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The Doublemeat Experience
By Moose

Disclaimer: Joss is God. The characters are his. I'm merely having fun with them.
Notes: During "Doublemeat Palace" Spike's POV

Lurking outside of the Double Meat Palace. She's working here. I can't believe she's fucking working here. Someone glances at me and I glare back.

Yeah, I lurk. I smoke and I lurk, so sod off! They stop looking. Good. I watch her some more.

I know she doesn't want me anywhere near her pretend life with her pretend job. But I'm there anyway. I see her--all that power and grace, doing what? Reduced to shoveling bloodless meat patties at bloated, vacant-eyed fast food junkies.

I can barely look at her. It tears holes in my gut. She's caged. She's made a nice little cage for herself. Even wears garish stripes like prisoners do in those silly cartoons. Might as well be bars.

I know this place can't hold her. She's bigger than this. It sickens me to see her here! She's like me. After the bloody chip was jammed into my skull. Before I knew I could kill demons. I hated that feeling. I know she hates it too--hates it worse than I do. She's alive now. Painfully alive. And she's letting this fucking nightmare drain her like a lazy vampire.

That's it, don't laugh, pet. Don't joke. Don't speak. And for hell's sake, treat every insipid idiot looking for chicken guts mashed into interesting shapes as a fucking god.

Come again! Yeah, whore it up, luv. Give them a smile like that damn bot.

The blank faces are why I decide to intervene, or at least try. The bleed'n ponces working around her, not seeing her like I do. Thinking she's anything less than the radiant, blinding creature I see. But they can't see it. They're suckling death--it's in their eyes. Dru had that look sometimes, that cadaver bliss, until I slapped her out of it. Then she would scream and laugh and fall asleep dreaming of soft, plump little old ladies drinking tea and chatting about the price of biscuits. She always told me her dreams--as if I had anything to do with them. Plump ladies? Yeah, right.

But the problem is, my Slayer, my love, I can see the seed in your eyes too. Germinating. It's this fucking hell place doing it to you.

Humans create hell. Demons only live in it.

That was a favorite saying...of who? I forget. It's been so long. Dru would remember. It had made her laugh. No wait, Angelus had said it. He said it with his fingers up Dru's dress. That's why she had laughed. I didn't think it was funny. Still don't. But the bastard was right. Fuck! I have to do something.

I walk inside, stealth like. She's smiled one too many times already and can't feel me there. It's not a good sign. The muscles in her shoulders are sagged. I can tell, even under that stupid uniform I can tell. She looks like she's been fighting non-stop hell beasties for a week.

When she finally turns, she looks at me annoyed. Good. I can work with that. Pissing her off is fun anyhow. I pretend to be another John looking at the menu. Whore me, baby!

"What's in the Doublemeat nuggets?"

I get the look, that infamous--if you don't stop what you're doing, I'm gonna stake you, right-fucking-now--look. That's my girl. I smile in appreciation, then give her a line about service. Customer service. She's not amused. Fuck, I thought it was funny. But she's all business, as if she's been called to wear stripes and take shit from people like me.

A few jokes, a few jibes. She's having none of it. I half-tease her about being a demon, but she claims different. She's human, she says. She's not wrong. Fuck. She's never wrong, is she? But I know she is. I know this job will kill her slow--Angelus slow. Creatures like us weren't meant for places like this, where all the wild things are chopped out, ground and served luke warm with not-so-special sauce.

I'm honest with her. It's all I can ever be now. It hurts too much to lie. I tell her she's not happy and there is a glimmer of hope. She knows I'm right this time, that even I can get it right once in awhile.

I tell her she's better than this. So fucking-much-better. I'm actually surprised at what she says. She needs the money. That's it? That's why? I tell her I can get money, even though I'm not sure how. It doesn't matter. She's knows I can. I can see it in her eyes.

"Walk with me now."

Come on, luv. I couldn't save you before, but this...even if you want out, this isn't the fucking way. But she turns to leave. I grab her arm, desperate. I hate that she makes me desperate. Why the hell can't she see?

"This place'll do stuff to you."

But she rips from me and walks away. She doesn't realize she's dragging me into this hell too, killing me right along with her. Or maybe she does. Maybe she doesn't care.


I sleep for a few hours. I dream of orange and white striped butterflies covered in grease, stuck, flapping uselessly on a concrete floor. I shudder awake cold and craving blood. It's not a good feeling. The hunger is never good, but the cold...I don't usually notice the cold.

