"Things are gonna change, Bitch..."

And lord almighty, he hadn't anticipated just how much of a change. Sure, he'd seen Angel put up with it and if the great poof could do it, then so could he, damn it!

But it just felt so... Awful.

This is what he got for wanting his soul back. Now things were worse than before. Much, much worse. He couldn't even stomach himself - how on earth was Buffy going to react?

He'd at least had some fortitude left and managed to raise his hand to knock at her door.

"Spike?"

She stared at him standing on the step outside with big eyes and her head at an angle - it made his fingers tremble. He couldn't raise his head to meet her eyes.

"B-- Buffy. May I... Come inside?"

"Geesh! You have to ask? You don't usually. What's up with you? And what's with the outfit? You look like a punk with a yuppie makeover. I would ask if your mother dressed you, but you don't have a mother."

"I got a soul, Buffy."

That made her blink.

He lifted his head and raised a shy face to her, smiled a little. She was still blinking back the surprise, and then her lips pursed.

"I-- I only did it for you, love. I knew you couldn't love me without one, so... Are you going to say something?"

If vampires could blush, his face would have been a beacon. It was so awkward being Mister Nice-nice.

Something glinted in her eyes and her lips drew into a hard line of resolve. Her hand grabbed his dorky shirt and she hauled him into the house, then slammed him against the opposite wall with considerable force. Vampires are fast, but slayers are faster, and she had him pinned to the wall with her body before he could react.

"Buffy--" he managed to say before his words were smothered by the force of her lips on his. She continued to push herself against him as she kissed him, then she began to rub and slide over particularly sensitive places.

He was taken aback at her ardour - it was something he'd dreamed about, the thought of it had made all the agonising and guilt seem worth it, but it was not something he'd expected at all.

Her mouth had left his, raw and swollen, and continued its assault on his ear. She bit him.

"Ow, Buffy!"

Leaning back for a second, she looked at him, then he thought he heard her growl. "Shut up," she said, before she made her command unnecessary by smothering his mouth once again.

Still in shock, he realised the rest of his body was miles ahead of him and already responding to her ministrations. Her leg shoved against his crotch, in particular, was causing him grief - the guilt at what she was doing was almost painful. His body, however, told his conscience to fuck off and began to move with a life of its own.

Buffy's hands slid down his chest, then stopped. With a rrriii---- ip, she made short work of the blue cotton shirt and buttons popped and flicked into the air. Then her hands were on his bare skin, heating him up, inside and out.

"Oh, sweet mother..." He groaned as her tongue and teeth followed suit. He had no choice but to give up to the sensations, or he might explode from the conflict.

He let his fingers move to wrap in her hair, and urged her head down. For his efforts, she dug her nails into the skin on his abdomen, drawing blood. He hissed at the pain and pleasure as she licked it away. This was so wrong. And so bloody good.

Before he knew what was happening, she'd unsnapped and unzipped his chinos and shoved them down his ankles.

"Oh... Spike," she breathed, her eyes glinting up at him with wicked delight. "Underwear? I never knew you had it in you."

She chuckled and it made his whole body shudder. Somewhere in his fogged brain, a warning sounded. Since when did Buffy smirk better than he did? What was she up to? Could it be that she wasn't merely happy to see him?

He didn't get further than that because-- Oh God! He'd lost the jocks and gained a pair of lips and a hot, sliding tongue.

All brain function flew south for the summer.

She was everywhere. Surrounding him. Hot and wet, biting, sucking, licking. His pawed uselessly at her hair, unable to figure out what to do with his hands. There was definitely no going back to any sane state now. Her mouth was doing wicked evil things to him, making him ache and shiver. She sucked at his tip while she used her hands to pump him, and threatened to send him over the brink and into madness.

Oh fuck it! He could use oblivion just about now.

"Oh-- Buffy... I... So wonderful... I can't..."

She released him so suddenly it was almost as ruthless as a bucket of water. On her knees in front of him, she looked up with a slight frown marring her perfect brow. "Wonderful?"

"Oh yes, Buffy - please...?"

He was quaking under her stare - his current condition doing nothing to help his composure.

"Oh...Oh my god," she said, her face looking slightly green. "This is worse than I thought." She looked at his crotch and her proximity to it, then shook her head. "This is not going to work, at all."

He watched her with horror and shame as she stood up and stepped back. "Buffy, please, for the love of god..."

"Oh, don't worry Spike, I'll rescue you," she smirked, then ripped off her blouse with the same dexterity she'd shown on his clothes. His eyes became saucers when he realised she hadn't been wearing a bra.

