Mister Manehattan

As he shuffled past the scampering locals of the age-old megacity, Spike's first impression of Manehattan was that whoever designed the metropolis clearly struggled with attention-deficit disorder.

"First order of business," Spike said to himself, glancing over a map, "is find a place to stay." The straps of his backpack, his only luggage, dug into his shoulders.

The nineteen year-old sighed audibly, leaning on the inside of an old brick tunnel as he looked out into the busy streets of Manehattan. He had found out the hard way that matching lines on a paper to the urban sprawl of a city the size of three Canterlots, wasn't a task that should be attempted on the fly. "I'm gonna fucking starve."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," came a voice from behind. A man strutted past Spike, stopping momentarily to observe his surroundings and adjust his black peacoat. "You'll be fine; the city isn't that hard to understand."

The young drake raised an eyebrow. "What makes you—"

The gentleman turned around.

"—Fancy Pants. Naturally." Spike exhaled, relieved. He brushed his stiff green hair back, looking up at his acquaintance. "Not that I'm not glad to see you, but what brings you out here?"

The blue-haired socialite—or Arch Mage, as Spike had come to know him—was clad in his usual ensemble of black formal wear, with an accompanying lavender bowtie and white dress shirt, which served to camouflage his deceptively solid build. "Just a short visit, as it were." He frowned as he fingered his pocket, pulling out a cloth with which he wiped his ever-present monocle. "Checking in on a friend who's hit a rough patch." As Spike nodded in comprehension, the older man shifted his weight. "I wasn't expecting to run into you, but rumor has it you've hit a rough patch yourself." He inclined his head almost imperceptibly, signalling for Spike to clarify.

His mind drifted back to the events of yesterday; Celestia's uncharacteristic hostility, Luna's incessant attachment to him, and the consequences of either sister's disposition towards him.

He felt a headache coming on. "Long story," he said, crossing his arms and frowning.

Fancy Pants shrugged, pocketing his square of cloth. "Long stories go well over coffee," he replied, gesturing to a cafe across the street.

"And so now, her sister pretty much wants my head on a pike," Spike finished, leaning onto his crossed arms, eyes tracing the swirl of steam lazily winding its way up from his coffee cup. He sighed, rubbing his sides while glancing out the window with a vacant expression.

Manehattan never lost its pace; even as the night wore on, as evidenced by the bloody sunset working its way down the horizon, neither the noises nor the civilians showed any intentions of winding down for the coming darkness.

Luna would love it here, Spike thought to himself, watching as yet another Manehattenite strutted past the glass window of the cafe, utterly absorbed in their daily affairs. The noise of the city was incessant, but had a pleasant rhythm to it. Sound boomed from the cars not fifteen feet from where Spike sat, jarring the windows and rattling the interior of the small, retro-themed diner.

"I see," Fancy Pants said, mirroring Spike's pose on the opposite side of the table. He frowned, stirring his coffee while entertaining a contemplative appearance. "That doesn't seem quite right."

"How do you figure?" Spike asked, shuffling his feet restlessly. He scooted further into the red, chipped booth as he caught another glance from one of the diner's patrons. The maroon-haired young woman turned and whispered excitedly to her friend. "Considering the circumstances, I'd say she wasn't exactly overreacting."

Fancy Pants shook his head. "You misunderstand me. While your situation with Luna is certainly less than favorable, it isn't like Celestia to act with open hostility." He placed his coffee spoon to the side, folding his hands together and placing his head over them. "At most, she would appear irritated. She's not the kind to—to," he struggled to find the word, rolling his eyes and gesturing with his hands.

"Get pissed off?" Spike ventured.

The socialite shrugged. "More or less."

"I dunno," Spike said, frown deepening as the pair of women at the counter turned to openly stare at him. "All things considered, I can't really fault the Princess for it. I show up out of nowhere, eat up all of her sister's free time, unleash an eldritch abomination on her kingdom, and make her think I'm a manwhore."

"You are a manwhore."

"Well, yeah," he conceded, "but that's just it. Who wouldn't get upset if a guy known for sleeping around turned up in bed with your sister?"

The blue-haired gentleman shook his head. "That's not the point, Spike; you need to see the Princess for who she is." He took a short draught from his coffee cup before continuing. "The two sisters are centuries old; this kind of situation would hardly be new to Celestia. She does not hate so easily."

A snort. "Could've fooled me."

Fancy Pants continued. "Even if it were a novel occurrence, there are only two reasons she would act so rashly."

"Reasons being?" Spike asked, mildly intrigued.

"One, she genuinely believes you shouldn't be involved with her sister, for previously stated reasons or otherwise."

No surprise there, Spike thought, shrugging inwardly. She wouldn't have tried to get me to marry Twilight if she thought I should hang around Luna.

"Or two," Fancy Pants continued, holding up two fingers, "she's trying to scare you away from your commitments."

