Take Heart 5, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R; warning: character deaths and squick;
Timeline: After a different Primeval, BtVS 4.21;
Author's note: Originally written for The Deadly Hook, Apocalypse Ficathon. Big hug to the glorious Spikejones for betaing;
Author's website: http://home.planet.nl/~dutchbuffy2305;
Feedback: Yes, please, loads of it, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
in the small lonely hours of the night, Spike and the Slayer finally drag their weary bones onto the yard of 1630 Revello drive. Problem is, theirs aren’t the only weary bones they’re dragging. Carrying three people on their backs shouldn't tire out either a vampire or a Slayer, but when it's all balled together in a lukewarm mass of Riley flesh the size and consistency of a couple of monster bean bags, even vampires start to feel old and hard used.
The Slayer, though, has sufficient energy left to stumble to a halt at one of the home-made markers that grace the front lawn and to whip up a few sobs at the thought of her mum being buried there. She grabs his hand and her fingers are colder than his. It tugs faintly at his usually unmoving heart and he shakes his head like a dog, trying to dislodge the sympathy that's been squatting there lately, leaving crumpled wrappers of care and empty bottles of nice.
“Don’t stand there gawping, Slayer. Mr. Bloat here is killing me.”
She doesn’t listen. Like that’s new.
"Spike?" she says. "Ya think we could try my Mom?"
He looks down at her not even faintly hopeful face and knows he doesn't have to answer, he could just raise a sardonic eyebrow and she'd be reduced to tears. Instead, he tucks her limp hair behind her ear – ‘shell-like ear’, the bad poet inside suggests.
"Think not, love," he answers softly. "Not a magical death, not living in my head."
"Yeah," she says. “That’s what I thought.”
She keeps standing there, staring at the clumsy lettering and Spike can feel all her determination run out and drain into the grave. He doesn’t want her to lose that, he realizes. If she doesn’t care anymore, they're just going to be two pathetically fucked up losers, flotsam on fate's breakers, bound to be smashed against the next likely rock.
He drops his end of the fleshy amoeba they’re lugging around and takes a deep breath. Right. Because, who better to counsel the traumatized than the causer of so much trauma?
"Saw some nice flowers a couple of houses back," he offers. "What color did old Joyce like?"
Her spine straightens infinitesimally. "Yellow. She really liked yellow."
She doesn’t meet his eyes but there’s the faintest spark in her gaze again.
"I could go pick some, or maybe just show you where they are?"
"Yeah. Okay."
They trudge back, but without the triple-Riley weight, it isn’t so hard anymore. The sky is lightening faintly on the eastern horizon and the small stand of yellow flowers in someone’s front yard is just visible.
Buffy hesitates. "Won't it be stealing?"
"Turn off the K-LOVE for once, Slayer. Don’t think the owners will notice a few flowers more or less in the general devastation,” Spike says.
Buffy looks up and takes in the burnt-out cars, rotting corpses and dropped loot that dot the yards and the street as afar as she can see. "Right. They're probably dead, don’t you think? It would actually be a criminal waste of good flowers not to pick them."
*
Spike waits out the long slow day on the porch of the Summers' house, smoking and watching the Slayer break her back digging up bodies. Harris is lying on the porch already, looking and smelling very unattractive, but it's innate Harris smell and unattractiveness, not rot and decay. Spike knows intimately what a three day old human body smells like. He’d have to go find Dru's secret stashes of dead victims when the stench started to leak out to the neighbors. She used to hide live ones against a rainy day and forget about them like an alcoholic squirrel. Harris doesn’t smell half as bad as he ought to. There’s a tiny bit of hope in that, although reason tells him that ripping out someone’s heart and eating it ought to put paid to anyone. The mass of Riley flesh keeps stirring faintly, still warm and springy to the touch. The poor sod must somehow still be alive. There must be gallons and gallons of blood in there, but he can’t stir up much of an appetite. Maybe later.
It feels good thing to smoke again, even if it's not his brand. During their trek through the tunnels, taking longer than the rise and fall of the Roman Empire and as slow, dragging the unwieldy heavy blob of magical Riley flesh, he discovered several ex-smokers and relieved them of their no longer needed fags. The Slayer just stood and watched him do it, even her overactive moral sense bludgeoned by the past few days. The packs smell of rotting person, the fags themselves don't. He exhales slowly, sending vibes of calm to the grimly determined Slayer. She's almost indestructible physically, as she's proving every minute she’s digging on, but she needs his emotional support over the connection, a virtual hand in the small of her back. She knows he’s doing it, and she doesn’t thank him for it, but he’s gotten distinctly less death-ray looks directed his way. From the perspective of a predator, it’s kind of hard to say if this is a good thing or exactly the opposite.
