Fiction: A Helping Hand

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Title: A Helping Hand
Author: constance_b
Rating: R
Warnings: Badly written. Unbeta’d. Some groping. Use of the phrase ‘throbbing manhood.’

Post Intervention and The Body. In a Glorificus-free interlude, there’s a new demon in town.

A Helping Hand

“Is it Glory?” Buffy burst into the Magic Box and straight out with her primary worry. “Dawn gave me your message, said you were very hush hush, even for ‘extra British guy.’ Is it Glory?”

“No, no,” Giles assured her, coming out from behind the counter. “As far as I can ascertain, she has not been seen at all since that incident with Spike and that… robot. And while her continuing absence does concern me, it’s not why I called.”
The Watcher took a good long look at his Slayer as she stood down from crisis mode. Even perched on the till counter, nonchalantly twirling a stake, she hardly looked relaxed. Stress upon stress was written on her face and grief for her mother had left behind permanent frown lines and a hard set about her mouth. He’d seen her under pressure before, of course, but this last month she’d gone beyond looking tired – she looked old.

The recent absence of a certain Hell God was adding perversely to her strain, stringing out the suspense until waiting was an unbearable load all by itself, and one he wasn’t sure she could stand much longer. Maybe the distraction of a new threat would actually help, although Giles could think of many demons he would prefer to the one he suspected they were faced with.

He was still musing as Buffy started to tap her stake across her palm.
“There was a reason you phoned, right Giles?”

“Of course.” Giles cleared his throat, “There have been three unusual admittance to Sunnydale Memorial over the last two nights that I think might need out attention.”

“‘Neck trauma’ or ‘sudden onset dementia’?”

“Paralysis. It says in the local paper that all three victims are incapable of movement, even automatic respiratory responses, and while all three had wounds of some kind none had appeared to sustain any damage to spinal cord or brain. ‘Police,'” he read aloud, “‘Are investigating rumours of a new designer drug, and warn the public to stay away from all illicit substances.’ Friends of the third victim, who brought him to the hospital, claim he was attacked by a leprechaun.”

“Hey!” Buffy protested. “I want the drugs that make you see leprechauns! The shit you’ve been giving me just makes me see vampires and hell gods.”

The Slayer grinned at her own lack of wit and Giles fixed her with a stern glare; nonetheless his heart was lightened just a little by her levity.

“I’ve been researching and I believe we may be dealing with a C’Olcmoturs.”

“A whatchamacallit?”

“A C’Olcmoturs. There have been reports of them as far back as ancient Egypt. A remarkably accurate depiction was found in the tomb of-”

“Good,” Buffy cut in. “I like to impress the slayees with my knowledge of history. How do I kill it?”

The Watcher soldiered on, with more than usual reluctance to get to the point.
“They mate for life, so we can expect to be dealing with two of them. Their physical strength is not said to be impressive, but their venom is highly sought after in certain circles, and would account for the symptoms displayed. It’s not actually fatal, though it was assumed to be for centuries because the paralysis prevents respiration and of course if a person can’t breathe they die. Then there was a case of a Watcher over a decade ago. His Slayer managed to get him to hospital before the paralysis was complete, they put him on a respirator and I believe he remains alive today. The CoW administered the antidote but it took some days to identify the correct demon and apparently too late for our chap, he never regained any outward function, even eye movement.”

Buffy shuddered. “Ten years of looking at a hospital ceiling – that can’t be nice. So this is your long winded British way of telling me not to get bitten?”
Giles removed his glasses and patted his pockets for a handkerchief, a sure sign that there was more to come and she wasn’t going to like any of it. “That would certainly be preferable. But it might be wise to… That is to say, precautions can never be over taken… Dawn not with you tonight?”

Buffy narrowed her eyes. Giles could see her patience with his prevarication rapidly running out. “She’s staying with Willow and Tara, said I was making her crazy. Is there a point you have about this demon or can I go kill it now?”

“Maybe you should wait to patrol until Xander arrives?” the Watcher suggested.

