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Slayer of Slayers

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One of these days he was going to make Harris pay. There’d be no more laughter. No more slights, or thoughtless, hurtful names. No more constant reminders of his current, damaged state. Once Spike had his bite back, the bastard would pay dearly for his affronts. And he would get his bite back, of that he was certain.

After all, as Harris was quick to remind him just today, this chip was built with ‘the finest of American craftsmanship.’ Now that was a laugh. If they’d been looking for quality, they should have used German parts. Now there was a nation that took pride in their work. He’d owned a Porsche in the sixties, and that car had purred down the roadways like a dream. That was a car to be proud of.

‘American craftsmanship’ Spike’s lily white arse. It should fall apart any day now. He’d give it a year, two at the outside. He could wait – he had all the time in the world. Then he’d be free again, and Harris would pay, and pay dearly. Revenge was a dish best served stone-cold, and when it happened, Harris wouldn’t know until it was too late to do anything about it.

Spike slouched in his chair, his hand going down to squeeze his growing hard-on, trapped as it was in his tight jeans. Violence was an aphrodisiac to a vampire; merely thinking of the ways he’d get his revenge got him as horny as a Grebeas in a room full of cats. He winced at that memory, shaking his head. Some things were best forgotten.

But Harris, now – the thought of all the things he could do to a human with only his teeth and claws could keep Spike entertained for weeks. The problem was that humans were such delicate creatures; they tended to break far too easily. The first thing he’d have to do was turn the boy. Even a newly-turned fledge was an improvement on a human. He’d last a good long time that way.

Too bad about his heat, though. When he’d lived in the berk’s basement, he’d been able to feel it from across the room. Late at night, when the arsewipe was sound asleep, Spike had fantasized about having that heat for his own. Driving down into Harris, holding him down while Spike pounded out his anger, fucking out the hurt, and the damage to his pride that he’d suffered by going to the Slayer for safety.

He’d simply have to fuck the boy a few dozen times before he turned him. That was a workable compromise. Then he could have the boy’s heat, and have his fun torturing the bastard, as well. Eyes closed, Spike let his head fall back, his substantial erection aching for more attention.

The scent of Harris’ fear had hung heavy in his dingy little basement room. Despite the fact that Spike couldn’t touch him physically, he’d been smart enough to still fear Spike’s ingenuity and resourcefulness. Oh, he’d tasted Harris’ fear on the air, and it had aroused him more than even the sweetest and most innocent of virgins trussed up and waiting for him – a gift from his sire.

Pulling out his cock, he gripped it tightly, setting up a fast pace. He hadn’t felt comfortable taking a human to bed since his run-in with the soldiers, and most demons weren’t available either, since they’d sooner stake him than bed him these days. Fucking Slayer. It was all her fault. He could have pulled the wool over all their eyes. He could have convinced the demon population he chose to work with her, if she didn’t treat him with such contempt in public.

She’s the one he needed to teach to respect him. Once he’d turned his boy, and taught him how to fight, they’d come back to the Hellmouth, and teach the Slayer to treat Spike the way she should. They’d defeat her and her namby-pamby Watcher, then he’d take over the Hellmouth, and run it with his faithful boy at his side.

True, Harris lacked respect for Spike at the moment, but that was because he’d never seen the true Spike. He’d been half-blind with drink the one time he’d spent any real time with Harris before the chip. Once he put the Slayer in her place, the Hellmouth would be his, and Harris would understand his true place was beside Spike.

Or beneath Spike – or on his knees, with his mouth on Spike’s cock. Spike wanted to have that now, before the heat of Harris’ mouth had faded. He’d have to work carefully, but he was a master of seduction. He’d have Harris in his bed before the year was out.

Then once the chip was gone, Xander would be his forever. Spike’s back arched as his orgasm overtook him, the visions of his ultimate defeat of his mortal enemy filling his mind in a rush. He’d share the blood of his third Slayer with Xander. It would make him strong – a worthy match for the Slayer of Slayers. A sly smile crept across Spike’s face as he thought of the seduction to come. Xander Harris would be his soon, and he’d never even suspect the trap until it was too late.