Disclaimer: If you found your way here, you should know who owns the copyright to this stuff, and it isn’t me. This is fanfic. No infringement on the copyrights owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brother et al intended.

Note: This is a bit rougher of a draft than I usually post. I promise to polish before this section appears in Millenium Dreams – Lost Lover’s Waltz

Content: Just how long do you think Spike can keep his urges in check, anyway? NC-17 stuff.

Dream Sequence III – Restless Night
part one

[Time: Follows a few weeks after the events in my previous femfanfic, Puppy-Dog Eyes which you should read before you read this.]

It had been too long.

Spike restlessly stalked the night. The beast was rising inside him, sinking its tenacious claws into his vitals, pain ripping into him from the unsated need for blood. Hunger was making him edgy. Making him angry. Making him mean.

The hard-rock beat of snare drums and base guitars booming dully outside the Shelter Club --Sunnydale's much more seedy version of the sort of youth club best typified by the Bronze-- echoed in his gut, where the beast stirred. Spike sent his gaze over the alley as he prowled its length, seeking out the telltale flickers of movement that could reveal...dinner. He snarled softly, allowing his frustration to rise. No matter what tempting morsels were revealed, he couldn't --wouldn't-- feed.

The pig’s blood he'd tried to drink earlier that evening had torn it. Choking on the first sip, he'd thrown the lot on the floor of Willie the Snitch's dive, storming out. Smashing the glass jar had been the most satisfying part of the purchase. Not that it was Willie's fault; the blood had been, as advertised, premium stuff.

And about as appealing as a beaker of horse piss.

As he got closer to the Shelter Club's back-door exit, the first of its patrons came into view, standing against the wall, close to the door; a kid who looked no older than Spike did, and a girl who looked considerably younger, despite the cigarette dangling from the corner of her vermilion lipsticked mouth. The delicious scents of human sweat and human desire thickened in the air, reminding Spike of what he needed; hot, vital, surging blood, blood pulled from the unwilling, helpless body of a struggling prey. He needed the taste of salty copper mingled with the aphrodisiac, adrenaline lacing of fear; the feel of muscles going from frenzied, desperate strength to helpless enervation to slack and yielding mortality.

Preferably something young and sweet and tasty, like the girl, who removed her attention from the guy chatting her up long enough to cast Spike a measuring glance and send him a coy smile as he strode past. Oh, yes, he'd bet she'd be good enough to eat! Still, the best kills were often the innocents. Although Spike's tastes didn't run to despoiling virgins, in some of his darker moments, it was a kick to be the first to arouse desire, the first to satisfy it, to end it forever. Spike laughed unpleasantly. Tonight seemed to be one of his darkest moments ever.

As the beast uncoiled within his belly, sending his predator's instincts into overdrive, he fought for something to force it back. Two images rose in his mind's eye, one fleetingly, one to linger. A cloud of titian hair with a deep widow's peak, wide doe-eyes sparkling with laughter, lips curved gently in a shy, sweet smile, swept across his internal vision. Spike grinned wolfishly. He didn't want Willow's desire for him to end for a long, long time. But that image fled as another rose to supplant it. Blonde hair, the shade varying with her whim, eyes that flashed from warm brown to molten green as passion took her, full pouting mouth that he could still taste in his dreams, and skin softer to the touch than the most fragile damask rose.

Please, please, don't make me come after you, she had said. Spike stopped for a moment, shuddering. God, he didn't want to do that to her, to force her to fight him, to kill him. Killing her wasn't remotely a question, anymore. Not since she had possessed his heart. Nor could Spike make her kill him, knowing what that would cost her. She bore enough burdens, had more than her share of grief. But he wasn't sure how much longer he could control the demonic need, not just for blood, but for death.

The hunger inside him had always been a black beast. Because that was what blood was when you took it in the darkness. Not the bright red of oxygenated cells hitting air and light, but viscous, clotting, gushing, hot, dark liquid: scent of molten iron, black to the eye, salt against the tongue. He missed it dearly.