“Maybe I have to read this book myself,” Buffy threatened. “What aren’t you telling me, knowledge man?”

“Seeing as the antidote is known it would be remiss of me not to provide you with any, should this creature get in a lucky strike…”

“What’s the antidote, Giles?”

“Seminal fluid.”

“What’s… Oh! Yuck!” The Slayer wrinkled her nose, a teenage expression Giles particularly disliked, then her eyes widened. “From the tap? Because I’m thinking, hospital ceilings might be prettier than I give them credit for. Underrated, even.”

“No, er, it’s, er… The substance itself should be sufficient.”

“Fine then, I’ll wait. But you can talk to Xander, ’cause there’s no way I’m asking him to jerk off into a cup.”

“Thank you,” Giles grouched sarcastically. “I’m sure that will be a delightful conversation. In the meantime, there’s an illustration in this volume, it may be as well to familiarize yourself with-”

Buffy was already peering over his shoulder. “Hey! I saw one of those last night. I did tell you, he was being chased by a vampire and by the time I’d finished dusting it was gone.”

“Strangely I didn’t find ‘short ugly green demon’ a clear enough description,” said Giles dryly, gesturing at the pile of books on the table. “It may surprise you to know there’s a wide selection of short ugly green demons in these texts.”

Explaining the situation to the Scoobies was every bit as repellent as Giles had predicted, with blushes and sniggers, in fact the full range of adolescent reactions to anything to do with the reproductive system. But he had the satisfaction of sending out his Slayer as well prepared as possible for the danger she faced.


Buffy cleaned her axe in the long grass of the verge, resisting the urge to cool herself off the same way. With more sense than displayed by most vampires this week’s thingamabob had taken one look at the Slayer and legged it, and despite it’s short stumpy legs had given her a good run for her money. Now she was almost at the outskirts of town, a tad out of breath, too far from home and typically for Sunnydale, in yet another cemetery.

The vile of antidote had been smashed during the fight, making the entire, embarrassing conversation earlier completely pointless. The one blow the demon had managed to land on the Slayer before she pulverized it, there was good reason it hadn’t stood its ground and fought. And now a stain Buffy really didn’t want to think about was spreading out from the breast pocket of her new brown suede jacket, but that had to be better than swallowing the stuff, right? And the demon was well and truly dead, so Buffy would chalk it up as a victory with only one item of clothing sacrificed to the cause. One more moment of silence for the coat and she started the long trudge back to the Magic Box.

She’d managed to get all the way out to the middle of nowhere in less than twenty minutes, Sunnydale wasn’t a large town, but now the adrenalin from the chase was gone and besides her legs were very tired. But still moving. Giles’ warning had instilled a little more fear in Buffy than she’d cared to admit to, hospitals were far from her favourite places but of course that wasn’t the worst of being completely paralysed. The thought of spending the rest of her life unable to communicate, or slay, was almost too horrific to contemplate. And Buffy wasn’t a watcher, she was the only active Slayer and she suspected the council wouldn’t hang around before turning the machines off and hoping her death would call another. Or that she wasn’t worth the medical bills. Just the thought of Quentin Travers ending her life with the flip of a switch and being unable even to glare at him had been enough to persuade Buffy to wait for the antidote.

The fear was far out of proportion to the rather comical little demon, it was a relaxing little fight compared to her last bout with a particular hellgod. Its strength had been nothing to Buffy’s own and if their venom was only fatal she would happily have fought a dozen of them, confident of emerging the unscathed victor, but a slow, helpless death was worth being extra cautious for and she hadn’t forgotten Giles had said there might be two of them. A crossbow might be the thing, she mused, or a spear would have been useful this evening. Even a throwing star might have saved her a great deal of energy. Fortunately the demon had not run in a straight line or she’d have been at the coast, at least she could take the direct route home.

Three cemeteries down and Buffy was starting to think her shoes would have to be added to the casualty list. Stopping to slay hadn’t helped, a couple of stupid fledges who thought they’d be safe this far out from Slayer Central. When she heard an unearthly, and inhuman, howl Buffy only hoped it wouldn’t be a very slimy demon, her skirt had yet to be wounded and she didn’t want to make it a hatrick for evil forces tonight.

