Disclaimer: They do not belong to me.

A/N: A late fill for Fag End's Sensory Deprivation week. I (sort of) filled all of them: blindfold, tied up, pinched nose, ear plugs (here's the sort of), and burnt tongue.

Spike asks her to look at him. His eyes are blue and pleading, the candlelight flickering and reflected in his dilated pupils.

She does. She turns her head, the hair that isn't stuck to her forehead flying a bit instead of bouncing the way it used to, and she looks. Her eyes are green and harsh and brimming with pain. Her lips twist beautifully, painfully and her white teeth appear between them. Her nose wrinkles and her jaw tightens.

Her eyes travel the length of his body, taking in the shifting muscles and the claw marks that she's left along his skin, red and pink against the paleness.

Then she moves off of him. She stands, leaves the bed. Walks up and away from him and slinks off into the shadows.

Her arms shake.

She tears into his dresser. One drawer falls to the stone floor and a crack travels up its front, parallel to the handle. His clothes fly across the crypt. Blue silk and black denim and dark cotton. They fly off and settle in the dark, unlit corners of the crypt. A bright spot against the dark wood of a salvaged, slightly tatter arm chair. An indiscernible dark shape against a patterned rug.

The tee-shirt tears into two in her hands and she holds it up for him to see when she's in front of him again.

She does as he asked, she meets his eyes.

The last thing he sees before she ties the dark fabric around his face is hate.


Her hands are hot against his skin.

Her fingers leave trails through the damp of their mixed sweat, scorching and burning where they touch.

Her nails dig into him, cutting, and her fingers tighten around his ribs, which still ache from the last time she shoved her palm against his chest until his back became acquainted with the soft sheets.

He feels her tongue against his throat, more damp left behind. Her teeth bite into the sharp protrusion of his collarbone.

His hands trail up her legs until her finds her ass. Her hips move under his touch, thrusting, turning. The bone bites into his palm.

He finds her ribs, sticking though, and her breasts. He cups one with his right hand, feels it bounce as she moves, feels the hardness of her nipple.

His left hand trails up the rest of her spine, over damp skin that should have been covered with damp, silky hair. Rises and falls with her breathing.

The muscles in her throat flex when she swallows and under the pad of his thumb he can feel the raised, hardened skin. He can feel the thin loop of hardened scar tissue in a shape he remembers biting into his own skin, once, when everything felt loose under his touch and Angelus' hands were strong around him.

Her fingers are warm and tight when they close around her arm. Her grab is forceful, tugs the muscles in his shoulders and slams his fingers against the wall.

The steel is cold against his wrist, but not as cold as the clinical movements she takes to tie him there.


She smells like sweat and dust. Like those burgers she'd spent all day with, like grease and salt and extra cheese.

She smells like his pleasure and her misery.

She smells like coconut and hibiscus shampoo and unscented soap and water that ran through clean pipes. She smells like makeup and by-the-bulk handsoap.

She smells like blood, hers and someone else's, but no one human.

She smells like things he can't even smell, not really, but that he knows he would, if only he could. Things like ink and paper from bills. Things like dryer sheets and bleach, the mess someone else left in the bathroom and like lemon-scented air freshener to cover it up.

She smells like pancakes for breakfast and the butter on top and orange juice and Pepsi and a low-fat yoghurt for lunch.

She smells like the sunshine he hasn't really seen for himself in over two years and the mulch from around the cemetery trees and the grass they'd clipped earlier in the day.

She smells like something fresh and bright and powerful in a place that smells like the dead, and like old candles burning already burnt wicks and simmering in a pool of already melted wax, and like mould and damp and must.

He smells her close to him.

Primal and wonderful and he opens his mouth to drink her in more.

Her scent fills him and her hand pinches shut his nose.


She is panting.

He can hear the air filling her lungs, the rough, wet gasps and the little noises she makes in the back of her throat.

Beneath them, the bedframe groans and the springs creak and the sheets rub together damply. Their skin collides and sticks when she pries them apart with the faint sound of suction.

"God, you're amazing."

Pant. Gasp.

"Shut up, Spike."


The sound of flesh against flesh.

"God, I love you. Love you so much."

The creaking slows, the panting continues, but the gasping stops, her breathes become more even.

The blindfold is pulled to cover his ears as well, the fabric crinkles.

Her voice is muffled. "No more."


He opens his mouth to drink in the taste of her, to take in all that he can.

The rest of the tee-shirt is shoved in. His tongue is pressed firmly against the wad of dirty fabric, tasting nothing anymore besides cotton and must, as though his tongue is scalded.

He could spit it out, it's only her hand that holds his mouth shut.

He doesn't.

This is what she wants.