Spike plans to join her as soon as it's dark enough. He prefers his corpses fresher or more accurately, prefers to create them himself, but he has very little choice in the matter. He must join the Slayer in her ill-conceived undertaking or roam the world saddled with stowaway Scoobies. He'd rather not think of the one moment when he could have escaped from the whole sodding business, when they were trying to re-humanize Riley and the Scoobies inadvertently leaked out. That moment, when he was spell-free and could have escaped, is winking its annoying little red light at him from the back of his brain. Fool, it says. You could have been halfway through the population of Barstow by now. There's nothing here for you. Next time you get a chance, run. Don’t fixate on this one opportunity, there’ll be another Slayer to kill somewhere, someday. This is never going to end well.
Spike knows that. It’s deeply unnatural for a vampire to be helping a Slayer, and the more so because it's kind of voluntary, but he can’t help being fascinated by the sheer wrongness and incipient pain of the whole sordid affair. When you’re a vampire there aren't many lines you haven’t crossed yet, and this one line, between wholeheartedly evil and something else, is just begging him to heave over a dusty boot and to thoroughly scuff it.
His attention sharpens. She’s about to pull a muscle.
"Oi, love!" he calls out. “Come up here for a sec!”
Buffy frowns, turns her face to him, but she needs to straighten up to see him properly and he sees he wince and use her hands to support her back. Even Slayers need a little break. Reluctantly she walks up to him. She stops a little distance away from the porch, in smoke-filtered sunlight, keeping away from the shadows where he lurks. Her eyes are sending him a message he can’t quite grasp, could it be gratitude? Not a message he’s ever received before, but her words have their usual snippiness.
"Now what, Spike? And don’t call me ‘love’. It’s tacky and besides, not ever gonna go there."
“Don’t get all swelled-head about it, Slayer. It’s not what I call people I love.”
Spike bends forward as far as he can, but there are ate least two yards between him and the Slayer's troubled brow. "Time for a break, rest those tired Slayer muscles."
He thinks with a pang about their cozy cave up Kingman's Bluff, of the weeks of packaged food they scrounged. Not to mention all those lovely weapons.
Buffy opens her mouth to speak, but changes her mind. Her facial muscles stretch and contract, as if she tastes something particularly nasty and is trying to expel it from her mouth.
“Thanks for your concern, Spike,” she says.
It’s Spike’s turn to feel an unwonted sagging of the cheek muscles holding up his jaw, a part of his body he tends to keep tightly sucked in because it makes him look cool.
“You’re welcome, Buffy,” he says. The American phrase escapes his lips before his can check it.
“A Slayer and a vampire being polite to each other? The world must really be ending,” she says, almost playfully.
Involuntarily Spike checks the sun, but it isn’t as black as sackcloth of hair. That’s a relief.
Buffy gets back to her digging and Spike gets back to his smoking.
“Help me out, here, Slayer! Give me something to do? There’s no telly, no blood, pussy temporarily unavailable, no incipient mayhem in sight.” He takes a long drag on his fag and watches the Slayer’s back twitch at his mention of pussy. “My left hand could use a little lovin’. Wanna watch?”
She doesn’t respond and Spike gives up on needling her for the nonce. It’s just talk, anyway He doesn’t feel like putting his dick anywhere but up her tight little snatch, which is beyond weird and into downright unfamiliar territory. Dru would never have grudged him a bit of quality time with his dick and fucking a meal was the understood thing. He eyes the top of Harris’s head, the clots of earth in his curly hair, and wonders if those are his feelings. Have to be, Spike thinks. Not his. The Slayer’s his enemy, no more and no less.
When’s she’s dug up Willow, the Slayer needs to take a nap. Spike thinks of suggesting another way of getting rid of her tiredness and sore muscles, but he keeps his trap shut. Slayer’s only too happy to do something normal, or at least, mundane, something that doesn’t require ‘icky’ sex mojo with the undead to get it done. So he leaves her be when she tiredly slogs up the stairs.