Buffy followed the sound as it died out to a slow moan. There was still nothing visible amongst the tombstones and she was starting to think she might get lucky, it would be a very small, slime-free demon. She eventually found the source of the sound, hidden behind a huge grave marker and a leather coat. Buffy peered doubtfully at the moaning, almost motionless vampire.


“And my night is now complete,” snarked the vampire, sounding more than a little slurred even allowing for the fact that he directed his words into the ground. “A Scooby to mock my pain.”

“Did ya stub a toe?” the Slayer asked unsympathetically, nonetheless bending to help Spike to his feet. With more effort than she’d predicted she eventually wrestled him into a sitting position propped against the sarcophagus. No matter how hard she tried to pull him upright, Spike did not seem to be able to straighten out at the waist.

“Getting too cosy with Jack?” she asked, exasperated.

“Got bit,” grunted the vampire, face contorted in obvious pain. “Runty little demon, snapped it’s neck-”

Suddenly Spike’s body jerked forward, Buffy knelt to steady him and from this new position she could see how disfigured his face was, lips not moving right as he continued. “Was fine. Then walking back here-” He broke off with a wince, a trickle of blood leaking from where his teeth had clamped closed on his tongue. Spike worked at the muscle with his fingers, determined to carry on speaking, but Buffy was already filling in the details for herself.

“A green demon?” Oh God. Giles had said there would probably be two of them, now it looked like there were none.

Looked like Spike was at least winning the battle with his own jaw. “Yeah,” he agreed, not clearly but coherently. “Red horns. A really stupid tail.”

Buffy winced. Mentally cursed Glory. If not for her latest torture spree Buffy’s conscience might have let her keep on walking, now she was going to have to have a conversation with Spike that included the words ‘seminal fluid’. She didn’t let her mind wander further than that.

Spike watched with interest as the blood drained from Buffy’s face, an unusual reaction from the Slayer. Wasn’t often he saw fear nowadays and despite the pain the vampire couldn’t help but bask in the pheromones, until he remembered it was his fate that had her paling.

“It’s a Cookie Monster,” she said slowly, mindlessly scratching at the dry earth with her stake.

From his girl that could be quite literal or another of her tongue twisters. Death by renegade Muppet would pretty much cap Spike’s night, and indeed a couple years of rather pathetic existence. William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers, taken down by a refugee from Sesame Street that had had the fighting skill of a chinchilla.

“Giles told me about them,” Buffy continued. “I killed one earlier, he said there’d probably be a pair. They have poisonous teeth.”

“Lucky I didn’t eat it’s teeth then,” he quipped limply. “Don’t suppose he mentioned if they’re fatal to vampires?”

“Oh it won’t kill you,” Buffy reassured, “Because you don’t need to breath. It’ll just paralyse you…” Her voice lost most of it’s reassurance. “Forever, which I guess is a long time if you’re a vampire. But there’s an antidote!” she added hastily. And then stopped.

“Useful,” snarled Spike. “I’ll make a note of it.” He could hear his voice rising an octave or two, sounding more than a mite panicked even to his own ears, as he tried to stop his leg spasming. Paralysis did not sound good, paraplegia had been bad enough, and he didn’t really want to find out whether or not Buffy would just leave him for the sun. “Don’t suppose you have any of this antidote?”

Buffy looked down at her slightly crusty, though fetching, suede jacket. “Well kind of.”

“Slayer! Seizing up here.”

“Well you do. That is…” She trailed off with a look of distaste Spike couldn’t interpret, it was reminiscent of the face Giles usually pulled right before he decided his glasses were in need of a good clean. Lacking glasses Buffy picked at the splinters on her stake.

“It’s… Cum,” she blurted out at last.

Spike groaned, head knocking back against the gravestone as his back muscles started to succumb to the venom. “You mean a C’Olcmoturs. Your watcher’d be better off teaching you the odd demon language than all that Feng Sui crap.”

