Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
It’s the tail end that always gets to him, the only time she lets him near enough. It’s a torture of sorts, she realizes, but it keeps him begging, sniffing, wanting when she gives him the barest taste. The faint tang of copper still flavors her secretions on the final day of her cycle, which might as well be a bear trap snapping shut just shy of Spike’s nose. A hunger just beyond reach, unable to slake his boundless thirst for her.
Curled between the canyon of her thighs, he nuzzles the soft fluff of her mound, a needy whine tingling low in his throat, barely audible in the silent crypt. Pressing soft kisses into her thighs does nothing to coax out more, but he tries still, seeking out the taste that has been nearly a century removed from his senses. Nipping lightly along the soft ridges of skin, he noses his way between her lips, the glide of the tip of his nose sparking her to arch up. He searches just as she does, looking to appease a sliver of base want, elusive and forbidden. Gilded by legs draped over shoulder, Spike looks on keenly, a spectator to her shameful desire. He takes in every writhe and subtle shiver, every flush that deepens the pink of her sex when teasing breath is cast against her.
Her denial of him boomerangs back at her as his own form of vengeance causes a hot, tight mania to start hammering under the hood of her clit. He makes it last with slow and sly flicks of his tongue, whorls of heat brought up and circulated under the wet length. As he pushes into her, he pauses, and she waits, holding herself on the very edge between pleading and pummeling. When the erratic undulation of his tongue hits her nerve endings, the keen that’s been bubbling along in her throat starts to come out in shrill, breathy sighs. He groans with her as he dabs at the lingering traces of her shed blood, tipping her hips up and palming her ass to get in deeper. She leverages herself against his chin, heels digging into his back as she bridges herself up against his mouth.
Take it, take it, take it, they both would chant, if that were the sort of people they were. But they’re not people. She’s not a person, she reminds herself, when his thumb latches flat against her clit to press tight circles into her, forcing the fiery burn to engulf her whole groin. Life flows into his mouth, and he breathes it back into her, the will to try and go on a little longer. When his tongue recedes and wraps around her clit, there is wetness on her cheeks. The promise of blood holds a promise of respite. When the pressure valve is released and she is tipped off the precipice of consuming need, relief floods the air as she expels her breath and quivers hard. It goes on like this, her body tripping over itself to eke out just a bit more pleasure. Spike keeps the aftershocks going, eyes meeting hers over the expanse of her belly. It’s when their gazes lock that his fangs come down, cruel and sharp to remind her what he is and what she just gave him. It’s full disclosure at its finest when the demon melts away almost as fast as it came, and then it’s just him, wide blue eyes taking her in, juices shimmering on his lips.
She only lets him have the dregs, the sparse remains of a powerful source squeezed dry by the governing strength of circadian rhythm. The irony beats her about the head, her eyes closed tight when he sighs against her belly, his ear pressed tight to the concave dip of her stomach. She is and holds within herself a life cycle extinguished and erased, only to rise and bloom again on the next rotation of the moon. The blood runs fresh when it is called, resurrected from its quiet sleep, and she is drained all over again as her thoughts dally back, wishing she were finished, until his tongue snakes through her and she is brought to life again.