When he woke up, his head was pounding. And his entire body felt stiff, forced into a chair. His arms were secured behind his back and he could feel the weight of handcuffs on his wrists. The last thing he remembered was three hulking Ihugco demons angry about a bad tip on the Browns-Bengals game...and Buffy's fist flying at his face. His face. Not theirs.
"Buffy...ever lovin' grace o' me heart...why can't I move?" he asked hoarsely, without opening his eyes.
He knew she was there. He could smell the scent of her soap. Flowery despite the fact that nothing about her was girlish and froofy.
"I cuffed you," she replied, voice vibrating with barely leashed rage. "I hit you in the face, dragged you back here, and cuffed you. I am SO SICK of getting your weasely little ass out of trouble after you gamble yourself into it."
"Hey! My arse is not weasely!" He finally looked at her. Standing before him in her favorite tight black leather pants and black tank. "You know you think me arse is cute!"
Her eyes snapped. And so did her hand...across his face. Sharp pain spread under the surface of his skin and he gasped. When he was recovered enough from the blow to look at her again, he could see it.
Panic. Her beautiful green-brown eyes were filled with panic. Her lips were pale with it. Her face flushed. Nearly insane, berserker, panic.
He scooted forward with the hard metal folding chair, scraping it along the floor of the apartment.
"Shut up, Francis!" she cried, kicking at his foot and stopping his approach. "Shut up! I did not save you back in Detroit just to have you fuck it up here."
He swallowed hard. She got wild like this...he was used to it. He was all right with it. "Easy, Princess," he soothed, knowing it would only enrage her further. Knowing it would help her play out her rage.
"Don't tell me to be 'easy'!"
This time, he was prepared for the blow that made his head snap back. It was no worse than the average pre-vision headache. He was also prepared for it when she climbed into his lap...when her legs locked around him and her fist clutched the back of his head and she brought her mouth down on his.
It was a punishing kiss. A punishing kiss that made him ever...so...not sorry. Her teeth scraped his bottom lip, drew blood, and she licked it up like the creatures she staked nightly would've. She ground her tight little ass against his growing erection, punishing that part of him, too. He wanted to touch her...could feel his wrists chafing against the cuffs because they wanted out. He touched her with his mouth instead, kissing her back with equal violence.
But she pulled back. She pulled back, her beautiful face feral, eyes glittering with animal lust. He could see the blood on her lips...felt his cock straining against his zipper...screaming for mercy. She heard the cry...or felt it deep in her bones. Her breath was warm against his ear.
"Say you're sorry, Francis," she purred huskily, rubbing the smooth, hot, crotch of her pants against him. "Say you'll stop giving tips to big, bad, uglies."
"I'll stop...I'll stop." He was panting. He knew...he knew her ultimate revenge would be to have him come in his jeans like a bloody fourteen year old. "I promise...the...only...tip...goes...to...you." He tried to say it with a smile.
She kissed the smile away. Nearly bit it away. Her hand at the back of his head was pulling at the short strands of his hair...and her other hand snaked down between them.
How clothes parted were a mystery to him. Slayer skill and magic. He was lost in a haze of pain and pleasure so deep he couldn't give it a name. He couldn't give anything a name except the face above his...and the heat that slowly engulfed his cock. He was sure his wrists were bleeding. He didn't care.
Buffy rocked against him viciously, each time her sex ground into the base of his erection was like another wicked slap. Her lips slid down his ear, down his jaw-line, down his throat and he moaned and swore.
"Oh, fuck...oh, Slayer...yuir a devil woman."
"And...don't...you...forget...it." Slowly, the haze in her eyes was lifting, and what took its place was pure, unadulterated passion. Something else he loved about her. She slammed down on him hard and fast, moving for both of them.
The chair inched across the floor...leaving grooves in the cheap wood. He could feel her insides clenching...faster and faster. A low growl was building in her throat. Or was it his own? It didn't matter....nothing mattered except coming inside her, filling her with demon spawn, and apologizing for who he was. And who she thought she couldn't be.
"Doyle...ohhh, Doyle..." Her last harsh cry was not of anger...just anguished release.
"Shhh, shhh, Princess...I'm sorry..."
She sank against him, burying her damp face in his neck. Her fingers traced the red marks on his cheek.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Later, much later, she gently washed the blood from his freed wrists.
Later, he took her to bed.
And she hit him. Again.
br> April 2000.
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