It was a valiant attempt at banter but it came out through gritted teeth. Buffy ignored him – Spike could have sworn she was blushing.

“So I can’t help you with that ’cause… Well obviously I don’t have any. Well I did, but…”

Spike fixed her with a look. No doubt about it, that was definitely a blush, her face inches from his he could smell the blood rising to the surface. Maybe the night wasn’t a total wash. Better read than the Scoobies could credit, Spike recognised both the species of demon and it’s infamous venom but despite the imminent peril he was being distracted by his adorable Slayer, blushing at the merest mention of semen. It didn’t bode well for his well-being, but. He was fairly sure there was only one source of antidote within a practical distance and it was securely stored in a place he wasn’t going to be getting at without her aid.

“Not relevant, okay,” Buffy continued. “So you need to… y’know… quick, before you’re paralysed Because then it won’t work.”

Spike stared incredulously at the flushed girl. He could almost see her running the last sentence through her head, her colour rose still further and she stood. The vampire wished he had leisure to enjoy her fluster but he couldn’t even follow her up, barely sitting without her support.

“I mean the antidote won’t work, not your… That wouldn’t… I’ll let you… y’know…”

Buffy turned her back primly. Despite the pain of his twisting muscles Spike barked out a laugh. “Don’t think quick’s a factor here, pet. Can’t unbutton me jeans, never mind the rest.”

With another grimace Buffy glanced back over her shoulder. Spike had seen that look before many a time, whenever Giles had mentioned a particularly slimy demon or suggested that maybe Wal-Mart shoes would be good enough for slaying. “D’you think we could get you back to the Magic Box?” she suggested hopefully.

“Gonna carry me two miles? You may not have noticed, but I can’t stand up!”

Almost involuntarily Buffy glanced down at Spike’s legs, one of which seemed determined to detach itself from his body and branch out on it’s own. One hand was twisting into a claw at his side, the other he’d managed to slip into the waistband of his jeans but was shaking too much to deal with the button. He was further hampered by his sitting position.

“You gotta help me here,” he pleaded.

“Absolutely not,” answered Buffy with firmness that betrayed doubt. “Uh-uh, no way am I touching your… anything.”

“You going to stand there and watch me freeze solid? Bet I’d make a lovely hat stand.”

Painful as it was to admit, Spike was reasonably sure he couldn’t find his own cock and could do nothing for himself but an injury if he did. He really didn’t know which way the Slayer would swing. He’d got a free pass on a lot of things since Glorificus had done a number on him, none of the Scoobies had since mentioned the robot or tried to run him out of the Magic Box when he’d dropped in for the daily baiting of whitehats. Buffy herself had said nothing at all, except to update him on the hellgod’s absence, and he knew she was now remembering what she had said at the time.

“Fly buttons,” she snapped. “That’s it.”

It took a full minute for Buffy to get Spike upright, wouldn’t have been an easy task even if she didn’t seem determined to handle him as little as possible. He almost wanted to tell her not to bother, if she wasn’t about to give him more of a hand than that then there was no point starting but it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his remaining time than be pressed up against her hot little body. She needed her full strength to straighten his hips and kept her leg against his to stop his knees buckling.

Careful to keep her eyes way above genital level Buffy popped open his jeans. Spike looked at her imploringly, not at all too proud to beg when the alternative was captivity in his own body. He didn’t say ‘you owe me,’ but put a heavy implication into those puppydog eyes.

“Just because you get stubborn when tortured, that doesn’t mean I’m obligated to touch your man parts.”

“Not obligated, no. But it’s a point in my favour, right?”

The Slayer hesitated and in that second Spike knew she would crack. Buffy might not need him in the fight or particularly want him around but it would take a very hard heart to watch a sometime-ally convulse his way into permanent paralysis without at least trying to help.

“If I… touch you, I’ll never hear the end of it. And then I’ll end up staking you anyway.”

