Anyone who rememebers my Tentacle!Illyria story Succour 
(http://homepage.ntlworld.com/bogwitch/succour.html), here is the 
slightly silly sequel...

Sucker - Bogwitch <bogwitch@yahoo.co.uk>

Wap! 

Waking with a start from a slap across the chops wasn't an unusual 
way for Spike to greet the new day anymore. Neither was it a great 
surprise to find Illyria's strong thighs astride him, holding him 
immobile, caught in her deadly trap. The room's cool air circled 
around his nether bits with an uncomfortable chill, where his 
bedclothes had gone when she'd discarded them, he had no idea.

"I wish to mate," she pronounced.

Ignoring the pain still searing his cheek, Spike looked up at her 
blearily. He'd been having a delightful kip before her sudden 
interruption. "Give us a minute to wake up first."

"I am now bound by your linear experience of time. This is the 
moment of readiness." 

Spike stretched lazily; ready to get to business. He didn't have a 
clue what the batty goddess was on about now, but he knew the 
futility of refusal. Her seduction skills were still in need of 
work, but his cock had always been Pavlov's dog to bossy women and 
it was already hardening under her leather bound rump, rubbing 
invitingly between her legs as if sensing her readiness. 

"Is it now?"

"Now," she repeated, trembling.

"Are you sure, luv?" Spike looked at her closely. As much as he 
would like to think that she was shaking with anticipation, he had 
noticed that she had been looking peaky of late, the pale snow of 
her shell's skin sickly against the blue in her hair, and she didn't 
look any better now.
 
She did not reply, but her armour melted from view and she presented 
him with a bony body with pallid, ashen skin accentuated with 
touches of midnight. The barrier between them gone, she slid gently 
onto his erection.

"Guess that's a 'yes' then." 

Guilt had led to this. She'd sent him to heights of ecstasy he'd 
never thought possible in her demon form, but she had accepted 
nothing in return. So to maintain the balance he'd tried to give her 
something back while she still inhabited her human shell. It had 
taken time to adjust to the weirdness of touching Fred's body in 
such an intimate way and it would always be hard to bear, but he 
understood now that despite the face Illyria still wore, it was 
longer Fred's flesh under his hands or her cold corpse he held in 
his arms, there was only Illyria now.

At first they'd tussled - a struggle he'd always been prepared to 
lose - each looking for dominance, until Illyria had won and they 
had settled into a routine. She would never lie beneath him, or 
allow anything that might be beneath her dignity - and that had 
proved to be a long list. Illyria wanted to command, hold dominion 
over him from above. Unlike Buffy, who had been content to follow 
his lead as long as it suited her, Illyria had found what worked for 
her and never varied. She led, he followed, and that was that.

Like this, the sex was surprisingly pedestrian for a vampire and a 
God King of the Primordium. After the vibrancy that even a Slayer 
who wished to be dead could bring, Illyria was cold and lifeless. 
Even the soft grunts she emitted as they fucked were automatic, 
syncopated breaths that owed nothing to the abandon of sex, and all 
to the effort of exertion. He obliged her, giving what she needed, 
but he was waiting for the encore. The part that made it all worth 
it.

Their arrangement worked because she could not, or would not, love; 
because this time he didn't fool himself with false hope. Illyria 
was too arrogant; too self-possessed to ever let anyone inside her 
head or her heart. Given time, Wesley might have seen past her mask, 
but Spike wasn't looking for such a gift. He found her 
uncomplicated, straightforward in her demands; she was how she was. 
She found him a challenge, he'd discovered. After hoards of fawning 
sycophants, he fancied she liked his teasing subordination.

He ran a hand over the curve of her breast, finishing the arc with a 
tweak to the little perky nipple. She didn't react, but continued to 
rise and fall on his cock. Like this she didn't want kisses or the 
sweet touch of a caress, she didn't require his affections, but 
tolerated them. What she offered, when she leaned in and kissed him, 
without passion or the warmth of love, was a token given only to 
encourage him to keep thrusting. 

Nevertheless, she was beginning to understand the pleasures he could 
bring to her new body and he found that she'd wanted sex more and 
more. He expected nothing less of Illyria, old demon, aloof goddess, 
someone else's deity. He couldn't touch her mind, only her willing 
body. But there were moments, unguarded ones, where he'd touch her; 
the side of her throat, the gentle slope of her hip, the red-hot 
destruct button of her clit, when the ice would crack and her 
unwitting cry would betray her.