At this, Spike blinked. "What? Why?"

The Arch Mage shrugged. "It's anyone's guess. Pure speculation on my part, but I have reason to believe that Celestia is trying to make absolutely sure that you know what you're getting into." He finished off his coffee and pushed the glass to the side. "You're in for a very long career should you stay with your mentor."

"Assuming I don't die," Spike muttered.

"Case in point," Fancy Pants said. "Celestia has known you since you were a child, Spike. Questionable choices aside, is it really so hard to believe that she wants to choose the least risky course, for both you and her sister's sake?" He got up from the table, leaving a bill to pay for the meal.

Spike shrugged in uncertainty. "When you say it like that, I guess it makes sense. But you'd think she'd trust her own sister's choices a bit more." He was anxious to be gone; the same maroon-haired woman from before seemed to be hyping herself up to make her way over for a conversation, and the young man was in no mood for small talk.

"It's a necessary precaution, I'd wager," Fancy Pants asserted, smoothing any remaining crumbs from off of his suit. "After all, she's seen her sister jealous before."

Spike frowned, opting to keep his opinions to himself as he followed the older man out of the small restaurant. A glance to an approaching window showed him the woman's anxious fidgeting, before she sat back down in her seat, defeated by hesitation.

"Come again," the cashier drawled from behind the counter.

"What are you going to do, now that you're here?"

Spike shrugged. "Haven't really figured that out yet." He swung his legs lazily over a dropoff, the back of his calves gently scraping the sloped concrete of the balcony the two men rested on. "The city's bigger than Canterlot, but I'd be able to tell if something out of the ordinary was going on." Getting up from his seat, he dusted the back of his shorts and settled beside his mentor. "I'll check out the scene around here for tonight, and hit up law enforcement first thing in the morning."

Fancy Pants eyed the sun, which was now a distant, shimmering sliver of scarlet in the distance. Slowly, with a jerky movement akin to nervousness, he took a slow drag from a pipe. Smoothly exhaling, he blew a ring of smoke into the air, then another, smaller one in succession. His posture seemed to relax. "Understood." His eyes crinkled in a familiar smile, the first Spike had seen since the two men had met that day. "See to it that you do your job, and do it favorably! But this journey of yours is a blessing as well." His smile quirked knowingly. "Behave as a young man should."

Spike cocked a finger gun at his older friend and winked. "Duly noted. How long are you planning to be in town?"

The Arch Mage shrugged. "Anywhere from a day to a week. Possibly more." He tapped out the base of his pipe, depositing the ash into a nearby tray. "I'm calling on an old friend, and I don't know what to expect." Turning to Spike, he appraised the young drake silently. "You should find a hotel to stay the night, before it gets much darker."

The young man snorted in mirth. "And waste the money? I don't think so." A flame started to race outward from his chest, before consuming him completely, until a stream of a nebulous purple cloud remained.

As it raced away, Fancy Pants called after him: "Make sure she doesn't have a girlfriend this time!"

The smell struck him as soon as he entered the room.

For a podunk, out-of-the-way jazz club, the establishment that Spike entered was decently populated. Eyes wide, nose a-scrunch, the young drake made his way to the front of the dark building, through the sparsely gathered crowds of beatniks, regulars, and what appeared to be local college students. Ignoring whatever stares were directed his way, he continued his search, his view roaming over the throngs of the unremarkable.

What was that? he thought to himself. I know I smelled something—

He knew that no one else in the room would relate to the sensation he had just experienced—no one but a dragon—but the scent irrevocably reminded Spike of a roaring bonfire. It gave an impression of passion and raw, visceral confidence. If he had to place a name to the feeling, it would be that of a runner's high.

The hairs on the back of Spike's neck stood rigid, as captivated as he was. Regardless of his wishes, however, his search seemed fruitless.

Eyes still scanning the room, he took note of the group of musicians that was preparing to leave the stage. A tall, dark-haired woman, clad in a black tuxedo jacket, skirt, and stockings leaned down to store her bow. Spike, momentarily distracted, noted her instrument—a cello—and absently wondered if she had been the source of the aroma that had marked him so strongly. As if she were aware of his eyes on her, the cellist raised her head, finding him almost instantly. Their gazes met, and Spike knew that she wasn't the one he was looking for. Frowning, he glanced over her frame once more, before turning and heading towards the bar.

He felt the cellist's gaze on his back, but his focus was elsewhere. The woman on fire—the aroma was undeniably, unapologetically female—was somewhere deep in a group of people, which made it all but impossible to distinguish her from a distance.

Sighing, he retreated to the counter, when it hit him again, nearly twice as strong as before.

Spike reeled back on his feet, his arms flailing, searching for something to latch on to. She's close, he thought, nostrils flaring. His hands found purchase, and as he grasped the strangely-textured surface, he glanced to his left. A shock of warm, piercing orange—

"Hey, asshole!"