From absolutely not to if in a few short sentences; she was definitely going to crack. Spike waited for the familiar tingle of anticipation to stir him physically, but nada. He coaxed up a fantasy of his golden girl wrapping her hot little hand round his throbbing manhood but nothing, er, throbbed. Another spasm wracked his body and the image was gone. A niggling fearful voice suggested it was already too late for him but the survival instinct was strong in Spike and he wasn’t above a little manipulation to push Buffy in the right direction.

“Guess it’s lucky I’ve had time to recover from all the torture, at least I’ll make a pretty statue.”

She rolled her eyes at his lack of subtlety. Spike took that as a good sign. Surely his little defender-of-the-light wasn’t callous enough to roll her eyes at someone she was about to leave to a drawn out death. One more go with the guilt tripping.

“Well stake me then, pet, ’cause this bleeding well hurts.” It wasn’t a lie. An all over body cramp and Spike could have sworn he could feel each individual poison filled capillary tingling. Maybe the truth of it leant something to his pleading, she gave him that glare that Spike secretly loved.

“You ever tell anyone about this and I’ll find a worse end for you than demon poisoning, capisce?”

Christ! She was really going to do it. But again the rush was only in his brain, didn’t reach through the rest of his body.

Not quite able to believe her night was taking quite this turn, Buffy dipped her hand into Spike’s trousers like she expected a cockroach infestation. She was sure he must be able to hear the way her heart sped up and she had to look away again as her fingertips met wiry hair. That alone was more intimate contact than the Slayer really wanted.

“Ugh. Don’t you wear underpants?”

Spike had closed his eyes and took a moment to answer. “I’d’ve worn my best thong if I knew you’d be taking a peak.”

“No peeking!” But his eyes were still shut so Buffy risked a quick glance down and tentatively wrapped her palm round that soft sausage. Spike made no reaction, physical or verbal. Not at all what she would have expected from the vampire whose idea of flirting was to grab his bulging crotch as she walked past and leer at her. She swallowed down her distaste and slid her hand gently up and down his penis. There was something vaguely pathetic about a limp dick at the best of times and now Buffy wondered if it wasn’t a sign that Spike was already a lost cause.

“You awake in there?”

“I’m trying to find my mental safe place where I’m not in constant, searing, all-over pain,” Spike answered. Buffy could hear the sarcasm even through gritted teeth and decided that was a positive sign. Spike sighed and forced his eyes open. “Sorry pet,” he amended. “Could stand to be a bit firmer.”

Buffy tightened her hand around him and tugged in a slow rhythm. Spike stirred a little under her ministrations but, thought Buffy critically, you could hardly have hung a flag on it. She was blushing furiously, she could feel the heat from her own face, knew Spike must feel it too. There was a part of Buffy that would be glad if Spike were not around to ever mention this again, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to wish him the fate proscribed by the C’Olcmoturs venom. She remembered her own horror at the idea of being trapped in her own body and soldiered on through her embarrassment.

“Fucking hell, Slayer,” Spike groaned. His head rested on the curve of her neck and shoulder, Buffy wasn’t sure if he was trying to get snuggly or could no longer hold his head up. “Any other time I’d be poking your eye out. Just the smell of you, all cross and sweaty, keeps me hard for hours.”

“You’re a pig, Spike.”

He twitched and filled in her hand, standing proud under his own steam, and Buffy let out a nervous laugh. “It’s official. You get turned on being insulted.”

Spike smiled, or it could have been another twitch. “Your voice,” he said, more distorted now than even a minute earlier. “Your voice turns me on. Sayin’ my name. Your breath on my ear. Distracts from the whole agony thing.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You think there’s another reason I’m not jumping your bones right now?”

An automatic rebuke formed in Buffy’s throat but stalled there. It might be productive but the words would only make her blush harder and it had stopped being a joke for the Slayer when he’d hardened in her hands. She couldn’t recall ever handling Riley when he wasn’t already… eager, and it felt strange, in a physical way beyond the strangeness of putting her hand in Spike’s pants in the middle of a graveyard. But as he’d swelled with blood it had stopped being icky and become… intimate. A more familiar feeling, smooth, tight skin under her hand.

