She swore she hadn’t had that much to drink.
Just a few beers. She was entitled, really. Perfectly entitled. After all, who else could spend three months in LA and still be utterly and completely jobless? Who but her could have lost the lease on her new (albeit small and crummy) apartment just weeks after signing it due to failure to produce down payment? Who but her, just three months after staking her independence, after swearing to herself and her condescending family that she could make it on her own, would now be facing the dismal yet inevitable prospect of admitting defeat?
Who but Buffy Summers could screw everything up so royally?
“So yes,” she said, to no one in particular. “I am entitled.”
She took a swig of her beer—third? fourth?—and sighed miserably. The alcohol wasn’t helping, which was annoying. Alcohol was supposed to help. That was what it did. That was where the term “drowning sorrows” came from. When things drowned, they generally went away. The sorrows were supposed to go away. She was in a club, for God’s sake. One of those hopping ones, where the music pounded so loud that she could feel it in her bar stool, and the colorful strobe lights did nothing to light the sweaty mass of gyrating bodies on the dance floor. She should be out there with them, dancing, laughing, pretending she wasn’t broke and homeless and facing humiliation at the hands of her family.
Stupid family.
Buffy drained her third-or-fourth bottle on that thought, hoping that the fuzzy numb feeling she’d heard so much about would kick in soon. She did feel slightly fuzzy, but that may or may not have been a cold coming on. She groaned and buried her head in her arms. Colds were bad; colds couldn’t happen. No health insurance.
“’Nother beer, sweetheart?” the bartender leaned over her, all but shouting over the pumping beat of the music. Buffy raised her head slightly and nodded, slumping back as he disappeared behind the counter. More beer was good. Probably the only good in the near—or distant—future, and she wasn’t anywhere near drunk enough yet. Not that she would know, really. Growing up a Summers girl, alcohol was found in cocktails served to old men at society gatherings. Before she had left for LA, the only time Buffy had ever seen a beer bottle was on a billboard. In short, the Summers were what was known as an Old Money Family, and when an Old Money Family screwed up, it ended up in the tabloids. Therefore, there was no screwing up. There were no daughters that refused a cotillion, that denounced their inheritance and ran off to the city to live like a “hoodlum”.
Hoodlum. Buffy made a face into her beer (fourth-or-fifth). She wasn’t even close to being a hoodlum. She didn’t get into bar fights or shoplift, for Chrissake. She was just a normal girl, trying to make it in LA. Not as an actress—God, no—but as anything, really. Anything that didn’t involve the words old, money or family.
At twenty-three, Buffy had a degree in interior design from UC Sunnydale and zero job experience. She hadn’t majored in interior design because she had wanted to. No, choosing her own major would have been humane, a word her mother was not acquainted with. She had majored in interior design, a topic she now loathed with a passion, because it was the only degree her parents were willing to pay for her to get. One of their many ways of exercising their control, and one of the many reasons that, three months ago, Buffy had packed her bags and gone as far as the bus would take her. Her life was going to be hers, goddammit.
Buffy sighed into her beer. Fat lot of good that move had done her. Now here she was, a drunk—well, maybe—homeless, jobless loser, sitting alone in a club on a Saturday night. She could practically hear her mother’s I-told-you-so’s. It was sickening.
Or maybe that was the beer.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Spike was ready for a good kill. Something pale and willowy he could snap the neck of and drink dry. Something with dark hair, preferably talking to pixies and porcelain dolls. Something he could make scream and pretend, for a moment, that it was his sire.
She’d really been pissing him off lately. First back in Sunnyhell, making mooneyes at Angelus when he was being all soulful. Then worse—much worse—when he wasn’t. Spike winced, recalling the not-so-subtle noises that had come from the bedroom—his bedroom. The many times the Great Poof had staked his claim on Dru—and the many times she had made it clear that she was not Spike’s. He knew it. He knew she belonged to her Daddy, had never been truly his. But bloody hell, it wasn’t Angelus that had been with her for over a century. It wasn’t Angelus who had taken care of her, looked out for her, waited on her hand and sodding foot. And not once—not one bleeding time—had he abandoned her. Not even when she fucked Angelus’ brains out in his own bed. A little appreciation, a smidgeon of affection, an indication of some feeling might have been nice.