A strong, rough hand grasped him painfully about the wrist, spinning him to face his assailant. A furious pair of pale green eyes widened in recognition, before narrowing back into slits. "You. I remember you from before."

Spike winced, recalling the young woman's face from his visit to the diner earlier that day. As opposed to before, where she had appeared nothing short of enthralled, the maroon-haired beauty looked irritated at best. She wore a pair of flattering short-shorts and a form-fitting red tank-top, both of which served to emphasize her curvaceous, if not bulky figure. Her skin was tan and freckled, unusual for a city-dweller, though her thick accent clearly labeled her as a Manehattenite. Her maroon hair combover gave off the impression of a reformed tomboy, and her composure spoke volumes of her conviction.

She was sweating.

"Can I help you...?" Spike asked. Close up, the young woman was certainly more attractive than Spike had previously given her credit for, but she wasn't the one he was looking for. The scent that had captured his attention so strongly was fading...

The young woman gestured to her chest, and Spike noticed the wet stain on her top that he had somehow glanced over. He blinked. "I made you lactate?"

She looked at him incredulously. "No, you idiot! You pushed me into my drink!" She was right, of course; her tanktop smelled strongly of alcohol.

"Oh, right," Spike said, remembering the odd surface he'd tried to use to balance himself with earlier. "That was your back?"

The girl snorted. "Definitely wasn't my front."

The young drake frowned. "My bad." He caught the bartender's eye. "Can I get a glass of water?"

As the man behind the bar complied, the red-headed young woman next to him squinted. "Really?" At his questioning glance, she continued. "If you're gonna buy me a drink as an apology, th' least you could do is not skimp on it."

Spike raised his eyebrow. "Who said I'm buying you a drink?" As the bartender handed him the glass, he struggled not to laugh at the girl's increasingly frustrated expression. He could tell by her scowl that his new acquaintance was rapidly losing patience with him.

This is fun, he thought to himself, before chucking the contents of the glass directly onto the girl's chest.

The redheaded young woman gasped in shock, arms outstretched and eyes widened in disbelief. "You..."

Before she could think to react angrily, Spike reached forward and poked her shirt with a single finger.

"What the—" she started to say, before flinching. She looked down, unbelieving when she saw that her shirt had dried. She looked back up at the stranger in front of her.

"Couldn't clean you up with just alcohol on your shirt," he explained, shrugging. "Otherwise you would've got set on fire." He smiled slightly at her baffled expression.

"How did you do that?" she asked, her anger forgotten as she leaned forward, intensely curious.

Spike's mind drifted first to the cellist, who had long since left the stage and had vanished from sight, and then to the oddity that was whoever had evoked such a strong scent. The smell, however intoxicating, was fading quickly, and he doubted that he'd be able to find her in this crowd.

Instead, he returned his attention to the third stranger in front of him. They were roughly the same size, and if his gut instinct was right—

"Wouldn't you like to know?" he answered, half-smirking. And for the second time that day, he turned and walked away from her, heading for the door.

Intrigued, the girl kept her eyes trained on him, reaching for her purse one, two, three times before snatching it and hurrying after his retreating figure.

From looking at him, you wouldn't be able to tell that Fancy Pants was nervous.

The blue-haired gentleman stood calmly on the stoop of a once-prestigious mansion-house, adjusting his bowtie and checking to see that, yes, he was presentable. He inhaled deeply to calm his nerves, and decided to eschew whatever rehearsed speeches he had come up with on the way there—what was he thinking? The woman he had come to see had been a socialite longer than he'd been a man, and as such, she'd smell insincerity coming from a mile away.

Given the circumstances, he thought to himself, she's likely had her fill of frauds for the moment.

His eyes seized on the fading condition of the old building—Valencia had always preferred the old parts of Manehattan, and while the structure had its charms, the lack of upkeep, as evidenced by the fading brick and encroaching moss, lent the looming edifice an air bordering on derelict. It had been some time since he'd laid eyes on it, and the passage of time showed heavily, even in the warm glow of the creeping sunset.

Gathering himself up, Fancy Pants lent forward and rapped on the front door before he could think to stop himself.

Deep breaths, he repeated internally.

After a time, he heard a set of footsteps approach—a clack of heels on hardwood—and suddenly a surge of memories came back to Fancy Pants, unwarranted and unadulterated: seeing her from the kitchen, one blazing hot afternoon in a Manehattan restaurant that she would later come to frequent; learning from lazy late afternoon waitresses that she also came from the upper class—a socialite, just like his mother—and was looking for help around the house; celebrating silently when his hours had been cut, going to her table as she prepared to leave, since her husband didn't accompany her during the day; introducing himself, eager and shaky, explaining that he had heard she was looking for workers, that yes, he would love to work as their butler; the first of few times he felt satisfaction in confessing that he came from a family of socialites himself—her lips pursing in a silent "Ah", her eyes hinting at the whir of gears working behind them...