Other lusts were aroused by the beast; lusts for flesh, lusts for innocence, lusts for desire. When Spike had Buffy, the beast was more than satisfied.

But he didn't have Buffy anymore. He never would again. She belonged, as she always had, to Angel, body and soul. And if Spike had stolen her away for a millennium in Hell, he had found that even a millennium of having her in his bed was not nearly long enough.

He had undone time for her, once. And then he'd had the grace of having her restored to him for a few precious weeks, although he had to share her, then, as he had not before. And finally he had walked with her into Hell so that she could leave him forever.

Because no matter which of the myriad paths through time the world traveled, Buffy belonged to Angel in all of them. Once, Spike had made her love him. But he had already killed Angel in that time, and though she could, after centuries of captivity, love Spike, she could never be happy with him. Her sorrow had defeated him when her battle skills could not. Ultimately, Spike had restored her to the world, taking her back to the time before the paths the earth took had diverged.

And she remembered none of it.

One thousand years of lovemaking, one thousand years of possession and passion. One thousand years of having her completely in his thrall, of falling asleep each night holding her, having her, one thousand years of an unending battle that, ultimately won, ultimately vanquished him...and it might never have been. Because it had been time spent in Hell, and in Hell, time had no meaning...

So maybe, he thought, moving once more, coming to the end of the alley and out onto the street that led to the Shelter Club's main entrance, he should feed and kill and let her stake him, gorging the beast and then dying in the only place that mattered; in her arms.

Or, if he wanted to spare her the pain that would cause, he could just sit outdoors and wait for sunrise.

Except that there was someone who might object to that. Lilith, he knew, wasn't done with him. The Queen of Hell and Mother of Demons enjoyed his torment far too much. She hadn't allowed his two previous stakings at Buffy's hands --neither of which either Buffy or anyone save Lilith and Spike himself remembered-- to finish his existence, and he doubted she would allow it now.

Because he was suffering now as he never had before, now that Buffy remembered the pleasure they had shared in L.A. without remembering the passionate love that once, in Hell, enriched it.

Spike stood at the mouth of the alley, rock rhythms from the club pounding inside him, calling to the beast, calling it to rise and stalk and slay. Everything in him hungered to answer that call, everything but the one thing that overrode all: his love for Buffy. Spike snarled again, coming dangerously close to vamping out in front of the few people on the sidewalk outside the club. If he had Buffy, he would have gone to her bed and burned out his cravings for blood in the balm of her flesh. That wasn't possible, any longer.

But there were other possibilities, an insidious voice whispered. The fleeting image returned, changing as sparkling laughter gave way to slumberous languor, and sweetness turned to fire, as it would in his arms. Willow, he knew, would willingly help him slake whatever thirsts the beast aroused. Spike turned his back on the club and moved quickly in the opposite direction.

Sunnydale didn't have a whole lot of town. It wasn't long before Spike was pacing down the quiet streets of one of the more affluent neighborhoods. The street was well lit, and so Spike had plenty of illumination to show him the van parked in front of Willow's home, and the couple whose heads were bent close together within. Spike felt the beast stretch and rise within him, and allowed it just a little reign, growling low in displeasure at the sight of the woman he desired in another man's arms. He admitted to jealousy; why not? Just because vampires weren't long on fidelity themselves didn't mean they didn't appreciate it --didn't demand it-- in their partners.

But that was the thing; Willow wasn't his partner, wasn't his mate. Spike had no right to demand anything of her. She had begun her involvement with Oz long before she even dreamt of becoming involved with Spike.

Willow had been something of a whim, and a memory, and a quirk of fate. Spike had fortuitously rescued her from an attacker, had remembered what she had been like when, in that world now lost to time, she had been a vampire, and then, impulsively, had decided to see how much of the sensual potential realized by that vampire she still possessed.

Spike discovered, most pleasantly, that she possessed even more than he remembered.

