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Summary
And his boot flexes against Spike’s prick, his stupid bloody combat boots—oh he knows. He’s so self aware it’s sickening. Riley’s stupid, salty skin, his musk and traces of scents no human could detect. Spike’s smelled this on Buffy before—oh, wouldn’t she have a time seeing this, blondie’s slice of American pie once again being torn open for his own pleasure, blood on Spike’s lips—
“Harder,” Riley snaps.