Dusk pads in on sneaky velvet feet like a hungry cat on the prowl. Spike’s just about to wake Buffy up when all his senses jump to alert. The hair on his neck and forearms rises, and he looks round wildly to identify the danger. A subsonic whine starts up. He still can’t determine where it’s coming from and he jerks in uncontrollable vampire reflex when he’s bathed in a flare of brilliant light. A chaotic jumble of sounds assaults his ears at the same time and he’s in game face, ducking behind the railing before he can make sense of the attack.
The power’s back on. The blinding light is just the street lights and the porch light switching on at the same time. The noise is generated by all the lawnmowers, TVs, fridges and hairdryers that were surprised by the power-outage turning back on. Bugger. This means they’re running out of time; someone in the outside world has noticed the king is dead, long live the king. Spike briefly toys with the idea of ruling over Sunnydale’s nightly aspect, but decides against it. Too much work to get back his ruined reputation here; nobody will ever trust him again, not after working with the Slayer and co-killing their former leader.
He takes the stairs three at a time to wake the Slayer. He finds her in her dusty girlish bedroom, lying face down on her bed fully dressed and even booted. Aw. She looks very small and young like that. Edible. His stomach rumbles. Never mind. He shakes her shoulder gently.
“Slayer.”
No reaction. She must be very deeply asleep.
“Slayer!”
A little louder this time. Still nothing.
“Buffy?”
“Huh?” her sleepy voice mumbles and she stretches luxuriously, curling and uncurling all the major muscle groups by the look of it, serving him up all her luscious little curves and sleep-flushed skin in bite-sized portions. She turns over and looks at him with her eyes dark and soft, only half-awake. She licks her lips, even lusher now that they’re completely lipstick-less. “Spike? You wanna…?”
His cock stirs in response but he reminds it sternly that he rules it, not it him.
“Anytime, Slayer, except now. The power’s back on. That means that any time now civil busybodies from all over the State, or possibly the real army, are gonna come pouring in.”
The Slayer’s deeply struck by his words. “The power? The power is back on?”
She jumps off the bed and starts rooting around in her closet, for weapons, Spike assumes. She comes up triumphantly, face happy and shining, with clothes and underwear. “I’m gonna take a shower. The power’s back on! I can shower again, and wash my hair, and my teeth are just disgusting! ”
She dances out of the door.
“Hey! Who do you think I am, Cassandra, predicting the fall of Troy? Have I been ranting, rending my clothes or tearing my hair? We’re in a hurry. There is no time for froofy things like showers!” he shouts after her.
The Slayer sticks her head back in. “You should take one too,“ she says pointedly and disappears again. He smells? He sniffs his armpits. Not really. Mind, his clothes, especially his trousers, are filthy enough to stand up by themselves.
“Spike!” the Slayer hollers over the sound of the shower running.
She’s summoning him. Great. One shower and she’s Buffy the Hun.
“Yeah?”
“You could go dig up Giles? It is dark out there.”
Of course, that’s just what he was planning. It’s still galling to get orders, and even worse that he’s halfway down the stairs before he realizes this. Women. Now he gets why men have lost their edge lately. It’s showers and electricity. When the women felt undergroomed and frowsty and stinky all the time, which was most of history, men easily got the better of them, but now they can continuously wash and condition themselves and that gives them the advantage.
The shovel is where the Slayer’s left it, the handle cold but still dirty and sweaty from her hands. Right. He ambles over to the third grave and starts digging. It’s not that hard, as the ground hasn’t had time to set, and it seems like minutes rather than hours that the shovel catches something soft but dense. Oops. He hopes he hasn’t hacked of an essential limb. No, the blade has just left a gash in the solid flesh of Giles’ upper arm. It doesn’t bleed, silly of him to expect it to.
He uncovers half of Giles and then pulls the rest of him out of the ground by the arms. A living body couldn’t withstand such treatment, but as Giles is dead, he’ll hardly tell tales. He stacks the heavy body neatly onto the porch, next to the other two, and even takes the trouble to brush off a worm or two from Giles’s muddy face. There.
The Slayer wafts out of the door wreathed in smiles and fruity girly scents. She glows from her recent shower and her hair still gives off heat from her bout of hair drying. In her clean jeans and flimsy top she resembles once again the annoying, perfectly groomed Slayer he used to hate than instead of the silent, grim and dirty person he’s spent the last few days with. Of course, the fucking would also be a clue that things had changed.