Buffy’s hand was moving faster on his cock. Spike could only see her profile in blurry close-up, frowning in concentration. Despite the twin distractions of crippling pain and Buffy wanking him he found a second to notice how damned adorable she was. Focused on her task, Slayer-like, too intent on getting it all over with without making eye contact to show her embarrassment, though her skin was still deliciously flushed.

The pain was spreading now, a vice around his chest. Drawing breath to speak was getting difficult and Spike knew if he was human he’d be suffocating right about now. The Slayer bit her lip and allowed herself an appraising glance downwards.

“Am I doing this right?” She asked, still avoiding his eye.

“Yes Pet,” he gasped. “It’s just…” The usually eloquent body language had just been removed from Spike’s vocabulary. Thinking a shrug impossible he let the words trail off. “Worse ways to go, than with your hand in me pants.”

As if roused by the challenge Buffy clenched him tighter. She leant in closer, lips brushing against his ear, breath warming his skin. At any other time he’d have come right then, touch or no, as she whispered: “Come for me, Spike.”

He could hear the effort she’d made to turn that natural bossy impatience into something more breathy and seductive, and it warmed him through. “Bloody well trying, love.” With each breath it was getting harder to fill his lungs and the warmth was entirely metaphorical. “Just… If… You’d stake me, wouldn’t you? I don’t want to be a hat stand.”

“That’s defeatist talk,” Buffy scolded. “I’m not doing this for nothing, you know.”

“So how much do you charge for a hand-job?”

But the joke was lost in another spasm. Buffy caught his shoulder with her free hand, his hip to hers she was supporting most of his weight.

“Think about… You know… Naked women and stuff. Xena, in the leather Basque thing. Pole dancing! Men like that, right?”

“Like you,” Spike leered, because no matter how bad the pain he just couldn’t help himself. Buffy turned her head towards him, an unsettling glint in her narrowed eyes. Spike knew that glint, as he knew all 267 of her facial expressions, the I’ve-just-realised-how-I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass look.

“Think about me then,” she said, in a voice that might have been a purr if not for the slight stutter. “‘Cause I’m right here, touching your… um, your penis. That’s got to be one of your fantasies, right?”

Spike couldn’t stifle a laugh at his Slayer delicately selecting ‘penis’ as her attempt at dirty talk. The sound was fortunately unrecognisable. “In my fantasy you’re naked,” Spike supplied hopefully. “Maybe if-”

“Do you want to live long enough to die slowly and painfully? Because I don’t think I’d like the rest of that sentence.”

“What? I’m dying and I don’t get-”

“Shut up, or I will hurt you,” Buffy ground out.

Threats were irrelevant to Spike at this point, the pain was everywhere now, even his eyeballs on fire with it, but the banter took up too much of his remaining energy. Energy, Spike decided, that could be better directed into copping a feel on this special occasion when it might actually be tolerated. Breasts seemed out of his limited reach, so Spike set his sights on a thigh.

“You talk to me then, Slayer. Like your voice.”

“Even when I’m threatening you? No, wait, totally don’t answer that.”

For a minute she was silent. Wracking her brains for dirty talk, maybe. Or wracking her memory bank of Cosmo articles, if Spike knew his Slayer. “I had a shower this morning. All naked and soapy.”

“Wouldn’t mind being a hat stand if you needed one in your shower. Towel rack, maybe. Underwear hanger?”

But Buffy, once having thrown herself into the task, wasn’t allowing that. She caught Spike’s flailing hand, wrapped it around her thigh, far higher than Spike would have dared go if he’d been in control of his limbs. She seized his chin between finger and thumb and forced his head around to look at her. “If you’re giving up, can I go home?”

“No! No, it’ll work.” Probably a lie, Spike decided pragmatically, but the attempt was its own reward. “What were you doing in the shower?”

“Washing, what- Oh. Well I soaped myself. Um, my breasts. All naked and… wet.”

“Were you frigging yourself?”

