A/N: This was written for a D/S ficathon, which can be found at under the username "bashipforever"

Disclaimer: As I must admit all the time, I do not own any of the characters. The only thing that belongs to me is the actual story idea.

Resistance

For him it came gradually. He barely noticed it growing inside him until it was too late, the obsession had consumed him. He didn't even know when it had started or why, it just took hold of him when he wasn't looking. It seeped in quietly, like a virus, leaving no trace. It remained dormant until it had enough strength to rule you. Then, it showed it self through little things, little symptoms. Ignorable, unimportant, untrue. It doesn't mean anything. But as it starts to become more and more obvious, you fight it tooth and nail. But in the end, it's inevitable. It cradles you in its arms, bleeding and torn, and you can't help but be its slave.

He always was love's bitch.

He became completely consumed by it, he couldn't think of anything, any one else but her. No one smelled just as sweet, no one shined quite as bright, and no one could even hope to climb half as high as the pedestal he had placed her on. Comparing her to other women was like comparing a diamond to coal, there was no need for thought.

But it's wrong. He knows it's wrong, it's against nature and right... it's against all reason. But he doesn't care.

He tried to drown himself in another who smelled like her, felt like her, and moved like her. If he closed his eyes tight, he could almost see her wreathing beneath him. He tried to convince himself that he loved this fake under his body. He almost fooled himself. He avoided his obsession like the plague and kept himself engrossed in the other. And, bloody hell, he has been so certain that maybe, just maybe, he had convinced himself to love someone else but her. But one look into her baby blues undid him.

She touched him and tilted her head just so and fuck, he couldn't resist tasting her, touching her, taking her.

He hated kissing her in private and fucking her against the cool brick of The Magic Box so none of her lil' Scoobies would see. He wanted them all to know. He wanted to scream it out loud, to rub it in their faces that she belonged to him, to fuck her on the table in front of them to prove to them how much he owned her. But when she coiled tightly around him, biting into his shoulder, leaving imprints on his beloved duster for weeks just so she wouldn't shout out his name at the top of her lungs, he knew why he waited. He could hear her in his mind, and for now, that was enough.

"Spike!" she screamed. "Spike!"

She snuck out at night and he made love to her like she deserved with the candles and satin sheets and all that rot and in the end, she touched his face and kissed his eyelids and loved him. She didn't make him wear a face. He could read poetry to her and she would listen, he could rob a store and she would encourage him, he could kill a deamon and she would join him.

He knew that they were just passing time. They were waiting patiently for the day when she'd be his forever and they'd paint the blood red with their enemies. And although she wasn't ready yet, he knew the day approached quickly. And what are a few years to a vampire? If there is anything he has, it's time. Oodles of it.

And when she fought he couldn't stop the admiration from filling his long dead heart and forcing his trademark chuckle out of his lungs as he charged in behind her. Watching her kill, and hunt, and love it all, he fought even harder knowing that she was his, and his alone.

But when she lay with him at night, her hidden animal resting with a purr, and her legs twined with his, he truly felt peace. And when he felt her breath warm his cold flesh, he knew, just as he always had, that he never had a chance to resist her.

For her it came instantly. She knew it from the first time she locked eyes with him that he was the one. She took one look at his peroxide hair, leather jacket, and snarky smirk and felt her heart clench.

She hadn't known what real love was yet but she knew that he was something different, something special. Sure, she had crushed on the boys at her school like all the other girls, but nothing like this. Not like this man before her. Her man. Hers.

She waited patiently for him, biding her time with normal human pastimes. School, music, family, friends... she played the role she was given, the part she was expected to play and no one looked twice. She hid her darkness, her budding sexuality and her thirst for knowledge underneath the expected façade and no one ever wondered what made her tick. She played the good girl, but she was always just black edged with white.

And god, it was hard for her to wait knowing he could smell her excitement when he came into the room. She glanced at him and saw his nostrils flare for the brief instant and knew, god, she knew. And then his eyes turned to her, hungry and arrogant, but he never acted on it. She saw the smirk tug at his lips but saw the pain hidden there. She hoped he ached like she ached.

She waited so long for him to realize that he belonged to her and she to him.

And after that first initial taste of his lips after spending so many years starving for him, she couldn't stop. She soaked him in until she was completely saturated with him, until all she could smell was him; all she could see was him, all she could know was him. Without his essence surrounding her she felt cold and empty and found herself standing at his door before she knew what she was doing.

Like the ocean, he was hard and soft when he loved her. Sometimes, he took care to kiss every part of her body. He covered her with oils and massaged her sore body until she melted into the mattress. Other times, he fucked her so hard she had bruises for weeks in the shape of his hands. Sometimes she felt the distinct urge to show them off, prance about wearing them like medals. She loved raking her long finger nails down his back in return. She loved how his nose wrinkled when she did it and how he growled the second she felt blood touch her fingers. Either way he worshipped her and she loved him back. God, she loved him.

And she knew that Angel could smell the sex all over them and Xander could see them secretly holding hands under the table. And through their glares and helpless pleading, she didn't care! She only became worse over time, taking more risks, becoming more like him, becoming his, just waiting for them to snap.

Xander told her to stop. That he'd tell her clueless sister. That he was disgusting. That Spike was poison. That Spike was dirt. That she should be ashamed. That he was beneath her. Xander had a black eye for a week.

Angel tried to talk her out of it, tried to scare her with his tales of Spike's gruesome past, but she just smiled at him and brought up Angelus and laughed when she saw his soul squirm inside him. She could feel his guilt ridden gaze burn her back and felt a smudge of guilt when she realized that he thought it was fault. But it wasn't, it was fate.

And her sister was so clueless, her green eyes vacant. But she was so in love with Spike she couldn't see the truth. Her vision of having anything she wanted, namely Spike, seemingly belong to her was so acute that Spike had to stop her from killing her sister on a regular basis. But sometimes her sister's stupidity clung to her. She knew her sister had the potential to be so smart, but love blinded her so completely that she couldn't comprehend the fact that most of the Scoobies had accepted months, years ago. She was always so sure that she was right. But she just smirked at her ignorant sister and shook her head in amusement knowing that her sister would only dream about the feel of Spike's body over her, the feeling of his lips on her body, and the feeling of his love warming her when his body could not. Her sister could only dream... but she, she lived it.

In the darkness they laughed with their blue eyes aglow. And they killed, and laughed, and loved, and fucked endlessly until one day blended into the next. When people saw them together, they couldn't help but stare at the couple who moved as one, thought as one, loved as one. Envy was an emotion she was slowly getting used to receiving.

But as much as she loved the night, she loved it best in the early hours of the morning when she could watch him sleep. He was so still, it was unreal. This was when the truth of Xander's accusations hit her. When he was animated, she could forget. But when he was asleep, he didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't... live. He was a corpse and she was a living, breathing thing. But then she looked at his face and realized how much she loved the slight quirk to his lips as he slept and the way his long eyelashes lay against his cheek. She'd place her head over his heart and wondered if he ever heard it beating at times.

When she brushed her lips against his eyelids to wake him and he claimed her lips so softly, she knew, just as she always had, that she never had a chance to resist him.

Not when he spoke her name softly into the darkness.

"Dawn," he whispered. "Dawn."

.end.