“Did you do Giles? Great. Go shower. We have a spell to do, and perfume de grave is so not a turn-on.”
She waves a few fingers in his direction and it’s as if there are strings attached between those little finger and his groin, because he’d swear his blood starts sizzling and his hair is stiffening on his head from the wave of desire that sweeps over him. The only thing he could say right now would probably sound much like ‘guh’ so he takes the sensible route and silently exits the porch. As he heads for the shower at a fast clip, shedding coat and shirt on the way up, his mind scouts ahead to what will await him. A clean and happy Slayer, lying in wait for him on her soft girly bed, eager and willing.
It’s hard to get his pants off over his throbbing hard-on. When the hot water hits him the heat is overwhelming, making him dizzy with longing for hers. The water sliding down his skin reminds him of her hands. He has to lean his belly against the cold tile of the shower cubicle to calm himself down, so he won’t go off with a pop like an untimely firecracker.
He’s not calming down, the hot water is sending the sluggish undead blood racing through his veins, making even his fingertips throb. The Slayer. He’s gonna shag the Slayer and it’s as if he hasn’t been there before, the anticipation is almost too much. He dimly remembers boredom and annoyance the first few times ad what was he thinking then? She’s a goddess, a living talking avatar of Venus, Aphrodite, Kwan Yin…
A brusque banging on the door of the shower cubicle rudely interrupts his daydreaming. Spike grins. He’s ready and willing for her. He slides the door open and steps out in all his dripping glory.
The Slayer swallows visibly and steps back, but there’s not that much space in the small bathroom. Her heart is beating like that of a tiny bird, he can almost feel it trembling against the palms of his hands and in a minute, he will.
“Spike,” she squeaks. “You’re all, um, clean. Towel now!”
She flings a big fluffy towel in his direction. The Slayer is so thrown by the sight of his big thick manly bits that’s she’s fluttering around the room like a frightened kolibri, and he’s quite content to leave her in that state. Adrenalin is adrenalin, never mind if it’s powered by fear or lust, or both. He flicks the towel behind his back and slowly dries himself, his eyes never straying from the Slayer. She trembles under his gaze but doesn’t waver.
“See something you like, Slayer?” he drawls.
“As if,” her voice quavers gamely. “Showing off your stupid washboard abs. Get your skanky undead body over to the basement, Spike. We have business to conduct.”
“Basement? I think not. Your bedroom will do just fine.”
Spike folds his arms over his chest, aware that it forces her gaze to drop lower. She blushes hotly, unable to look away, unable to acknowledge it. In that wavering moment he gently grasps her hand, pleased that her hand isn’t that much hotter than his is for the moment. He slides his hand up her arm and lets it come to rest on her shoulder. His other hand grabs the hand he just left.
“Spike,” she says faintly. “Let go of me. You don’t get to go there. No hands.”
So he can fuck her but he can’t hold hands? He’s gonna pay that no mind. And she’s saying the words, but her body is leaning into him for all it’s worth. He tugs her towards the bedroom across the hall. The Slayer’s color fluctuates and her breath comes fast and shallow. When Spike steps inside he’s overwhelmed by the bedroom in a way he wasn’t an hour ago when he was in here. Then it was just a messy dusty girl’s room, faintly musty with sleep. Now it’s a fragrant bower, filled to the brim with the scent of clean Slayer. It pulses all around him and he has to lean on her shoulder for a fraction of a moment. He pushes her down on her bed and kneels at her feet. He takes of her soft slippers and slides his hand up to the cream of her thighs.
“We don’t have to make it harder than it is, do we, Slayer? Might as well reward ourselves for all the effort and heartache this has given us, right?”
Her hand rises slowly to his face and comes to rest on his lower lip. “Soft…” she says, surprised.
“Just like you,” Spike says and leans in for a kiss.
Her satiny skin tingles against his cheeks even before he touches her and she tastes like milk and honey, a sun-warmed ripe morsel of living flesh. They land softly in her bed in a tangle of limbs, the sweet feeling of skin sliding against naked skin. The Slayer twists her lush hips and just like that, he's in. He cries out from the shock as he slides into the oven of her cunt and almost feels a sweat break out over his whole body. Instead, he laps up the dew from her brow.
"Spike," she breathes.
"Buffy," he answers. "Slayer, I mean."