Being introduced to her limited family and expanding staff, learning from the older butler more than his father had ever taught him, picking up other skills by assisting his fellow workers; his stomach dropping into his chest at being told to call her by her given name; stammering to the window washer on his way up the stairs to take an early leave, he would get the fourth floor, they were friends after all; washing the windows for over an hour while he did his best to nonchalantly peer at his employer, clad in her form-fitting stripped one piece on the penthouse's swimming pool, reading some book for beginning philanthropists; his mortification at finding that no, those windows weren't tinted, and yes, her sunglasses had hidden the fact that she had tracked his movements the moment he appeared to observe her; his nervous laughter as she chuckled good-naturedly with him, some hint of female satisfaction on her face, her assurance that she wouldn't tell on him to her husband...

Fancy Pants tugged the sleeve of his jacket down; those were always the most vivid memories for him, being the earliest. He'd been keen of mind enough at that age to catalog his experiences, which was wise of him; the rest of his time with Valencia and his subsequent worldly education seemed a blur in comparison: the butler's passing, which was marked with no small amount of sorrow on Fancy's part—the funeral was bittersweet, as he remembered sourly the loss of a father figure, but it was also the first time Valencia had hugged him—his eventual admission that he had better start looking for more dignified levels of work if he intended to earn the life he wanted. He remembered with alacrity the offer her husband had made him to take Fancy under his wing and make him his apprentice, but a refusal was in order—he wouldn't dishonor his employer of several years, not when being near his wife would be no shortage of torture. A noble but solemn farewell, his last hug from the beauty he spent his late adolescence pining after—about the shoulders, he recalled, petulantly—and traveling.

Building connections, learning, yes, but always traveling.

Knowing what he knew now, he always feared coming back to this place; letting his dreams of the past affect his judgment was a fate he did his best to avoid.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door shifted, a heavy clunk signalling the turning of a lock, and for the first time in far too long, Fancy Pants laid eyes on the first woman he'd ever loved.

She blinked in recognition, lips parting slightly as she took in her guest's appearance. "...Fancy?" she questioned, leaning on the door absently.

"In the flesh," he said, grinning wistfully.

Instantly, he regretted his choice to come. She had always been beautiful, to be sure, but nostalgia had kept her beauty far better than time had. Part of this he attributed to her circumstances, as the woman he had come to know always refused to be seen except at her best. As soon as he laid eyes on her, he knew that there would be no good-old days, no going back to their youth in his visit.

She wore a faded orange sundress, with wonderfully-aged silver bangles and a pearl necklace about her well-exhibited collarbone. Her heels were white and in need of buffing, her apricot hair done up in her familiar elegant beehive. She smelled strongly of citrus.

"You're so big now," she murmured, and a bit of warmth seemed to seep back into her frame, before squelching somewhere about her chest, as if she suddenly remembered that it was her solemn duty to be miserable. She smiled, but it didn't seem to reach her eyes. "What can I do for you?"

Fancy Pants drank in her sight—his first impression of her was that of an aged movie star, elegant and well-preserved. Her breathed in her scent, mingled with the smell of dust from her unattended housing and odor of old wood. Immediately, he was in his element.

He smiled. "I just got in town and thought I'd drop by."

"You've never dropped by before," she answered casually. She crossed her arms, staring directly at him. "How long has it been since we've last met? Ten years, give or take?"

Fancy Pants coughed. "Twenty, roughly speaking."

Her eyes widened in mock-surprise. "Twenty, you say? Quite a long time to go without speaking." She rolled her eyes patronizingly. "I suppose you're going to tell me that you always meant to visit, but work kept you busy."

The blue-haired gentleman shook his head politely. "On the contrary, I had every opportunity to come visit. I simply chose not to."

This response she hadn't expected, as evidenced by the slightly surprised look on her face. "Really, now? Why avoid—me?" she asked, rather jarringly changing her choice of words at the last moment.

Fancy Pants shrugged. "I'd be happy to tell you over dinner," he suggested.

The orange-haired socialite snorted, an act which betrayed how positively sour she felt. "Has it occurred to you that I might have prior engagements for tonight?"

Fancy Pants smiled disarmingly. "Of course I have. I just don't care." At her incredulous look, he continued. "Mind you, I'm not taking no for an answer: I am going to make you enjoy yourself, even if I have to force my company on you." He looked her up and down openly, gaze lingering at the appropriate intervals and recalling how she loved to be gleaned at by appraising eyes. "Are you ready to go out?"

For a moment, it seemed likely that she was going to tell him off—something along the lines of making assumptions and daring to demand her time after so many years—but it seemed equally likely that she would swing to either extreme. After all, their bond had been a fairly close one, and knowing Valencia as he did, she had dearly missed being adored by suitors.