But no. It was the night after they had arrived in LA—after Spike had had the sense to get them the hell out of Sunny-D—and she had up and disappeared.
“Bloody hell,” Spike muttered, pushing his way out of the abandoned apartment they had snagged for the duration of their stay in Los Angeles—one that was supposed to be as brief as possible. He paused for a moment, picking her scent out of the thousand that assaulted him. He could feel her ahead, the pull of childe to sire guiding him through the masses the lined the streets. He strode through the throng, ignoring their blood as it called to him, pumping with adrenaline. Stupid pulsers, out in the dark. Made his whole unlife so bleeding easy.
“Come on, Dru…” he murmured, searching the street, feeling for her in the crowds. Bloody bint—didn’t she know how close the sunrise was? He could practically smell it on the air. His whole being was screaming for him to get inside. There was no doubt that hers was doing the same. What could possibly be so important…?
Spike came to halt outside a dance club; the pounding music leaking outside each time the bouncer opened the door. Dru was inside, he could feel it. He rolled his eyes and considered going in and dragging her out, but decided against it. Dru would come home when she felt like it, and only then—she might be insane, but she wasn’t stupid enough to get caught in the sun. He knew she was safe—he would feel it if his sire were in danger—and he had no desire to fight with her right now. Fighting with Dru was always a waste of time.
He turned on his heel, scanning the crowd with a keen eye until he spotted a snack. Bingo. Smirking slightly, Spike forced his worries for his sire aside as he sauntered in for the kill.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Buffy was definitely feeling fuzzy, and this time not in a cold-coming-on way. Everything was lighter and she was finding it increasingly hard to remember what troubles she had been trying to drown. She figured that was a good sign.
“Troubles drowned,” she declared. “Doubles trowned. Downtown.” Finding this to be hilariously funny for some reason, she burst into giggles, only laughing harder when the bartender took her empty bottle—fifth-or-sixth—away and told her he was cutting her off.
“No more beer for Buffy,” she said, snorting at her own archaicness. “She is drowned.”
Suddenly, Buffy was aware of an unfamiliar presence in her personal bubble. She had always been very conscious of her personal bubble, a firm advocator of elbow-room. This new person was restricting her elbows. She swung around to glare at the perpetrator and had to steady herself on the bar as the room spun too fast.
“Oof,” she said, blinking slowly as the figure came into focus. It was a woman, a tall, thin woman with long black hair and abnormally pale skin. She was gazing at Buffy with wide eyes, the strangest little smile on her face. She wore a long, laced, blood-red dress that off-set her pale skin and dark hair strikingly. That would look good in a living room, was the first thought that came to Buffy’s interior design conditioned mind. She groaned. Not even when she was drunk could she escape it.
The pale woman hadn’t stopped staring, and it was starting to get on Buffy’s muddled nerves.
“Can I help you?” she asked, surprised at how clear she sounded. She supposed it was the years and years of training with governess after governess. You just didn’t forget how to greet with polite propriety after that. Not even when inebriated.
“The stars whisper nasty bits,” the woman said, her accented voice full of quiet mirth. “They say the sunshine comes for him. The sunshine is his.”
Buffy blinked, wondering if maybe she’d gotten the definition of ‘drunk’ wrong. This was drunken rambling if she’d ever heard it, and something she really didn’t want to get involved in.
“Okay,” she said, backing up slightly and willing the room to stop spinning, the lights to stop flashing just for a second. “That’s nice. Goodbye.” She backed up another step as the kooky drunken woman took a step forward.
“You are a gift for my William,” she whispered, and Buffy swallowed hard, losing her balance as she took another step backward. She lost her footing on the concrete floor and stumbled over a bar stool, flying backward, grasping desperately at air. The back of her head connected with solid cement, and Buffy barely had time to register the pain as everything faded to darkness.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Spike licked the blood from his lips, slipping out of game face as he let the drained woman slump down the wall to the floor of the alley. It hadn’t been a particularly satisfying kill. Once he’d vamped, the girl had screamed but hadn’t put up much of a fight. Just once, he’d like one to put up a fight.
He turned and made his way out of the alley, his thoughts trailing back to the Slayer in Sunnydale. She’d been an odd bird, not particularly skilled or interesting. Fighting her hadn’t been nearly as entertaining as the two before her—the dance held no passion for her, no life. Sometimes, she’d seemed even deader than he was.