"Buffy's fine." She glows at him, shimmying underneath him; her powerful thigh and belly muscles have no problem at all shifting his weight. She doesn't feel like prey, the blood fizzing and bubbling inside her is not to be uncorked like champagne but to warm his cold body until it feels alive.
Once again, the Slayer confounds him. She flips them over as if she's done it countless times before, which he knows to be untrue, and starts to ride him. Her absurdly small hands grip his upper arms and immobilize him. Ooh, dominant, he likes that in a woman. What couldn't she be, if she turned her mind to it, warrior already, but also lover and queen and goddess. Her breasts tremble like little jelly puddings in front of his face and he closes his mouth around an insistent nipple.
"Spike, I'm…you're…."
She stutters, he waits breathlessly for he knows not what.
“You have stupid hair,” she blurts out finally.
That’s not quite what he expected from her trembling gaze and eager body. It vaguely disturbs him, more than a compliment or her usual jibes. What makes her say this?
She makes art with her body, not with her words, that's clear, but he can play the speaking part to complement her.
"This his how you like it, Slayer, innit, ride me, whip me into a lather, fuck me until I can't speak, fuck me black and blue, I know you can do it, let it go, it's in there, the power to make men tremble and beg, come on, Slayer, show me what you're made of…"
Her cheeks pinken but she slams down on him harder, like he asked, faster, her breath pistoning in and out like the little engine that could. He grabs her ass and angles her body so he hits her even deeper and the tremble that starts in her thighs is making magic, sending shocks through him like lashes of an electric whip. Her hair whips around her in a golden cloud. It's a lion's mane, she's growling like a lioness, raking her claws over his nipples, drawing blood, blood as red as the tip of tongue between her opened lips. The smell of his own blood makes him wild, he catches her breasts again, one with his fingers, twisting the nipple hard, one with his teeth, biting the areola until he draws a little blood. He hadn't realized he'd vamped out, and then the taste of Slayer blood and the relentless rhythm on his cock make him thrust through the light barrier into a star-splattered universe of bloody suns going supernova.
"Spike, oh god Spike, you make me… you're so…make me go I…"
The Slayer clenches around him so hard and so long that he recovers enough to open his eyes and gazes into hers as she subsides, glowing and sweaty and tousle-haired on top of him, frozen still in shock and panic.
Spike's still rock hard inside her, his name in her voice penetrating his brain like an arrow of pain and longing.
Buffy's quivering around him hard enough to rattle her teeth and he reaches out and gives her clit a tiny tap. She goes off into the stratosphere again, crying big fat tears and calling out his name once more.
She collapses on his chest, crying in earnest now. Spike would console her but he really needs to come again and he turns them over so he can pound her into the bed. She's limp, pliable as putty and he pushes up her knees as far as they go so he can get in deeper.
The Slayer's moaning through her tears, spurring him on with her sniffled words of "Spike, Spike, you’re Spike, you’re so wrong, harder, Spike!"
She shrieks out the last word, slapping his ass in an orgy of release, almost bucking him off the bed. Spike manages to hold on until she's done, balls his fists into the bedding, and shoots his brains out in her depths. Fuck, Slayer, who knew? The caterwauling and the spanking, the sheer stamina. He lies splayed out like a starfish over her slack panting body. She's emptied him out, blood and guts, there's nothing left. He forces one hand to come up and clamps it on one heavily marked breast. His.
Buffy moans against his cheek and he rolls them over so she's on top. She climbs up to him and starts kissing him feverishly, sticking her tongue down his throat deeper than he thought he’d like. She grabs his ears like they're pot handles and maneuvers herself on his cock again. She grinds herself against him, shuddering every few moments or so in a small shiver of ecstasy.
"Spike," she pants, "I need more, go on, more power, we need more, fuck me, harder!"
Christ. Spike wishes this glorious moment could be videotaped so he could spend the rest of his immortal life wanking off on the memory of it. She’s a gorgeous mess as she works furiously on top of him, hair all over the place, flushed and blotched, covered in scratches and bite marks. He doesn’t even remember scratching. She's losing the rhythm, finally getting tired, and Spike rises to the occasion by throwing her off. He positions her body on the edge of the bed, ass flush with the edge, heels beside it.
"Spike!” She whimpers, and tries to impale herself on him again. "Need more. Spike!"
Spike gets on his knees and thrusts in. She holds on to the edge of the bed and this is a perfect position to play with her, he has his hands free. He slides his finger over her clit. It’s hard to find because she's so sopping wet. Her flushed nipples beckon to his mouth and he nibbles on them.