He ran a practiced eye over the oblivious couple in the van. They were kissing slowly, sweetly and he smirked as he recognized that they weren't going to go much further than those kisses. For one thing, they were right outside her home, not the ideal setting for illicit goings on. For another, given the hour, Willow was probably already pushing her curfew, and wasn't apt to linger. Spike did the kind of fade vampires were notorious for; going still and silent, blending in with the surroundings, he melted into the night, taking the long way around to the back of Willow's house, where he noiselessly mounted the stairs that led to the veranda outside her room.

His invitation hadn't been revoked, although he knew she had the spells to do so, if she wanted. But he truly posed no threat to her parents or her home, and Willow accepted whatever threat he posed to her herself.

Well, tonight they would both find out just how great a threat that was.

Spike opened the locked door and slipped into the darkness beyond, his night-sharp predator's vision guiding him unerringly to his goal.

    Willow sighed into Oz's mouth, not really wanting to break the kiss. But they had been parked outside for a while now, and since they'd gotten here not long before her curfew was up, she was beginning to push matters by lingering.

If only Oz would push matters, she thought ruefully. Willow was ready to move beyond kissing, and tender, intimate caresses to more complete intimacy. She had shared those intimacies with Spike, but she understood that she could never be to him what she was to Oz: beloved. Maybe because her heart was just a little bruised, she needed to share herself with someone who loved her absolutely and unconditionally.

And if she was no longer capable of loving Oz quite as absolutely as she once hoped she might grow to do, at least she could spare him the pain of that knowledge. There was no reason for him ever to know about her helpless, hopeless love for Spike.

Unless Oz continued to treat her like the innocent she no longer was. If he didn't take the initiative to move their lovemaking to deeper levels of passion, she might not be able to stand it. Might not be able to stay with him...

But pushing matters simply wasn't in his nature. Nor hers. Which could become a problem. Willow couldn't think about that now. Like a lot of other things going on in her life at the moment, that was a thought to be examined privately, when she had the time. And the courage.

"I have to go in," she said aloud.

"I'll walk you to the door," he said. She smiled. He kissed her. They didn't make it to the door of her house for another fifteen minutes.

Ira Rosenberg looked up from the book he was reading and glanced pointedly at the grandfather clock in the living room when Willow finally said her last good-night, and closed the front door behind her. Correctly interpreting that look, Willow went on the defensive.

"Well, but, I was just outside, which, technically, is home. On time."

"Which, technically, is why I'm not going to ground you or forbid you to see your boyfriend again. Fair enough?" her father said mildly. Left unsaid was the fact that he did not approve her having pushed the limit, and that if she did so again, he might resort to those measures. Willow sighed.

"Fair enough," she said.

"Your mother's already asleep," Ira said gently. "Go to bed, sweetheart."

"Good-night, daddy," Willow smiled and walked over to his chair, dropped a kiss on his forehead, then headed up the stairs to her room. As she walked, she brooded over what was happening --or failing to happen-- with Oz. If either of them ever got up the nerve to push matters, he was going to find out that she wasn't a virgin. And that would have to raise some questions, questions that she simply couldn't answer. So maybe the thing to do was to drop that piece of information casually, next time they talked. Maybe if she did it in an off-hand manner, she could forestall any questions, or at least claim that it wasn't anyone's business but hers.

Which it wasn't. Well, no; if she were honest with herself, it wouldn't be anyone else's business if her lover had been either a) human or b) someone she had been involved with before she started dating Oz. But Spike was a vampire and they had not become lovers until well into her relationship with Oz. Taken together, those two factors meant that she was betraying not only her boyfriend, but her best friend.

Because Buffy was the Slayer, and if the Slayer's best friend was giving herself to a vampire, and one who had once been the greatest enemy the Slayer possessed, the Slayer probably should know about it.

Even if she had failed to tell anyone about her own intimacies with this particular vampire.

Willow groaned silently. She was supposed to be going to bed. These thoughts were so not sleep-conducive.

Opening the door to her room, Willow flipped on a light switch and headed for the closet, pulling off her coat as she did so. She was hanging it up when an unyielding hand covered her mouth, smothering her instinctive, startled cry, and she was pulled into the hard body behind her. Firm lips pressed against her neck in a caress as heated as the lips were cold. No longer needing to cry out --in fear, at all odds-- Willow shivered and leaned back into the arms embracing her. The hand was removed and as the mouth lifted from her neck she twisted her head back, raising her face, offering another target for those cold, fervent lips.

