone and he'll bare his belly and beg for more. Knows he's love's bitch and thinks he can still be a man. Pathetic bastard. I have his heart under my heel.

He's staring up at me with those midnight blue eyes, dark now, dilated with desire. I see myself reflected in them, distant and terrible. His nostrils flare and the chiseled marble of his chest lifts with every urgent hitch of his breath. Stupid bloody poet, he never really lived to begin with, and somehow he's forgotten to die.

I didn't. I'm not even bothering to breathe.

We've done this every day since he killed her, the threat of sunlight lending an extra thrill to our thrashing. Fun and games, tricks with smoke and mirrors. His once perfect hands are covered with countless burns.

I'm close now, rising and falling with an irresistible rhythm. He's struggling to match me, to lift his hips as I grind into them, but he's got no leverage with his wrists pinned under my knees. His pale forehead is sheathed with sweat. His features begin to blur, and I blink furiously to keep them clear, to preserve that perfect picture of his huge eyes, the cords standing out in his alabaster neck. The two ragged holes already closing over. He's groaning now, hoarse, his lips curling around my name like a curse.

Suddenly, "Slayer!" he howls, and lurches under my weight, his cock jumping violently inside of me. His eyes roll back in his head, but not before giving up his secret. Not before I see *her* in them. Eyes wide, mouth open a little in surprise. An icon, a relic caught in amber, so familiar and yet so far away.

Is this what you wanted, Spike? Was I the gift you gave yourself?

And now I'm yelling too, slamming him into the unforgiving stone, not knowing if the red haze is fury or the apocalyptic prelude to bliss. Molten fire surges from my center and rages through my veins, every muscle snapping taut like a steel trap around some snuffling, warm-blooded thing.

Then the blaze dies down, leaving ashes in my mouth. Spike's body is limp beneath me as I fumble at my side. He's blinking now, still dazzled, sighing a little, shifting his head. I wait until he manages to fix his glazed eyes on my face before I thrust the stake into his heart.

I'm startled to see my hands tremble a bit as I brush the dust from them, but I chalk it up to postcoital drain. His leather coat is draped over the dresser, crisp and cool and smelling of smoke. It's a little too long for me, but with the high-heeled boots I yanked off yesterday's breakfast, it'll do.


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