She walked back into his space and grabbed his hands, then shoved them onto her small breasts.

"How does that feel?" She asked with a clinical detachment.

He could feel her nipples harden under his cold palms, so she wasn't all that detached. "Uh.. It's nice... But..."

"Good," she ignored him. "Don't move." She pressed herself against him so that his hands were trapped against her breasts.

Then, she kissed him again, long, languid and slow, taking his bottom lip and sucking on it gently, sliding her tongue around his like a snake. It did absolutely nothing to ease the tension. If she didn't help him out soon, he would start to sweat blood.

"Mmmm, still tastes like ice-cream," she murmured, her breath scalding his mouth. "Are you ready?"

He couldn't even form the answer in his brain, let alone speak the words, but that didn't matter - Buffy was in control. She hiked her teeny leather skirt up, then wrapped her arms tightly around his neck for leverage.

She hooked a lithe and muscular leg around him and lifted her own weight up, then slid back down onto him. Slayer strength was a glorious thing. And she hadn't been wearing panties, either.

"Oh!" An involuntary gasp escaped him, as if air had been forced out of his lungs.

With her body wrapped around him, he was buried deep inside her. The death analogy wasn't lost on him.

She began to move - a slow undulation that made him whirl with pleasure. His wide, bright eyes watched her face, the expressions that chased across it as she set the pace. She bit her lip and increased the rhythm, while all he could do was beg his legs to hold him upright. But she looked like she was almost in pain, and he realised she needed the release as much as he did.

Suddenly, he found he could command his limbs again. With some form of coherent object in mind, he shifted his left hand away from its wedged position and brought to the place where their bodies joined. His fingers brushed over her curls, then slipped in-between and found the prize.

He managed a smile when her face registered shock.

"You want some of this, pet?" He said, roughly. Her answering kiss was all he needed and he began to rub her there in time with her movements.

He followed her lead as she strained back and forth against him, praying to all gods that he could outlast her. The slayer was rapidly burning him up, and at this rate it was bloody likely he'd incinerate and turn to dust before she made it.

"Sweet, sodding fuck," he cried, "I don't think I can keep this up, pet."

She sniggered, then pressed her forehead against his and looked into his eyes with an intense determination. "Spike, don't think. Let it go. I'm right behind you"

He didn't know if it was her breathy words, her tight, hot friction, or the look in her eyes, but it sent him to hell. He exploded inside her while the pleasure of it sent a feedback loop and exploded in his head. He roared at the intensity, then his legs buckled under their combined weight and they landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

He hardly noticed.

It took several moments before he could form thoughts and turn them into sentences. He turned his head slightly so that his lips could brush across Buffy's forehead. Her head was lolling against his shoulder and they had somehow managed to stay attached at the waist.

"Did you...?" He asked.

"Yeah," she said, and he could hear her heartbeat still pattering and her panting breaths.

"So did I," he said with a satisfied sigh.

"I know," she smiled, like a cat with cream. "I felt it." She shifted and looked up at him with a quizzical frown. "So... How do you feel?"

"Bloody marvellous," he smirked. "I remember why I missed you so much."

She shrugged off his snarky comment. "What I mean is, have you still got the soul?"

He began to feel puzzled. "Of course I still have it? What did you think? A little bit of promiscuity's going to dislodge it? This things got a lifetime guarantee, I'll have you know. Did you think you could fuck me blind and make me the happiest man... er... dead and whoops, there goes the soul?" Click. Oh.

Spike shifted, uneasy.

"I did this for you, Buffy. I thought that's what you needed."

Her hand slid up to cup his jaw. "What I needed was you, Spike. Not some twitchy law student wannabe. Not soul-boy with a bigger chip on his shoulder than the one in his head."

"Oh..." He said roughly and he thought he felt his heart hitch in his chest. "I guess I've gone and buggered it all up, again, haven't I?"

She sighed, but her mouth twitched into a smile as her fingers stroked along his jaw. "I-- I don't know. Maybe it's not as bad as I thought - you've got potty mouth back."

Somewhere in the time it took for his potty mouth to reach hers, he realised that something was different. He still had the soul and the damnable guilt conscience that went along with it, but there was also the knowledge that a soul was worth nothing without a so-called life. "Ah, fuck it," he growled, "I'm done with the nancy-boy act."

He flipped her neatly onto her back, and still in the hallway, with the front door wide open to the street, he proceeded to show her just how over it he was.