The demon within Spike was mollified by her response. At least one of the beast's hungers was being met. Spike brought his mouth down on hers ruthlessly, devouringly. She answered in kind. Willow, already aroused by Oz's attentions, was made instantly ravenous by Spike's far more insistent --far more knowing-- passion.

She turned in his arms, and he pulled her tighter, closer. She lifted her own arms, slipping them around his neck, trying to get closer yet. She could feel Spike's erection even through the clothes they both wore, and that only made her hungrier, wetter, hotter.

"Oh, God, Spike," she drew away from his mouth enough to whisper. "We have got to get out of here! And my father is still awake downstairs." Their usual pattern was for Spike to sneak into her room about an hour after her parents went to sleep, for her to sneak out with him, for them to find someplace private--like his car, parked at Lookout Point-- and indulge themselves in uninhibited sensuality --or, for her, uninhibited lovemaking-- for a few hours. Then Spike would sneak her back into her room --usually carrying her, because he unfailing loved her into exhaustion--, and she'd snatch some rest before school or whatever obligations she had for the weekend. And her parents were never the wiser.

But when Willow looked up at him, and saw him clearly for the first time that night, she realized that tonight would be different. Her heart, which had been racing with excitement, began to pound in dread. "Spike?" she began questioningly.

He hadn't vamped out, so she had no real reason to fear. Except that she knew him now, and she knew he was more dangerous than she had ever seen him. Not even when she saw him first, when he had threatened to kill Buffy, had she been as frightened as she knew she should be at this moment.

Because when he had told Buffy he was going to kill her, he hadn't planned on doing it immediately. It was more of a casual promise, for a few days hence, delivered impersonally: she was the Slayer, he was a vampire, and therefore she was in his way and he would have to take her out. He had looked pretty calm when he delivered that threat. And even when the time had come, and he attacked the school, even when he was in full vamp face and stalking Willow herself, there had still been something controlled and restrained about him.

But that restraint and control had all but vanished now. Something in the pitch-blackness of his eyes, in the coiled tension of his body, told Willow that whatever leash he held himself by was strained to the breaking point.

"We aren't leaving," Spike said coolly, and she wasn't really surprised. He smiled down at her, and if there was tenderness in his expression, there was something too close to cruelty as well. "We'll just have to be very, very quiet, pet."

Spike was balanced on a knife's edge. He wanted Willow, absolutely. He wanted her beneath him, wanted to bury himself in her sweetly yielding flesh, wanted to hear her soft cries of pleasure as he pounded into her pliant body. But he could feel not only her arousal, but the fear he knew she was also experiencing. Her expressive face told him, her wide doe-eyes.

And her fear aroused other instincts in him. Because as badly as he wanted her body, he wanted her blood. And the beast within him was beginning to stretch again, to rise and soon it would clamor for the sweet, dark liquor that sustained Willow's life, and which would never sate the beast unless drunk to excess.

Willow looked into her lover's eyes and understood the danger. But she had accepted the danger almost from the first, and could not, would not, back away from it now. She should be afraid. And she had been, at first. But she loved Spike too much to sustain that fear. It drained away from her, leaving only the love that was an intrinsic part of her, behind. Willow tightened her arms around Spike's neck once more.

"All right," she whispered and lifted her chin...offering both her soft lips, or, should he choose, the vulnerable column of her white throat.

Spike understood the offer. The beast inside him roared its triumph, as the balance tilted. With a growl of pleasure, Spike took her mouth. His hunger for her reached a fever pitch that would not allow him the luxury of tumbling her to the bed, or of stripping her naked. He needed to be inside her now. Spike slid his hands from around her, reached beneath her skirts, found the waist-band of her tights, covering the waist-band of her panties--and used his vampiric strength to rip both of them asunder.