“I… I swear to god, Spike, you ever tell anyone about this and I’ll castrate you. Right before I send you back to the Initiative with a big pink bow on.”

“You don’t hurry up, I’ll be mute anyway.”

“And we’re clear on how none of this ever actually happened?”

“Slayer, dying here!”

“You’re not, actually.” But she shifted her stance a little, allowing for a longer, smoother stroke. Spike closed his eyes, focused on the sensation of her massaging hand, leaned a little heavier into her warmth.

“I touched myself. I, um, rubbed my clitoris, and I put my fingers inside my… channel. And I move them in and out.”

With huge effort Spike lifted his head from Buffy’s shoulder. “Doing it wrong,” he gasped out. “…delicate… gotta say… the dirty words.”

Buffy raised her eyebrows and tapped her foot. Expression #57 – surely-you-didn’t-just-say-that.

“I’m trying to save your sorry existence here and you’re criticizing my vocabulary?” Spike found that flash of indignation every bit as arousing as her hand. If he was human, he thought, he might have worried about what that said about him.

“Yeah. Say fuck.”

“Fuck,” said Buffy obligingly, politely.

Spike worked hard at giving her the fish eye without moving a single facial muscle. Buffy glared back.

“Fine. I put my fingers in my pussy and I fucked myself, okay?”

“Better, but-”

Buffy tightened her hand on him, threateningly. “Would you like to be the only vampire in history to die because he couldn’t perform? I’ll get Giles to put it in the watcher’s diary. You’ll be famous.”

“Just survival instinct,” Spike groaned. “You’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“I promise I’ll beat you to a bloody pulp in a minute, does that help? Just hurry up already.”

Spike’s groan was mostly pain, but that promising tightening was something else. Buffy must have felt it too, she pulled a face.

“You’re sick.”

“Yeah. Tell me more.”

“About all the nasty and painful things I’m going to do to you?”

“Will there be handcuffs?”

“Chains and manacles, last time I visited,” said Buffy dryly. Spike ignored her; he wasn’t about to waste his last few minutes resurrecting a mostly defunct conscience. “Fine, there’ll be handcuffs. Should there be hot pokers too?”

“Only… the punny kind.”

Spike vamped out, though he hadn’t meant to. Buffy put a restraining hand on his chest but didn’t move away, kept working him. “I think I’m glad I don’t know what that means. So now you’re all chained up and helpless, what should I do to you? Tell you what a dirty boy you are? Do you like that?”

Happily squashed between a gravestone and Buffy’s lithe, hot little body Spike did indeed like that. He shuddered, hand so tight on her thigh he must have been causing pain but she made no mention, even as his hand shook and his fingers brushed her panties.

“Think I’m dead already. Do vampires go to heaven?”

“No. Concentrate, or you’re going to hell.”

“Way to help with the pressure, Slayer.”

Or that’s what Spike meant to say. But mid-sentence the volume just cut out. “I think that was my voice box going,” he rasped in a whisper. The pain was receding now and Spike doubted that was a good sign. His legs were completely numb and Spike suspected he was nearing the end but right this second he couldn’t care. No-one could slip into paralysis happier. More confident now that fangs didn’t mean biting Buffy slid that restraining hand down his T-shirt, over Spike’s hip and kept going, until she was cupping his balls.

“Would you like to fuck me? Do you think about sliding into my tight cunt?”

Beyond speech in more ways than one the vampire made a guttural choking noise.

“How would you like it, Spike? Would you like me to ride you? Sit on your cock? Or would you bend me over and take me from behind?”

“Bed…” Spike whispered. “Silk.”

“Yeah? Am I wearing the silk? Or am I laying on silk sheets? Legs open, waiting for you to get between my thighs.”

Her breasts were crushed against his chest and her body deliberately rubbing against his, but Spike realised with sudden loss that he could no longer feel her thigh. His arm had gone dead. The pain was dying away to a tingle and all Spike could feel now was the warmth of her body and her hand on him.

