A Hero's Prize

"Do you think we could get, like, some road trip food?" God, I sound like such an idiot. I adjust my football helmet to cover up the fact that my hands are shaking around Spike's slim waist. His black leather coat, dark as coal, dark as the flame that burns inside his dead heart (oooh, should write that down for my short history of Buffy, it sounds poetical), his black leather coat is like silk against my rough skin. His smooth voice soothes my soul.
"Or those onion flower things." God, he sounds like a greek god. Come on, come on Andrew, say something so that sweet ancient voice keeps flowing. If he ever stops talking, my heart might just wither. Anya looks so alive next to his pale bloodless glory, so vulgar and low next to the shining immortal. She tries to bleach herself to his sunless hair, to still herself to his undead placidity, and looks like a fool.
"Oh, I love those. They're like an onion, and yet a flower. I've never understood how they make those things." Please, please let him respond- let him say- let him tell me he loves me. My heart cries out for his touch on my hand. I can feel it sobbing in my chest, sobbing out for his touch on my hand. Oooh, wait, I can just touch him. Mmmm... Wait, he's talking again! Perhaps they will be the words that my heart screams out for-
"Well, you soak the onion first in ice water it keeps its shape. Then you deep fry it, flattened side up." Ok, not exactly what I wanted to hear, but he's still talking. And I can touch him. Oh dear gods, I can touch his hard stomach. My stomach is fluttering like the bright butterflies bes beautiful as my love for Spike. I should say that for him. I need to give him the poetry that lies in my soul- then he'll love me.
I want to spill my lifeseed out to this slim man with his skin as pale as moonlight, his eyes as blue as the ice water he will steep his onions in before deep frying them, his hair white as the damp limp onion peels that stick to the chef's fingers. I want to spill the poetry that is in my soul to him and then have him anally penetrate me as I spew out couplets from my red lips. If I only speak what is in my soul- then he'll love me.
"Oh." I think I managed to even stutter the one syllable. Excellent line, Andrew. Wow. My hands inch lower on his muscled torso. I think he can tell of my burning love for him, the love that can not dare speak its name. But with a little help, this love can break down any barrier if I only give it a chance, this love that lifts me up where we belong, where eagles fly on a mountain high...
"If you tell anyone about this conversation, I'll bite you," he says, dark eyes flashing back to me. My hands go back up.
"W-w-w-w-w-well that m-m-m-m-might be o-o-o-o-o-okay too..." I stutter.
"What, you got hubbah hubbah big man on your mind?" His voice sounds so sensual. My mouth drops open and my hands start migrating downwards again. The rhythmic vibrations of the motorcycle are exciting, new, and strangely erotic.
"What if I d-d-d-d-id?" My voice trembles, if he means what I think he means, oh, even my soul is rising in excitement. Oh, wait, no, that was something else rising entirely.
Spike's glorious dark eyebrows raise at my comment-or at least they do in my imagination, since I can't see him from my seat on the motorcycle, that piece of twisted metal grinding against my most private parts. I shudder from the thought and Spike turns his head, "What's gotten into your pants, you little bugger?"
He can feel me pressing against him, he can feel my love pressing into his firm tight buttocks. His long slender fingers, that were meant to be inside me, twist the brake and he pulls to the side of the road. "Do you need to piss?" He asks, while lighting up a cigarette.
"Uh... Not quite...." I can see a picnic table off the side of the rest stop, and I am blessed with an idea-straight from the Powers that Be- in my pants. I approach the picnic table slowly, with trepidation, this could be part of my last moments on the earth-or a good steamy chapter in my history of this apocalypse. I will be remembered forever because I fucked the vampire that lived- if he lives through the battle to come. I will have shared lovers with the glorious Slayer that Died and Lived Again. I will be a rival love interest to the heroine. My entire body quivers in excitement. I turn back and I swear I can see Spike's firm ass cheeks through his leather pants.
With aplomb and poise I drop my pants and begin to bend over the picnic table. I hope that my tortured lost innocence stikes the observer as that of one worthy of the love of one of the greatest vampires of all time.