Indeed, she seemed to be stuck in indecision, brow furrowing as she debated the costs of allowing herself to have an evening of fun with an old friend, however neglectful he had been.

Finally, she relented, muttering, "...not my best dinner dress...be down momentarily...." As she retreated, she turned back to Fancy Pants. Her arms were still crossed, but she seemed reluctant to meet his gaze. "Would you like to come inside," she proposed, equally reluctant in her suggestion.

Fancy Pants froze, his mouth caught in a thin smile. After a moment, she looked at his face, wondering at his silence. Abruptly, he answered, "I'd prefer to stay outside, if it's fine with you."

Valencia frowned, as if offended. Softly, Fancy Pants added, "I'd rather remember it as it was."

Her gaze softened, and she nodded gently. "I understand." A feeling of empathy passed through the two of them, and Valencia turned away, not bothering to close the door behind her. "I'll just be a moment." A ball of nervous heat found its way into her stomach, and as she took to the stairs, the hairs on the back of her neck bristled. She could feel him watching her leave, as was their undeclared ritual when they were younger, and the creak of the dusty stairs didn't seem to declare her solitude so rudely.

For the first time in many days, Valencia Orange wasn't alone.

The girl had finally caught up with Spike, and she was heaving for the effort.

He acknowledged her with a glance, as if he had fully expected her to follow. They were near an old playground, lit by a number of lone, faithful streetlights. Older buildings surrounded them on both sides of the street.

"How long are you in town?" she asked, bending over and exhaling heavily, clutching her purse through a thin sheen of sweat.

"Dunno," he answered casually, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I'm here on work, so at least a week, I'd think." He looked at her, none-too-subtly observing the healthy flush of her face as she gazed up at him. A drop of sweat trickled down from her chin, disappearing between her respectable cleavage. He noted that the edges of her rose-red bra were showing, accentuating the glow produced by the light of the lamps on her bosom.

She noticed him looking her over, and if Spike was right, her face turned somewhat hopeful. "You gotta place to stay?" She finally stood up, looking at him intently.

Spike turned fully to her, his expression blank. "Not yet. Why?"

She shifted awkwardly, tapping one foot on the ground and thumbing the handle of her purse. "I was asking cause, y'know...my sister works nights, and if you need a place to crash..." She trailed off, looking up at him silently through a curtain of hair.

Spike began walking again, and, having caught her breath, the girl followed. "You barely know me," he commented offhand.

"You don't seem like a bad person, and I can take care of myself," she retorted.

He looked over his shoulder. "And you're suggesting this just to be neighborly?" She said nothing to this, settling for a sulky expression. "I'm not saying no—" at this she looked up, eyes widened, "—it's just generally not a good idea to invite strangers to your house."

"Call it couch surfing," she said, frowning. She shivered, conscious of a gust of wind that whistled lethargically down the street. "Look, I get the feeling you're a good guy, a-and," she hugged herself as a shield from the cold, "shit, I ain't never did this before—"

Spike could practically feel the awkwardness emanating from the young woman—growing up, he'd known his share of tomboys who'd had trouble showing their affections. Because despite his best intentions, he could tell she'd developed a crush in the small amount of time she'd known him. Sighing internally, he said, "If I'm going to crash at your place, I should probably get your name first."

A great deal of stress visibly lifted from the girl's shoulders, and she laughed nervously. "Sorry, it's just..." she bowed her head, "I'm...Babs." She looked down, antsy, as if waiting for him to make fun of her. "I know, sounds like a fuckin' cartoon name or somethin'."

When she'd gone silent, Spike stepped closer to her. "I'm Spike," he replied, nudging her in the shoulder. He slipped a protective arm around her waist, and he felt her go rigid at what he could only guess was a foreign sensation to her. "Come on, let's get you out of the cold."

"My house isn't far from here," she muttered, leaning none too gently into his arm as they moved.

They traveled for close to fifteen minutes, before stopping at a set of stone steps leading up to an apartment wedged between several of its counterparts. Babs took to the stairs, nervously searching through her purse for her set of keys. The light from the lamp above the doorpost framed her, throwing her tall, curvy figure into sharp focus. Somehow, Spike knew she had always been on the bulky side, and wasn't quite yet used to her newly adult body.

"She's gonna kill me," she muttered under her breath as she opened the door, walking inside and gulping as her companion followed suit.

The apartment, while larger than Spike had anticipated, was cast into shadow. All was dark except for a light above the stove, which gave little indication of where one could walk without obstacles.

"This way," Babs said lowly, walking determinedly down a narrow hallway. She opened a door, wincing at its noisy creak, and flicked a light on. She exhaled heavily, turning around to welcome her guest. "So, this is my place," she said, with uncharacteristic timidity. She threw her purse on the far side of her bed, a queen-sized mattress with a quilt which was decorated in squares of white and red, with the odd ornament of apples here and there. "Make yourself at home."