“You’ve got to be good, all that practise. You’d hit all the right spots, fuck me until I came, squeezing you so tight.”

Spike could have cried with frustration. Hearing everything he’d ever dreamed of, but losing sensation fast. “‘s good love… not enough…”

“What’s enough, Spike? What is it that tips you over the edge? Is it biting me? Do you fantasize about sinking your fangs in and drinking my blood?”

Before he knew what she was about Buffy had forced a finger past his lips and sliced it against his fang. The heated and unique taste of Slayers blood flooded Spike’s senses and he moaned.

“Would I enjoy it?” she whispered throatily and against all odds Spike was thrusting into her hand and desperate for release. “Would I be screaming your name?” Her face brushed against his as her mouth moved down his neck. She nipped at the delicate skin then without warning sank her teeth into the sinewy muscle of his neck. Spike exploded with a roar, came so hard he was only half aware as Buffy snatched her hand from his mouth to catch his ejaculate. Still too dazed for thought as she brought her hand back to his mouth and tried to force the viscous liquid past his lips.

The ‘cure’ had immediate effect. Sensation rushed back with painful pins and needles, a human oddity vampires were usually immune to. Spike’s hand caught hers as he slumped back against the sarcophagus and then he was cleaning her palm, licking her skin with sensuous attention. The Slayer was breathing hard, pressed against him and watching with wide eyes as he sucked each digit into his mouth, one after another. His hand was still intimately high on her leg, crown jewels still on proud display. For a second Spike let himself believe she was as affected as he, watched every nuance of reaction as she realised little Spike was still bobbing insistantly against her stomach. Then she saw him watching and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Spike.”

“Seems I’m damned lucky tonight.”

Buffy shook him off and her face hardened. “If you’re going to use that as an excuse to start hitting on me again I’m going to regret saving your life. Might take remedial action, do you get me?”

Spike held up his hands, contrite.

“Didn’t mean to-” he started, took a step towards the Slayer but his legs buckled without the buttress of the gravestone and the vampire landed inelegantly on his backside. “…do that,” he finished with a rueful grin. “Kidding, Slayer. I’m suitably grateful you let me feel you up in my time of need.”

Despite her mean expression Buffy was still flushed with embarrassment. “You ever mention that again…”

Spike nodded seriously, filled in the ‘I’ll stake you’ threat for himself and pretended to believe it. “Never even think of it,” he lied. But he couldn’t stay solemn, euphoric despite the shaky motor control. “That was right nice of you. Made my day, nearly dying.”

Buffy was busy wiping her hand on her skirt and glared at the smiling vampire. “Don’t get much action nowadays?” she sniped, but out of habit reached out to haul Spike back to his feet. “Can’t you walk? ‘Cause I’m so not carrying you home.”

Spike pouted. He was still holding her hand, ostensibly for support. “C’mon Slayer, I’m a whitehat now. Deserve the full good Samaritan treatment.”

“I’ve already gone way above and beyond the call of duty.”

“That you did, love.” And because he really couldn’t help himself, Spike leered and added: “Sure I can’t return the favour?”

“Maybe, one day…” Buffy let the words trail off suggestively, then finished with a smirk, “…you can have your robot back.”

She shook his hand off and this time Spike managed to stay upright. “And put your penis away,” she snapped.

Unhurriedly, Spike tucked himself back into his jeans. “Not the blood,” he said, as Buffy started to walk away.


“It isn’t the blood. I don’t fantasize about biting you.”

“I met your robot, remember? I already know far too much about your fantasies.”

Spike grinned, a little sheepishly. “Then you know it’s not about the blood. It’s just you.”

“And one day, you’re going to realise just how creepy and disturbing that is.” She fixed him with a glare a little fierce even for Spike’s tastes. “And wipe that stupid grin off your face. Don’t think just ’cause I… That I think about you that way.”

“Wasn’t,” Spike protested. “That was just to save my life, right?”

“Right,” Buffy agreed firmly. She was already walking away again, so Spike felt free smile as much as he wanted.

“So, am I allowed to think you don’t want me dead?”


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