Of course, then she’d gone and made the Poof into the less soul-having version of himself, and Spike had been forced to kill his third Slayer. But not before her little witchy friend had shoved the soul back inside the ponce. And now, with his honey six feet under, dear old Angelus was out for dust.
One of the many reasons Spike wanted to get the hell out of California. The weather didn’t suit him here anyway.
Spike shoved his way into the darkened apartment, immediately sensing his sire’s presence. He breathed an unneeded sigh of relief as he watched her come out of the shadows, swaying towards him provocatively. No matter how much she angered him, he couldn’t deny how relieved he was to see her home safe.
“Where you been, Dru?” he asked, sliding his duster off his shoulders and collapsing back into a dusty arm char. “Thought I told you we were leavin’ tonight.”
The sooner they got out of LA the better. Hell, the sooner they got out of the country the better. Spike wasn’t a coward, but he wasn’t stupid, either. Angelus wanted him dusted, and the further from him the better off they were. Every time Dru disappeared, she set them back another day.
His dark princess was pouting, waggling a finger at him crossly.
“Naughty William,” she said, swaying slightly to music only she could hear. “Naughty boy. Leaving the party before the kiddies have their cakes. Mummy is very cross with you.”
“I’n’t that nice?” Spike sighed, suddenly not in the mood for her insane rambling. “Go to bed, pet. The sun’s up soon.”
Dru began to giggle gleefully, bringing a finger to her lips and shaking her head vigorously.
“Shh, bad William!” she said, then cackled again. “The stars were loud tonight. They spoke of sunshine. Mummy has brought you a gift.”
Spike arched a brow. “A gift, pet?” he asked warily. He never knew what to expect when it came to Dru and gifts. The last gift she’d given him had been the severed head of Miss Edith, warning him of what would happen should he try to take her away from her Daddy. He had only been able to drag her out of Sunnydale when Angelus had made it very clear how soul-having he was again. Nothing less would have made her leave her precious sire.
“Yes, William,” she said, backing up slowly and beckoning for him to follow. “I have brought you sunshine.”
“Sunshine, yeh?” Spike replied, standing and following her in spite of himself. He could never resist her when she called him. “Bit dangerous, pet.”
She cooed, running a cool finger down his cheek as she backed up against the door that led to a bedroom.
“Pretty sunshine,” she said, cackling and jerking her finger away as Spike nipped at it, grinning. “She’ll make a tasty treat.”
Spike looked up as Drusilla opened the door, curiosity getting the better of him. Dru had brought him a snack? This was new. She was always talking with the stars or other inanimate objects. They’d never said anything about him.
He peered past his sire into the darkened room, catching sight of a limp form draped across the bed. Glancing back at Dru, who was bouncing on her heels and giggling, he raised his eyebrows skeptically.
“For me, luv?” he repeated, wondering what Dru expected him to do with the girl. He wasn’t one to fuck his food—no, that was Angelus—but sometimes Dru enjoyed a show. He was reminded briefly of the glory days of Angelus and Darla. How they would play with their victims, making them scream, Angelus pounding into them from behind as Darla held their mouth to her pussy. He flinched, loath to be anything like his grandsires. He would, though; if Dru asked him to, he knew he would. It was just a girl, after all. A human. Dru was his dark princess.
“All yours, William,” Dru said, clapping giddily. “Shall we tie her up? Nasty dolly, tried to run. I told her. Told her she was yours.”
“Did you now,” Spike mused, approaching the woman on the bed. She wore a little black dress that barely reached mid-thigh, revealing shapely bronzed legs. Her dainty little feet were clad in black strappy heels and her blonde hair looked long and silky. Spike was filled with a sudden strong desire to run his hands through it.
“Mine,” he murmured absently. Neither he nor Drusilla noted the significance of the word. It was just a word, a phrase. It didn’t mean anything.
But as Spike traced one of her smooth, golden cheeks with his fingers, his demon purred.
He jerked his hand away, eyes widening. Never, in his entire unlife, had his demon felt so completely content. Not even when he was inside Drusilla, his sire, his black beauty, the love of his unlife.
This small golden girl made his demon purr.
“Yeh,” Spike said, clearing his throat when his voice shook. “Good idea. Tie her up. Don’ want…don’ want her to escape.”