Babs knelt down to remove her shoes, her face rushing red with heat and nervous energy. She nearly fainted at the sound of her partner sitting on her bed—a boy, a boy, on her bed—straining the coils and shifting the bedding.

"Hey," he said, and God his voice was crisp, "Babs."

She turned, grasping her elbow rigidly. "Yeah?"

He was laid out on her bed, head nearly to her pillows, contemplative. As opposed to her, he looked perfectly calm, if not concerned.

He reached out a hand—it was softer than she would've thought a boy's hand would be, softer than her own, at least—and grasped her by the hem of the shorts, pulling her down with him. His deep green eyes met hers—were they always that slanted?—and he rubbed the base of her spine gently. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to, you know," and Babs was almost certain that her head had combusted into flames. "I can go sleep on the couch."

She struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat. "You—you don't want to?" Of course he doesn't, she thought to herself, the fuck were you thinking, look at you—

"I'm fine with it," he assured her, and instantly the voice in her head went silent, "but you have to make sure you're making a good decision." He looked sympathetic, as if he'd been in her shoes once, and knew how pathetically out-of-tune she must've felt.

Babs looked down at him, breathing deeply. The pit in her stomach never went away, but with his words, she felt a measure of control seep back into her limbs. "I—," she started to say, but couldn't find any words. Instead, she steadied herself, getting up from the bed and reaching for the wall. Her hands found a remote, and pressed down on a unassuming green button. The lights dimmed down ever so slightly, enough for the soft light to illuminate the outlines of their figures, enough for the two of them to see each other's faces.

"This is the best decision," she said softly, and a hot thrill ran up and down her spine as she felt his strong arms close around her waist.

He said nothing, pulling her down on top of him so that she straddled his waist. She groaned in satisfaction—by all reckonings, she was long overdue for this, having been waiting ever since she discovered boys, really saw them. Her hands encircled his neck, roughly brushing his collarbone and feeling the taut skin over his cheekbones.

His breath was hot, uncommonly hot, even as it brushed over her tanktop and seeped through to her skin. He pressed his face forward into her chest, his tongue finding its way into her cleavage as his hands pulled demandingly at her belt.

She grunted, suddenly hot and entirely too sweaty in her clothes. Babs' fingers brushed through her partner's hair, aggressively searching his scalp as she wondered when the right time would be to pull his head back and kiss him.

Spike's hand struggled momentarily at the girl's belt, only for one of her hands to come down and undo the latch that held her shorts in place. With eager but moderated effort, he pulled them and her undergarments down, savoring her gasp as he palmed her sizable ass. He kneaded the globes of flesh patiently, satisfied with her reactions as well as her pleasant weight on top of him.

Without warning, Babs leaned back, placing both of her hands on her partner's chest as she pushed him forcibly to the mattress. The only hint of her intentions was a quick exhale of breath. Her mouth brushed against his, and for a moment she marveled at the experience. His lips were strangely pliable, and as she opened her mouth in slight surprise, he took the gesture as an invitation and pushed into her with mulled determination.

"Mmf," she grunted into his mouth, but he didn't release her. Babs inhaled through her nose as the kiss deepened, her tongue brushing with blatant inexperience against his. One hand moved to grasp her by the head, and as their lips and tongues mashed together, Spike shifted the two of them until he laid on top. All too soon, the kiss was broken, and her partner, heaving, sat up above her, illuminated by the room's gentle light.

"Wow," Babs said, brushing her sweaty hair back. Her eyes were widened, and she distractedly noticed a breeze below her hips.

"Yeah," Spike answered, grinning. He moved his hands downward, grasping the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head.

"Wow," Babs repeated, eyes bugging out of her head. He was deceptively muscled, going by his lean, rippling chest and developed bone structure. She wondered at a scar on his stomach, before raising her eyes back to meet his. "Can I?"

Spike chuckled warmly, laying down beside her and propping his head up on his hand. "Knock yourself out."

Eagerly, Babs sat up next to her newfound lover, her hands roaming inquisitively over every inch of his muscle, grappling at whatever she found interesting. Spike, to her satisfaction, didn't look annoyed—rather, he seemed pleased that she was devoting as much attention to him as she was.

Getting up, she placed her hands on either side of his waist. She grinned in anticipation, even as she caught his amused stare. "What?" he asked.

"Can I—" she gulped, before glancing down at his crotch, and back up to him. Her face was flushed, and she giggled, which she'd never known herself to do. "Can I give you head?" she whispered. The phrase sounded infinitely more scandalous out loud than in her head.

"Please do," he said, and he motioned for her to continue.

With gusto, she unbuckled his pants, brushing her hair back as she unzipped his shorts and glanced his boxers. She swallowed at the outline of his bulge, before summoning her daring and unmasking him.