Spike doesn't seem to notice.
I start to shiver from the cold, "Uhm... Spike.."
Spike turns around, "Are you done yet?"
"Uh.. No." I dare to lift my face to gaze at Spike's chiseled visage. "Will you help me?" The moonlight strikes his skin and leaves him with the stern glow of a hero poised at the edge of battle, except this time the battle will not be for the world, but instead for my tight tunnel of love.
"Help you with what, mate?"
Spike has come up beside me, and I can feel his hand slipping beneath the waistband of my underwear. Mother was right about one thing (and it wasn't throwing my comic books away)-you should always wear clean underwear. However, whitey-tighties were perhaps not the best thing to wear for a quick fuck with an evil vampire, even if they are clean. I'll change it to some sort of black thong with a skull and crossbones on the front for the history books. "Spike, help me with this." I wiggle my virgin ass in a way I pray is appealing to those who were once evil. He pulls down my white-tighties and I feel a sigh of relief as my massively engorged manness springs free, unimaginably large and not small at all.
"Well, do do I get out of it? You're kind of a smaller fellow than I'm used to." I'll change that remark for posterity too. After all, it's not the size that counts. Spike's hand begin to massage my innermost parts and I press my face into the rough wood of the picnic table. This is sex with a hero. I almost explode at the mere thought. "After both Angel and Buffy sex, I'm afraid you're not even worth the caloric output."
"Me, you can have me. You can... Erm... Bite me." I am offering myself completely to him, "I come from a distant land, I am a Jedi with a holster that is begging for your lightsaber. Please, Spike, I am-"
"Shut your trap." And his fingers are inside of me roughly, splitting me open. I am distracted from the pain of penetration by the deeper pain of Spike's cigarette being stubbed out against the small of my bared back. Nerves scream out their anguish in a white-hot flow nearly as white-hot as the passion surging through me. Spike- the hero- is fucking me. Hard.
Now I understand why Angel would get a strangely glazed look in his eyes whenever Spike's name was breathed into existence; why Buffy fights all of the rest of us to keep him near. The reason can be expressed in one simple sentence;
Spike is a good fuck.
He comes inside me, shuddering and cursing in his enchanting Briton accent. He pulls out of me and the stink of blood fills the air. Joy fills my soul. Or perhaps that's just pain- yeah, that's pain. Damn. Just goes to prove that putting a large, hard object into an out hole really doesn't feel very good.
Spike notices my pain. "Aw, you're hurt. Here, I know what to do." So he grabs my wrist, pulling out a small deadly knife from some place on his body I can't see, and slits my arm.
"So to help my pain you give me more?" I gasp out, so many parts of my body hurt that I can barely see. He doesn't acknowledge my blinding agony and instead splashes my own blood on my manness. "W-w-w-w-what are you doing?" But when he bends down and begins to lick and suck the blood off of... well, off of me- my pain is lost in an amazing surge of pleasure. Like the awesome power of Niagara Falls, a great waterfall of pleasure and good feelings pulses through my body. Like the power that must come from when a vampire feeds off of a human, taking in that human's entire life in one long suck. Like the feeling of satisfaction after you've excreted something you've been holding in your colon for a long time. Well, ok, so that last metaphor was bad. But this bj thing felt really, really good. Except for some surrepitious encounters in a few D&D games which I fervently pretended were girls, I had never had much experience with either sex.
[Insert lurid pornography here. The authoress doesn't feel like writing out this shit as she is sad enough already by putting herself in the gutter. Here are some key words found in all fanfic; rivers of cum, tight hot depths, stroking in and out, gasps of pleasure, orgasm orgasm orgasm...]
"That make you feel better, you sad little cretin?" Spike asks as he pulls up my clothes and sets me roughly back on the motorcycle. He kicks the engine into purring movement. Ahhh, the vibrations are no longer pleasureable, ow ow ow... Even my recent, fantastic orgasm cannot compensate for the fact my asshole is very chapped.
"Do you have any vaseline?"
"Not for where you want to put it."