I decide to go see her again. Lurk, rather. She might need me, and it's not like I'm getting any older. I can wait for her to need me.


It happens when I'm walking past, looking in. She sees me. Instant bliss in that look--for me, not her. That look says it all, says it's time.

I meet her in the alley out back. She's tired. Dead tired. She tries to smile for me and I wince at her effort.

"Don't, pet. You don't need to. I'm here, aren't I?"

She wanders over behind the dumpster and I follow. I know what she has in mind and say nothing. This isn't about us, or me rather. But I've been here before. Well, not literally here, tugging her orange pants down, caressing her ass as I lift her against the wall. I meant that I had been in the same place with her needing me. It was when her hands were bloodied from digging out of her grave. I had held them, wanting to take that awful look from her eyes, that same look she has now as she works my cock free. Only there is a hint of lust this time, just beneath her heavy eyes.

Before, with her fresh from the grave, she was like a newborn. I was gentle then, seeing the world crashing in around her, seeing the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. She almost has that look again. But it's worse this time. There's acceptance now, as if she expects the suffering.

I can smell her eagerness, her desire wafting out from under the layers of grease and polyester. It gives me a peculiar thrill seeing her respond, even tired like she is. I feel a surge of manly pride. She wants something that she knows I can give her. It's a wonderful feeling, even if it won't last.

I shove her panties aside, noticing but not really caring about how frilly and lacy they are. She didn't wear them for me, otherwise I would have taken the time to admire them. She wore them for the same reason she wants to fuck me now.

I dip a finger inside her warm slit, gently rubbing her clit with my thumb as I do. She frowns slightly, impatient, like I was serving her fruit cocktail instead of the main course.

Fine, pet. Main course it is.

I slide my cock into her slow, not wanting to jolt her with any sudden movement. She settles down on it with a soft, inaudible sigh and steadies herself by grabbing my biceps. I begin slowly thrusting, my right hand under her ass, lifting her up slightly with every stroke.

She's not completely comfortable, I can tell, but hell, neither am I. But that look in her eyes is fading a bit, as if every stroke was forcing something out. Like she couldn't have cock and death filling her at the same time. One has to give ground. And I'm staking my claim right now, luv.

I look in her eyes and give her a slight grin, but she looks away. She doesn't know why I'm smiling. Maybe she thinks I'm happy to fuck her in an alley, like this is some great fantasy of mine. My real fantasies would scare her shitless. And not because of the kink, though sometimes it's there. But rather how I dream of taking her in her own bed, and waking up with her soft hands and mouth caressing me. Waking up a part of her life, even when she doesn't need me. Those are the fantasies I can't tell her about.

The slow strokes are starting to get to her. I can feel her breath hot against my neck. She gives my biceps a squeeze and I increase the pace.

It's alright, baby. I've got you. Come now. Come for Spike.

I catch her look then. She's looking at me odd, almost as if she isn't sure she should finish.

"Spike..." she murmurs, but I cut her off with a hard thrust. She's gasping and working her mouth now. A moment later I feel her shudder and clench me hard from within.

God I love Slayers, I think as I'm pumping my dead seed into her. She can make me come just by flexing. But that isn't the whole truth. It was the look in her eyes that did it. That uncertain, maybe we shouldn't be doing this, look.

Yeah, luv. Maybe you shouldn't be fucking vampires in an alley. It's all sorts of naughty.

I gently let her down to the ground and hand her my handkerchief so that she can clean up a bit before pulling her pants back up. She takes it without a hint of embarrassment. Damn, she must be exhausted.

I assume she's going to throw the handkerchief in the dumpster, but she looks up at me blankly and hands it back to me. I can smell the scent of us mixed together on it even before I touch it. I hurriedly put it in a pocket, careful not to let the pleasure at her sudden gesture cross my features. I can tell she doesn't want anything to remind her of what she just did.

"My break's over," she says quietly, and walks back inside without even a backward glance at me. I don't mind. It wasn't such a bad fuck. And I got a souvenir of sorts.

I know how much she needed it. Me, I mean. To feel me inside of her. She'll remember now, for the rest of her shift. Maybe even through tomorrow too. She'll remember it when the grease spatters against her skin. When she's smiling inanely at customers. When she's waiting for the hell she's made to be over with so she can run out and fuck me some more. In her bed of course. With handcuffs on.

Yep, that's what she's thinking.

At least that's what I tell myself, as I walk back to my crypt and wait for her to need me again.

The end.

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