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Sunday Bloody Sunday

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Spike watched her for a couple of hours. She was picking the pockets of the Our Mother of Sorrows carnival goers and occasionally leading a hormone-driven teenager to his doom behind the rectory.

Not much had changed since the last time he saw her.

Spike threw his fag away and followed her and her latest conquest into the shadows. He looked on with pride as she attacked and drained her meal. He clapped slowly when she let the body drop. She glared at him with golden eyes, blood dripping slowly out of the corner of her mouth.

“Sunday, bloody Sunday,” he said appreciatively.

She snarled, “I should have killed Bono when I had the chance,” then lunged at him. Spike caught her and spun so that her back was against the wall. He hitched her legs around his waist and reached under her version of a Catholic school uniform skirt to find she wasn’t wearing any knickers. Sunday struggled briefly before moaning in pleasure as Spike entered her roughly.

He licked the blood from her chin then dove into her mouth. The brutal kiss went on and on as he fucked her up against the wall. They broke apart and he bit into her neck as he came, offering his wrist to her as well.

They faded into their human masks and Spike let Sunday slowly slide down to her feet. She straightened her clothes and adjusted the collar of Spike’s duster.

With a small smile, she said, “Hello, Daddy.”

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