His demon roared angrily at the thought of this girl leaving. He didn’t understand the feeling—Dru was the only woman he should be feeling this way for—but he found himself moving to restrain her anyway. Tearing strips of cloth from the bed sheet, he bound her hands to the headboard tightly, wishing he’d thought to bring some of the chains from the Sunnydale mansion. God knows they’d had enough of them.
When he was sure the girl was well and tied he turned back to Dru, cupping her cold, pale cheek gently and smiling at her. He frowned slightly when all he felt was the gentle pull of childe to sire, nothing like the peaceful bliss that touching the golden girl had brought him.
“Come on, luv,” he said, leading his black goddess from the room. “Sun’s up soon. You should sleep. The bird’s no fun while she’s out, anyway.”
Dru pouted coyly but allowed him to guide her out of the room. “Does William like his present?” she asked, running her fingers down his chest to his belt. He moaned as she ran her hand lower, eliciting small growling noises as she lapped at the bite mark on his neck.
“Love it,” he growled, nipping at her earlobe and sliding his hands down her body. He’d missed this—he hadn’t had Dru all to himself like this since before the Hellmouth. Longer than that, since she’s been ill for what had felt like years. Now here she was, he had his dark princess in his arms—
A flash of warm bronzed skin, blonde hair running through his fingers, mewls emitting from full, red lips—
Spike’s eyes flew open, realizing with horror where his mind had been going. Oh God, no.
What was wrong with him? The dark beauty in his arms finally wanted him—him—again, and all he could think about was the human girl in the other room. The warmth of her skin under his hand. The sensual curve of her breasts in the low neckline of her little black dress. The way the hem of her skirt rode up on her golden legs, so close to revealing her secrets…
He pushed away from Drusilla, shaking his head apologetically. He couldn’t be with his dark princess when his thoughts were like this.
“Bit tired, pet,” he explained, although the straining bulge in his jeans suggested otherwise. “Long night.”
Drusilla scolded and whined and trailed her fingers down his body until he agreed to satisfy her, suckling on her pussy until she screamed her release. He was used to this, used to giving her her pleasure with no thought to his own. He didn’t remember it bothering him before as much as it did now.
When he was sure she was fast asleep, he untangled himself from between her legs and slipped from the room, not pausing to think until he stood beside the bed, staring down at the girl that was, by Dru’s christening and for reasons completely unknown to him, his.
“What are you doin’ to me?” he whispered, gazing at her sweet, peaceful face. He backed up until his feet found a chair and sat, his eyes never leaving the girl. This would no do. He refused to feel this way about anyone but Drusilla. She was his salvation, the reason for his existence. She may not belong to him, but his heart belonged to her. So yeah, maybe this girl would be a good shag. He’d fuck her, get her out of his system, then snap her neck and drain her dry. That was all she was to him, all she was supposed to be. She was his to fuck, his to drink, his to kill. Nothing else.
The fact that his demon protested violently, raging inside him, threatening to tear him apart at the thought, was not important.
It was the way it had to be.
*~~~*~~~*~~~*
Good? Bad? Blah? Anybody interested in this? Please review!
squawks
05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
pj
03/20/17 01:20 am
10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
Rabbit_moon1
12/23/16 01:12 pm
I donate every month. Please donate to keep this site up!
AudryDaluz1
10/06/16 08:34 am
Great post.
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:45 pm
And anyone else who loves this site, it's worth mentioning there's a nifty little "Donate" option just below the shout box here! ;)
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:43 pm
Just wanted to take a moment to thank Pari and all the mods for maintaining such a great site!
05/18/17 04:16 am
pj! I remember wishing one of your stories would be finished seriously about a decade ago. Amazing. I just tried an old password I used to use and amazingly got in too. Memories!
pj
03/20/17 01:20 am
10 yrs later, i finally rem my username and password. Pari, you rock. Hope you are well.
Rabbit_moon1
12/23/16 01:12 pm
I donate every month. Please donate to keep this site up!
AudryDaluz1
10/06/16 08:34 am
Great post.
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:45 pm
And anyone else who loves this site, it's worth mentioning there's a nifty little "Donate" option just below the shout box here! ;)
Chrissel
08/31/16 03:43 pm
Just wanted to take a moment to thank Pari and all the mods for maintaining such a great site!