Then she would pump him harder than before and she rode like the 
jockey of a derby winner, galloping to an orgasm that threw her into 
her transformation as she came. Her eyes never left his as they 
altered in hue, the frost melting from her medusa stare as they 
darkened into glassy jewels.

She rose above him, leaving him prone on the bed. Her arms 
multiplied, elongating into thick snakes, all changing as she melted 
into her demon shape. Many yearning arms reached for him. A strong, 
thick tentacle wrapped itself around his middle, pulling him clean 
into the air like Fay Wray in some strange, warped version of King 
Kong. Others wrapped themselves around each leg, ensnaring him, 
gently pulling them apart to his full extension. He was vulnerable, 
exposed to her like no other, held like a puppet on thick strings. 
She had the strength to pull him apart if she chose, but she was 
gentle. And when she brushed a tentacle across his lip so sweetly, 
he smiled at the whimsy of her affection as if this was the only way 
that she could let go and express herself.

She started to play, with firm strokes that roamed slowly over him, 
down then up again, flowing and ebbing against his chest, leaving it 
awash with tingles, tiny suckers pressing tight kisses against 
puckered skin. His nipples were pinched in revenge for his own 
teasing touches. His navel was probed. His neck was traced from ear 
to the hollow of his collarbone. Every inch of him was touched.

Smooth as silk, the tentacles wound around him, skin against 
undulant coils of muscle. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to 
the sensation, feeling each tentacle as it explored him. He relaxed 
into the darkness of her scent; heavy, intoxicating incense like 
those Patchouli filled rooms he remembered from the sixties. 

His cock was still hard and it needed attention. Illyria took hold 
of it in her serpentine grip, a tentacle winding around it, wringing 
it vigorously with a mesmerising ripple along the shaft, rolling and 
squeezing as it spiralled from balls to tip. Another probed deeply 
into more personal places, thrusting deeply inside, sliding against 
his most intimate pleasure spot with a slow, languorous rhythm, 
drawing out the fuck into a sensual bliss.

This was full immersion sex, every erogenous zone stroked and 
caressed, nowhere left unexplored. He felt weightless, his mind in 
freefall. To have everything at once, to be touched in all places, 
all limbs, was ecstasy as white noise, sending his mind into 
meltdown. 

He was close, and she drew his cock inside her, into a tight hole 
that sucked at his sensitive flesh with no mercy. If sex was white 
noise, ecstatic static in his brain, then orgasm was explosion, a 
dynamite blast from his loins that left him panting, sated, 
euphoric, exhausted; adrift in a jumble of emotions he would never 
begin to sort out. 

Illyria released him and he smiled smugly back at her as he 
recovered, blinking away lights from behind his eyes that she could 
not see. 

"Good as ever, blue," he gasped.

As usual, his comments were of little consequence to her. "It is 
complete," she said as she segued back into the form of her human 
shell. "There will be offspring."

Spike tried to sit up, but was stayed by the iron of her 
hand. "What?"

"You have provided me with the essence required for reproduction."

"Just thought we were having a little fun here..."

Her head jerked as she regarded him. "You have served your function 
well."

"I'm dead, Illyria. Those wrigglies don't work no more."

"You are a demon, if but a shadow of one. Your essence is adequate."

"Oh, balls."
 
Part Two

Illyria was up the duff, but neither Spike nor Angel expected this 
to be any ordinary bun in the oven. No one could guess what on earth 
it was that Illyria carried within her gravid womb; research turned 
up nothing and no one dared speculate. Illyria herself would not 
answer their concerned questions, although whether she knew what she 
was carrying or not, there was no way to tell.

Her belly grew over the months, big and round and firm. To 
accommodate her new girth, her skin-tight battlesuit expanded with 
her growing middle, always perfectly molded to her shape. She had 
cravings too. Before, no one had ever seen her eat, but now she ate 
everything in sight, whether it seemed nutritious or not. Food, 
McDonald's, even batteries, pencils and cutlery, if they were left 
unattended, were all consumed by her ravening hunger. 

Maternity was kind to Illyria, without any sickness or swelling that 
her human counterparts had to experience. Not that anyone would have 
noticed any softening of the expectant mother. She carried on as she 
always had, fighting with not a thought to her baby inside. In fact 
she was stronger, meaner, showing more vigour than at any time since 
her powers had diminished. She showed little sign that her pregnancy 
bothered her at all.