Willow gasped against his mouth, as her undergarments were shredded, and her intimate core was laid bare and vulnerable to him. But he wouldn't stop kissing her, even though he swiftly undid his belt and fly, allowing his rampant manhood to spring free and press against her belly. Willow could not suppress a moan.

Spike's hands slid back up beneath her skirts until they found purchase on her hips. His vampiric strength was again evident as he lifted her. Willow intuitively wrapped her legs around his waist, was rewarded by another low growl of animal satisfaction against her mouth. Spike still hadn't broken the kiss, and didn't seem disposed to let her break it, either.

And then he drove into her, and breathing didn't matter, being quiet didn't matter, nothing mattered but the call of his passion to hers, nothing mattered but meeting his desire with her own.

His hands on her hips supported her, and the hard, thrusting rhythm of his body inside hers. Willow whimpered as white-hot, aching need mounted within, as Spike fed that need, giving her what she craved, making her crave more. But this was so good, so hot, so sweet, she wasn't sure how much she could take.

Spike felt her deliciously tight sheath contract around him, and knew that she was close to climax. Which was a damned good thing, because he was too hungry for her to last much longer himself. He wished he could reach her clit, and enhance her pleasure, but without a wall at her back to support her weight, that was out of the question. Thankfully, from the tiny, mewling sounds she was making --though stifled by his mouth, and her own desperate need for quiet-- he was giving her the pleasure she deserved.

Then he shifted her slightly, changing his angle of penetration, and that was enough. Willow shuddered, tightening her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Her hips bucked into his as if she would pull his manhood more deeply yet into her churning, heated depths, and heaven knew he was happy to let her. His own climax answered hers, and he drove himself more deeply, more violently inside her, their mouths melded as fiercely as their bodies.

It was quick and hot and hard and explosive; and if it did not meet all his needs for her, at least it took the worst edge off his hunger. Somewhat appeased, the beast within him slunk back into the depths of his nature. Spike spilled the last of his seed into Willow's quivering sheath, and felt her satisfied moan against his mouth.

Their position wasn't the most stable they could have picked...he could have picked. Well, stability hadn't been his aim at the time, he reflected wryly, breaking the kiss at last. Willow sighed, as he lifted her slightly and pulled out. She unclasped her legs, and allowed him to set her gently back on her own two feet. But she wasn't at all steady, and didn't even try to stand unaided. Instead, she leaned into his arms, and rested her head against his shoulder.

With a sigh, Spike dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

"We have to get the light," he murmured into her hair.

"Mmmmmm?"

"The light, sweet," Spike said with a low chuckle. She would never make it to the switch. He doubted she'd make it to the bed. Spike slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other around her shoulders and carried her the short distance to the mattress. Then he took care of the lights himself. Now, when Ira Rosenberg passed his daughter's door on his way to his own bedroom, there would be no light to call parental attention to the late hours Willow was keeping.

And if Spike were careful, nothing else would call attention to it, either. He moved silently back to her bedside, unerringly finding his way in the darkened room. Stripping out of his clothing was the work of less than a moment, and when he joined her beneath the covers, he found she had spent the time it had taken him to deal with the lights removing her own clothes, as well.

And suddenly the hungers of the beast were roaring to life inside him once more.

He pulled her naked body into his arms, kissed her fiercely, and rolled her beneath him, driving himself into her body as avidly as if she had not just mated him and sated him moments before.

Willow kissed him as if her life depended upon it, because she was pretty sure that it did. Her fear was gone; she loved and desired Spike too much to fear him, and if he exacted from her the ultimate price for that love...well, she was willing to pay it, that was all. But she would prefer not to, she really, really would.

She didn't know what was wrong, but knew instinctively, intuitively, that something was very badly wrong indeed. Spike was taking her with a suppressed violence that, while it ignited her own passions to a pitch of white-hot intensity, had more of the predator than the lover about it. Willow could never, would never, be a match for the predator. Her life had been utterly in Spike's power from the first. So she did what was left to her...and loved him.

Because if she was going to die in his arms, she wanted to have a death worth dying.

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