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many many thanks for all the wonderful reviews
‘Buffy pet,’ he said, stroking her cheek; she felt as soft and warm as she always had but there was no response at all. She lay on her side, her hand curled under her cheek, and her hair falling softly around her face. He could still see where the tracks of her tears had left their pathway on her face. His poor Buffy, left so totally alone. His unbeating heart seemed to pound in his chest, he had never felt so helpless. He just wanted to hold her in his arms and keep all her demons away. His own demon just wanted to kill something or someone. Spike could admit it at last: she was his queen, his love and his heart. He hadn’t needed to get a soul, his lay on the bed, with her blond hair spread around her.

Spike stroked her face again; her skin felt soft and smooth under his hand and there was no evidence of decay or stiffness. It was just like she had gone to sleep. Spike took another deep breath and tried to taste her presence in the air, but there was nothing, just the fading scent of her that was about a week old.

Spike thought about what Joyce had said. He had never been one for fucking dead bodies, other than Dru and Harmony of course, but they still had the moves and this was akin to rape. She couldn’t say yes or no, lying on the bed.

Spike laughed to himself: at least she couldn’t back-answer him this time. Spike leant forward and kissed her on the cheek gently, sliding his lips over her skin towards her mouth. The skin was cold under his touch; it reminded him of Dru and he felt a shiver run down his spine. The last thing he needed was for something to remind him of that nutcase of an ex. He looked at Buffy’s closed eyes and kissed those with equal tenderness, one butterfly kiss to each closed lid. Her eye lashes made perfect half moons on her pale cheeks.

He bent down and kissed the side of her face and took her hand in his. It looked so tiny in his grip: he knew how strong it could be, but now it looked little more than a child’s. He would have given anything to feel a pulse in that hand, to feel it bunch into a fist to hit him, but there was nothing: no movement, no pulse, no life whatsoever. He leant forward and he deepened the kiss on her lips, his tongue trying to force open her lips to explore inside that beloved mouth. It opened slackly; no muscles kept it closed. Spike pushed her over onto her back and rubbed his hand across and then under her white blouse. A quick rip and the buttons flew everywhere and her bra and breasts were open for his perusal. Still nothing. Buffy hadn’t reacted at all, and to something that she would have normally complained about.

He stroked her thigh, running his hand up the outside, revelling in the feel of her beneath his hand, beneath his touch. She felt as good as he remembered; he stroked up underneath her skirt and he felt the tiny thong covering her womanhood. He smelt the air, but there was no familiar smell of her arousal, nothing scenting the air. He kissed her deeply on the lips again, working his way down her body, suckling at her nipples, hoping against hope that she or at least her body would start to respond.

He pulled the zipper down on his jeans, releasing his cock from its confinement. He put his free hand on his shaft and started to stroke it, feeling it harden in his grasp. Spike wanted it to be Buffy who held him, but she was still lying lifeless beneath him. When he was hard, he slipped both hands up her thighs and gently pulled the thong down her legs. It was a little scrap of red lace, the sort he used to steal from her, and she was wearing a little leather skirt, just how he liked her. No pants. If he didn’t know better he might have thought he was expected.

He straightened her legs, and gently nudged open her thighs, settling himself in the cradle of her hips; he could feel her opening, tight and dry… damn, he hadn’t thought about that!! No arousal, no lubrication. He reached over and opened her bedside drawer, hoping that she had some supplies in it. Luck was with him: he opened up the oil and poured a little into the palm of his hand before rubbing it over his shaft. It felt cool against his skin. Spike looked at he girl beneath him and closed his eyes. He couldn’t bear to see her lying so still a moment longer. He felt between their bodies with his long fingers, feeling the softness of her folds and pushed a finger deep inside her, stretching her flesh beneath his touch. He could smell no arousal from her, but he added a second, then a third finger, moving within her body, reaching that sweet spot that used to have her arching into him. He opened his eyes to look at her once again and his choice was made. He positioned his oiled cock at her entrance and with one push he was imbedded deeply within her. His movements garnered no reaction at all, but he kept moving within: he could feel his orgasm far too far off. Tupping a corpse was no joy at all. He tried to remember the times when Buffy had been conscious, had joined with him gleefully and with abandon. The memories of their loving nights, especially of the last one before Sunnydale fell, brought him closer and closer to the rapture he needed. But he was still way off: he looked down at her tempting neck, there was no pulse to draw him, but Buffy’s neck was always a special place for him. He could see the marks of his late unlamented grandsire and they garnered a growl from his demon, the demon that broke through, his eyes turning yellow and his face slipping into its demonic guise. He felt his fangs sink into her butter soft skin, he could taste that addictive slayer essence and the sweetness that was Buffy; but beneath it all he could taste a sourness, a bitterness that had no business in his sweet lady.

The touch of slayer’s blood on his tongue was all that was needed to push him over the edge into bliss. He could feel himself pump into her still body; his heart broke as he realised she still hadn’t responded to him at all. He could feel the tears fall unbidden from his eyes. So much for the ‘Big Bad,’ he thought with little more than contempt for himself. It was akin to rape, what he had done. He rolled off his beloved’s body and tried to control the shaking that had overtaken his body.
There was a strange taste in his mouth: the blood had been tainted and not with death. There was poison in it: he could taste it fouling his mouth. Spike climbed back on top of Buffy’s body: it was the easiest position to reach her neck. He sank his fangs back into the mark he had recently met, sucking gently on the scar, pulling out not blood, but the toxin that had taken her life. He spat out the vile brew every time it hit his mouth, sucking harder and harder to remove every trace from Buffy’s body.

‘What a wonderful way to wake up,’ a soft voice said to him, ‘you on top of me, and already naked.’

Spike pushed himself up on his arms, to stare down into the most wonderful sight he had ever seen. A pair of sparkling green eyes looking up at him.





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