It wasn't everyday that a vampire discovered that he was going to be 
a dad, and the mother being a goddess was one Spike that had up on 
Angel. He took to his new role very seriously, fussing around 
Illyria, providing for her every need. However, his enthusiasm for 
his impending fatherhood was tempered his doubts about the 
offspring. Human? Demon? Vampire? Something else or in-between? 
Whatever it turned out to be, he was sure he would protect it with 
his life. It'd had better not be evil.

And so the pregnancy progressed, the mother indifferent, the father 
anxious, the offspring developing quietly inside without a care, 
until one day when her belly had grown to vast proportions, Illyria 
came to Spike and said. "It is time."

Spike paused Doom 3 and looked up at her, puzzled. "Time? You can't 
be hungry again..."

Illyria looked as ashen as he'd ever seen her, and she shuddered as 
her fierce contraction came. "This shell..."

Spike leapt up to support her in case she threatened to 
collapse. "Don't worry, got you."

"This human shell is too weak," she gasped. "Yet I find I lack the 
strength to change."

"Angel!" Spike yelled in panic. 

He lifted Illyria up. She lay limply in his arms between convulsions 
of pain while he rushed through their warehouse home to the 
makeshift-birthing suite Illyria had demanded be constructed to 
accommodate the delivery. It had been built with all the proper 
ceremony and magical incantations she required, despite the fact it 
was little more than a large children's padding pool, resplendent 
with jolly characters from the seashore. 

Spike carried her to it and placed her into the water. 

Angel appeared from his room, still arranging his clothing. "What's 
going on? I've got a date later, can't it wait?" 

"She's in labour, you nit. Poodle can wait," Spike waved at their 
altar. "Start the bloody rituals, or get hot towels or whatever we 
need." 

"I told you not to call Nina that," Angel snapped under his breath 
as took his place. Spike was too concerned with Illyria to hear him.

Angel began to read from the book of rites, hoping that he was 
pronouncing the odd old words correctly. It was at times like this 
that he really wished Wesley was still alive. Spike, unsure of what 
to do, grabbed Illyria's hand. For once she seemed to welcome his 
comfort.

At first nothing much happened, the two vampires had no idea what to 
expect. Illyria said nothing, but groaned painfully as each 
contraction tore through her. Fred's body was not built to handle 
whatever it was that caused Illyria's belly to bulge as the 
offspring fought to escape the narrow confines of the womb. It 
stretched like a thick membrane, churning oddly like no human body 
should do. Angel kept chanting, Spike kept holding Illyria's 
crushing grip and she kept fighting the pain. 

Birth wasn't what any of them was expecting. A sapphire tentacle 
punctured Illyria's abdomen, ripping it open like a fledgling 
cracking through an enormous egg. There was a blush of blood in the 
water and out popped a small creature, a dark demon with many arms; 
long suckered limbs that propelled it through the water as it's 
mother's blood made it frantic with bloodlust. As it tried to feed 
on the diluted plasma, it ignored the nascency of it's siblings. 
Five more, each a different shade of rich blue, slipped into the 
pool. 

"I'm a dad!" Spike beamed.

Angel's chant faltered as he caught sight of the unholy nativity 
before him and what Illyria had produced. "Spike, they're..."

"Continue!" Illyria demanded sharply, getting awkwardly to her feet. 
Her stomach gaped in a wide wound, dripping with blood, water and 
afterbirth.

Spike tried to steady her, but she waved him away. "It is repugnant 
to me and tastes of the pointlessness of small lives, but my issue 
require the sustenance of blood."

Spike nodded, looking at the water. It was clean, filtered through 
hungry mouths. Tentacles clawed at her legs as the newborns tried to 
reach any drop of blood they could reach. "I'll be back."

Angel watched him leave, keeping up the chant. Illyria seemed to 
stiffen and the magic he wove started to take effect. The lips of 
the wound seemed to close before his eyes, knitting together into 
new skin, as perfect as before.

Spike was back as the last scrap of skin disappeared under her 
armour, most of their blood supply gathered in his arms. The little 
demons detected its metallic odour and released Illyria for a more 
promising food source. As she stepped clear, they surged against the 
side of the padding pool, threatening to rip through the plastic.

Spike dumped the contents of a large flask into the water. "Grub's 
up, boys!" 

The resulting scramble of tentacles and fanged maws made the padding 
pool sag dangerously. 

