Feast From Famine - Buffy/Spike
Traipsing around Europe, Buffy has her choice of some of the finest and richest foods available. French pastries dripping with fresh whipped cream and chocolate, Italian pastas oozing wine and butter laden sauces, Irish stews thick enough to be eaten as finger food – all paid for on the new Council’s dime.
She was starving.
Oh, she ate – she had to. Because it was expected of her, at every restaurant she was dragged to in each new country.
It all tasted like ashes.
Andrew was her salvation, bringing the sweetest tidbit back from California. Spike was back, and still wanted her.
Sensational - Spike
Spike is starving. Oh, not from hunger – whatever the bloody hell he is doesn’t need sustenance to maintain his existence, but the taste and feel of blood pouring down his throat. He’s starving for sensation… of any kind.
As a vampire, he’d immersed himself in tactile sensations: the feel of silks and satins against his skin, the warmth of a roaring fireplace, the smooth glide of body against body – enhanced vampire senses making a symphony of it all.
Now he gets annoyed glances, if they bother at all. All he feels is pain and despair, which he could do without.
Food, Glorious Food
Dawn is a non-issue this evening, being entertained by Janice and her mother – a makeover extravaganza. Willow and Tara are on a Wiccan retreat. Anya and Xander are attempting truce talks.
And Buffy? Flat on her back on a vampire’s sarcophagus, naked as a jaybird, hands cuffed over her head. Spike is arranging items on a small table out of her sight. All she smells is sugar sweetness.
Whipped cream for her nipples, chocolate sauce for her navel and ice cream? For lapping up the melted rivulets.
Buffy wonders why Angel never enjoyed real food, unlike Spike who adores it.