"Oh wow," she breathed, absently registering the effect her breath had on his member. She grasped it gently by the base—it was a respectable size and girth, which helped her to not be too intimidated—and noted that her partner lacked any pubic hair. Not that she was complaining, considering what she was about to do.

"Look at me," he called. She glanced at him, confused. "Look at me when you do it," he breathed, leaning up on both elbows.

She nodded obediently, maintaining their eye contact as she took him into her mouth. She cherished his hiss, only later noting the taste of his cock. It was blander than she thought it would be—it was slightly salty, but the shape and texture were immediately more interesting. She swirled her tongue around the tip before moving ever so slowly towards the base, licking all the while. She had watched enough porn to guess at what she was supposed to do, though no amount of watching could have prepared her for his size. She only managed to take roughly three fourths of his member into her mouth, and though she knew by his groans and shiftings he was enjoying her work, her deepest wish at that moment was that she could deepthroat him.

Babs felt his cock pulse in her throat, to her pleasure. The vein at the bottom of his dick thrummed, and Spike shivered as Babs took a moment to exhale, her hot breath wrapping around his wet member. Dutifully, Babs whipped off her shirt and removed her bra with practiced ease. Grinning, she licked every side of his cock with vigor, coating it in a new layer of saliva, before taking it between her breasts and pumping. Her partner groaned, and feelings of female pride jolted through Babs' mind—no more teasing from her classmates, she was officially a woman now, she'd made a grown man writhe under her, now who was the virgin—

As Spike came closer and closer to orgasm, Babs' determination became singular, and she was deadset on getting what she wanted.

All over me, she thought, pumping the throbbing cock between her breasts with fervor, all over my face and my tits, give me that money shot—

With a groan, Spike leaned into her chest, cock spasming as it spilled heavily onto his partner's torso. Mouth wide open, Babs managed to catch some of the deceptively hot liquid—rather bitter and spongy, she thought—while the rest coated her breasts and neck. A deep, aching sense of satisfaction rose up from in her hips, and she didn't even try to fight the feeling of accomplishment as she cleaned herself. She'd landed a grown man—a damn good-looking grown man at that—and pleasured him with her mouth and breasts, getting him to spill over and into her within a matter of minutes. And now...

She shivered with nervous delight. She got back onto the bed, reaching over her recovering partner for a pillow, which she placed under her chest and hugged dearly as she positioned herself.

"Not bad," Spike breathed, audibly impressed. He brushed his hair back, grinning as Babs flushed.

"I can't believe I finally did it," she admitted, burying her head into the mattress.

"What did you do?" Spike teased, sitting up and rubbing the girl's ass in circles.

She mumbled something into the bed.

"Didn't catch that," Spike said, smirking.

Her feet lifted up, bending back over her rear in exasperation. "I just sucked your dick," she breathed, almost unbelieving. "I never thought I'd do it," she said, feeling delightfully dirty. "I just had a guy in my mouth, and I loved it."

Spike grinned, standing now as he got behind her. "What now?" he asked innocently, both hands on her ass, pinching and grasping at her flesh, spreading her so he could see her, wet and winking at him.

Babs breathed heavily. "Don't you fucking dare make me say it."

"Say it, or I won't do it," he said, leaning against her. "Say what I'm about to do to you. You know you want to."

The redheaded girl groaned, kicking her feet up again, her soles brushing against his thighs. "You're gonna fuck me," she confessed, shivering at hearing the words come from her own mouth. "You're gonna fuck me into the ground and you won't stop even if I ask you to—"

"No, I won't."

"—you're gonna rail me until my ass turns red and I'm moaning like a whore." She blew her hair out of her face, crossing her legs at the knees and clinching him. "Fuck, I shouldn't be doing this—"

Instead of answering, Spike lined up with her folds, and pushed.

Gasping, Babs instantly tensed, nearly curling into a ball until Spike grasped her by the shoulder. "Don't," he warned.

"It hurts, it fucking hurts," she gasped, squinting in pain. Stabbing pain pierced her and it was all she could do not to scream out.

"Don't tense up," Spike repeated, "it makes it hurt worse."

She shivered, breathing in sharp breathes before attempting to listen to him. "There we go," Spike coaxed, gently rubbing her back. He leaned closer, speaking into her ear. "I'm not gonna hurt you, okay? I'm right here with you, Babs, understand?"

"Yeah," she said, still wincing. The pain was receding, but not at all slowly. She wrapped her head in her hands. "I'm sorry, I'm such a little bitch—"

"Stop putting yourself down," Spike commanded, grasping her by the chin and forcing her to look up at him.

"But—"

"Do I look like I choose anyone but the best?" he asked, glaring.

Babs looked sullenly up at him, before shaking her head. She rubbed an encroaching tear away.

"I'm going to start moving now," he warned, and Babs nodded, muttering "Okay" before turning back towards the wall, clenching her pillow.