"I think you need to move them," Angel looked about for something 
more stable. There was a tank over near the back doors that had been 
rejected for the birth due to its size that might do. 

Later that Niight

"They have your eyes," Angel said dryly as he returned later that 
evening. He'd cut his date with Nina short, too worried about what 
might be happening in his own warehouse to concentrate on dinner and 
dancing. Spike's children might be sucking the universe into a new 
continuum and he'd be out trying to avoid doing the Tango. Luckily 
his concerns were unfounded, for the moment. 

He watched Spike near the huge holding tank the young demons had 
been transferred into. He certainly seemed proud of them. It made 
what he had to do all the more difficult.

"Nah," Spike ignored the jibe. "They take after their mother mostly."

Angel couldn't argue with that. Spike and Illyria's progeny, a 
handful of small creatures pulsing with a need for blood under their 
indigo skin and many tentacles, bobbed blissfully through the water, 
unaware of the scrutiny of the two vampires. 

"Where is Illyria?"

"Sleeping off the birth, or whatever it is she does."

Angel really didn't want to think about the unlikely union that had 
produced this offspring. Spike had taken Illyria on after Wesley's 
death and, over time, their strange mistress/pet relationship had 
mutated into some bizarre sexual fetish that Angel had heard 
involved the tentacles of Illyria's original form. The thought of 
all those arms slipping over flesh made Angel rather uncomfortable, 
but Spike seemed to like them and he'd chosen not to mention the 
quite obvious sets of circular marks that had regularly appeared on 
Spike's neck. Angel would have argued that the whole affair was most 
unwise, but if it prevented Spike from moping after Buffy then Angel 
couldn't begrudge him whatever he was getting out of it. 

Spike was fascinated by his unlikely children and was tapping on the 
tank like an errant child in a doctor's surgery. "That's it, come to 
daddy!"

"Won't that scare them?"

Spike gave Angel his best 'are you a complete idiot?' look. "They're 
vampire squid. I don't think my boys are scared of much."

Angel didn't doubt it. One of the 'children' viciously lashed a 
tentacle against the glass with a thump. 

"Yep, just like their mum," Spike said proudly. "Vicious little 
buggers."

"You know we can't keep them." Angel told him quietly.

"We are *not* killing them." Spike replied between gritted teeth.

"It's for the best."

Spike put himself between the tank and the other vampire. Outraged, 
he slipped into game face and growled. "You can't do that, they're 
*mine*!"

"You have no idea what they're going to grow up to be!"

"You're just jealous!"

"I *have* a son, Spike."

 "Yeah, and I have six!"

"They are the progeny of an Old One and a vampire," Angel's temper 
flared. "They are not going to grow up into calamari!"

"I should hope not." Spike turned briefly to the tank. "Don't listen 
to the nasty man, kids!"

"Spike," Angel said seriously. "Think about this..."

"They shall not die." Illyria commanded from the doorway.

They turned to her as one, and she expected nothing less. She strode 
into his room and stood over the tank, her cold, staring eyes 
looking into nothing. There was no sign that she'd ever been through 
the trauma they'd witnessed earlier. 

She pressed her hands to the glass and shimmered, a ripple that ran 
through the fabric of the universe, and the offspring were gone, 
winking out of existence one by one. 

Spike started to go for her, but was held back by the steel of 
Angel's grip. "What have you done?" He roared at her.

Her gaze settled upon him, the contemptuous glare of a tyrant. "They 
live. Each sent to a dimension to make their own by conquest. They 
shall seek victory, submission through treachery and death. They 
will rise above the filth and they shall be glorious."

"They couldn't stay here?" Spike asked, a little disappointed.

"They are usurpers, betrayers. They would seek to take all from me. 
This world is my own."

"This world isn't your own, Illyria." Angel told her.

Illyria turned to him mechanically. "Not yet. I have much work to 
do."

"I will have to stop you, you know that."

"I understand. You are a warrior. I too long for the stink of 
battle," she turned to Spike, giving him a withering glare, daring 
him to disobey. "You shall remain my pet."

Spike looked at Angel anxiously, torn between loyalties, all the 
while knowing that he would choose to save the world for from 
Illyria's tyranny. Still it was better that they keep her close, 
and, hopefully, occupied. "Yeah, alright..."

"Good," she began to change into her demon self, reaching out for 
her vampire lover as her arm split into tentacles. "We shall make 
more."

The End

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