"Harder," Buffy moans deliriously "Bite me, Spike, bite me."
Not an invitation he’s likely to refuse. He licks her neck until she screams and dissolves in orgasm and then just before he actually pierces the skin he realizes that it would give everything away and shifts out of game face. The Slayer doesn’t seem to notice; she keeps on convulsing around him and he loses himself in his own orgasm.
When he opens his eyes, he stares straight into the Slayer’s green gaze. She's silent and he feels a heartbeat drumming slowly and heavily in his chest, hers, he hopes. He buries his hands in her hair and brings his face close to hers.
"Buffy," he whispers.
Her breath hitches and he notices he's still inside her. He moves infinitesimally to reposition and she shudders and comes. She’s incredible.
Her eyes are big and shining. "Spike, you're…we…that was… disturbing. Is this what it's supposed to be really like?"
"What?"
"Love?"
Spike screeches like a girl and is out of her with his back to her bedroom door before he can think.
"What? No. No! Not love. Of course not. Are you out of your mind? I'm a vampire, you're a Slayer. Never. I'm going to kill you when this is over, you understand?"
Buffy crawls over to him like a panther, all limpid eyes and glowing golden skin. She puts a finger on his lips. It smells of sperm and her own come. "Ssh, Spike. I didn’t know it could be like this. The spell must have given you a temporary soul or I wouldn't feel like this."
Spike tries to merge with the door. "No soul. Not love. Let's keep this professional, Slayer. No time for play. Don’t torture the nice vampire, we have work to do. Remember? Willow Rosenberg, cute little witch in dead Muppet skin? Xander Harris, puppy eyes and stumbly feet? Slayer! Rupert Giles, the man with the biggest British brain in California?"
She coos at him and strokes his hair. "Your eyes are blue, Spike. I hadn’t noticed before. You are my mission, Spike. I know now. I'm meant to lead you to your redemption."
This is what vampire’s victims feel like, Spike remembers it well. Utter hopelessness, that trapped sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. He’s doomed. Nothing like the words soul and redemption to cool a man’s ardor.
He thinks hard, steels himself and leans in for a kiss. "Righty, Slayer. I have to help your friends to be redeemed. Like food for my soul, soul food. Like blood, only different. See? Let's get dressed and do the mojo on your friends. They deserve to be rescued too, just like me."
Buffy nods. "I’m your savior." She cranes her neck to check out her shoulder blades. "I might grow wings. Downy white wings."
"Yeah, right. Might spoil the cut of your clothes, don’t you think? Get dressed and get to work. We’re in a hurry. The real cavalry might come galloping in any moment now."
Bugger, he might be more right than he thought. What time is it? How long have they been at it? He wipes himself off perfunctorily with the towel and hops into his cold, repulsive jeans, struggling to get his still hard cock in without skinning himself on the teeth of the zipper. Buffy just stands there, pouting, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
"Yeah? What are you waiting for, Slayer? Get a move on, will you?"
She holds out the towel to him with the widest smile he’s ever seen in his direction, except that one time, with the spell. Spells. They always go wrong. He hasn't dreamed getting the chip out, has he? No, he drank her blood. He wants to touch the chip to make extra sure but it’s in his duster, somewhere downstairs.
"Spi-ike…."
Right. Buffy, towel.
"I’m so dirty here, Spike," she says coyly and points to her crotch. "It’s all ooky and stuff."
"Ooky" from the woman who shrieked at him like a demented banshee, ordering him to go harder, faster, and deeper? Spike shivers involuntarily at the memory, but at the same time, he’s relieved. She’s reverting, thank god. Any moment now she'll frown and stamp her foot and call him a disgusting pig. That would be normal and comforting.
"You could lick me clean?" she says and parts her legs to show him sweet pink folds pearled with dewy come.
Spike's knees hit the floor as if his legs have been chopped off and he has his hands on the Slayers silky thighs before he can decide not to.
"Slayer…" he says hoarsely. "Don't."
She mewls like a hungry kitten and thrusts her fragrant cunny in his face. Spike hungrily sucks her clit. He can’t not. He hates being this helpless. It’s the spell. Damn spell. His fingers dig deep in yielding Slayerly thighs, his tongue laps up her salty come with alacrity, but inside he’s howling like a trapped dog. What part of himself will he have to gnaw off to get away?
TBC
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