Slowly, Spike thrust into his partner, grasping her ass and widening it to ease his passage. Babs whimpered, but kept from crying out.

He moved in silence for the next few minutes, thumbing the space above her rear. Gradually the soft cries died out, replaced with an awkward quiet, the soft thmp of their colliding bodies being the only source of noise.

"So," Spike said conversationally, "how bout them Wonderbolts?"

"Shut up and fuck me," Babs grunted, moving forward slightly with each thrust.

"You sure?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Cause I'm about to jump all up in this," he warned.

"Dude, just tear it up," she said huskily.

"Can do," he said, readying himself for the onslaught. "Bite down on something."

Babs' bare feet planted themselves on the carpet, toes scrunching in anticipation.

Without warning, Spike once again pushed into his partner, willingly ignoring her groans.

She was tight, almost unbearably so. After so many months of going without sex, being reintroduced so suddenly, with a virgin no less, Spike was already nearly ready to spill.

Her insides were filled with ambient heat, and Babs' moans, gaining higher pitch with each second, did a wonderful job at blocking out some of the lewder sounds of their lovemaking.

"Ungh!" she grunted into the pillow, struggling to keep her feet planted on the floor as her partner railed into her. The feeling of being so violently invaded, over and over, was completely foreign. All of her size and strength was pointless, she realized with hastened glee, she was at this beautiful stranger's mercy—

"Fuuuuck," she cried, feeling him lay into her rapidly now, her ass red with friction. She punched the mattress and bit viciously into her pillow, feeling the agonizing helplessness of her willful submission.

He was bending over her now, his chest pressed to her back so that she couldn't keep her stance and her feet stretched out behind her, flailing. His mouth descended onto her neck, biting and sucking as his hands sought out great handfuls of her breasts. He tweaked her wherever he could, basking in her heat and unceasingly beating into her throbbing vagina. With each thrust, it became harder to pull back, he was sure she was trying her damnedest to memorize every contour of his dick each time he fucked her—

"I'm cumming," she grunted, reaching out onto the mattress and clenching with her nails so hard she thought they would break. "I'm about to cum, Spike, I swear I'm gonna cum all over your cock—"

Suddenly, Spike pulled back, to the confusion and anger of his partner. "Don't you fucking dare st—" she started to say, only to be flipped onto her back so that she was facing him.

"I want to see your face," he growled, reentering her with an unapologetic thrust.

Babs made a choking sound, arms grasping the edge of the bed before circling around her partner's neck and seizing him possessively. Her legs followed suit, grasping his waist and hugging the two of them together.

She was cumming. All too soon she was cumming, and she was made aware of every detail of her body. The sweat, the bed drenched beneath them with sweat, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat, her throbbing cunt violently clamping around its intruder, the shiver of electricity and wet heat pouring from her hips, her scream as her partner continued to fuck her, really fuck her as if he didn't care how she felt.

Still Spike ravished her, pushing her head back and capturing her with a maddening kiss, beating her tongue savagely even as his thrusts grew more erratic and her breasts shook tumultuously with overwhelming force.

Babs broke the kiss, shouting in a voice that was undeniably feminine. "Fuck! FUCK, DADDY!"

"Damn right," he said into her ear, yanking her hair back, adoring her squeal as her back arched and her hips spasmed. Several powerful strokes later, he felt it swelling from deep in his crotch, surging forth with painful speed. His dick emerged from her shivering pussy, just in time to paint her stomach with several bursts of semen. Spike shivered, groaning heavily as his legs tensed and untensed, his waist vibrating as his spilled his load onto his exhausted partner.

They sat like that for a while, panting, feeling the breath of each other on their sweat-drenched bodies. Spike's muscles nearly gave out, and it was only the thought that he really didn't want any of his own jizz on his abs that he managed to stay above his partner.

"Holy shit," Babs breathed, chest heaving. She swore she could hear her own heartbeat.

"Worth the wait?" Spike asked, grinning boyishly down at her. His wet hair plastered his forehead, obscuring his vision.

"Hell the fuck yes it was," she giggled, moving a rough hand to rub her forehead as she glanced distractedly at the ceiling. "Man, I'm gonna have to change these sheets or something." She exhaled. "Fucking's work, man."

Spike snorted. "You're telling me." He got up from the bed and stretched.

Babs grabbed a tissue from a box on her bedstand and wiped off her stomach. "What do we do now?" She was positively glowing, despite the aching in her crotch. It was a soreness she'd very gladly wear, though, as evidence of her conquest.

Spike raised his eyebrow. "Now?" He tugged her up with one hand, so that they were centimeters away from each other. The tips of her breasts brushed his chest, and the two of them, stark naked, looked intently into each other, eyes lidded.

Without ceremony, Spike pushed her gently down to her knees, until she was level with his crotch. "Now," he said, grinning naughtily, "I teach you how to deepthroat."