A/N: This was written for Ladywenham, as once upon a forever ago she suggested I write something to do with Spike and his changing feelings for Buffy. Still in that hate-the-bloody-Slayer frame of mind, but having the lust-y thoughts.
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Poncey bugger.
That's what Spike is. Actually, no - worse than that. He's only the most pathetic excuse for a vampire since the days of Anne Rice rejects popping up back in the 80's.
He was a Big Bad-- The Big Bad, all ego aside. The slayer of two Slayers. William the Bloody; the face to the name in history books. The perfected version of the Slayer's worst nightmare, in literal form. He was a Master vampire, bloodline in the Order of Aurelius - the fucking demon who'd crashed through town, sunbaked the Annoying One, and quickly set up shop in SunnyD.
He's also the one currently standing outside the Slayer's house, on her bloody lawn.
Not just standing - loitering. He's propped up against a tree, watching the bitch through her window curtains.
Ohh, yeah. Master vampire, alright. Bow down before his terror-inspiring lurking abilities.
He honestly has no idea why he’s here. Well, he’s bored, yeah. And Harmony’s back at the crypt, bitching about sodding France and whinging about her lack of reflection (because how would she know what she looked like in those tight-fitting designer jeans she'd nicked without one?) Those are two valid enough reasons, but aside from that? He has no idea, what-so-ever.
So, okay. He had a dream about the Slayer. A bloody fantastic dream in which they'd exchanged a few pleasantries, fought a bit, and then made with the eventual snogging. And not just a quick kiss, mind you. We're talking wet, blood-flowing-to-pleasurable-places, mutually desperate, open mouthed, dueling tongues, roaming hands, good-god-I-wanna-fuck-you type kissing. Mind-blowing, epiphany inducing, world view altering, bloody fucking annoying kissing.
That has absolutely no connection with him suddenly playing the role of stalker.
None at all.
Hell, all he wants to do is fight her, really. She’s the Slayer, isn't she supposed to be slaying right about now? Patrol, maybe? And sure, Spike couldn't properly fight her, not without the fun side effect of a brain-fuck less pleasant than even the sound of Harmony's rendition of "I Wanna Be Sedated", but that doesn't mean he can't taunt her. That doesn't mean he can't push her buttons, get her all hot and bothered. Verbally brassing her off is almost as fun as physically kicking that perfect little ass of hers.
Right.
Like he'd rather engage in a friendly heart-to-heart than have the chance to take her one-on-one again. Fuck, no. He'd take the skin-to-skin stuff any day. Fangs against stakes. What he'd give for just one fight. Just one more chance to take her...
He’d spring back, bouncing on his heels with his fists held high, adrenaline rushing through his veins. She would be in front of him, lithe and serious, tight stance with a stake clutched close, heart tapping away wildly. Threats would get thrown back and forth between the two, each biting out the promise of the others demise. Him smirking the entire time, loving every single second of it, her pissed off with those thinly drawn lips. Perfectly timed movements on both of their sides as they circled one another, waiting for the other to make a mistake, to slip up, to just make the first bloody move. Him eventually getting bored and lunging forward, their dance ensuing. It’d all blur together as they fell so easily into their synchronized style of fighting, just flashes of skin, connection of fists, and the soundtrack of heavy breathing. Knuckles against lips, knees into shins, elbows into ribs. Just blow after blow as they tired each other out.
And instead? He’s loitering. On her bleeding lawn, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth as he leans up against a tree, his head comfortably propped back so that he can watch her. She’s upstairs with her boyfriend now. Tin solider by the name of Riley. Some sodding life-size GI Joe, with his one facial expression and army-fed ways. Yes sir, no sir, all that protocol-following namby pamby rot Spike openly laughed about.
Oh, and Spike mentioned the fact that Riley's the wanker that castrated him, yeah? Well, maybe not personally - but he was part of that group of governmental Frankenstein’s that tinkered him up with the chip.
And, of course, who was it Spike was after when it'd happened? When he'd been snuck up on and tasered, his limp body dragged back to The Initiative's undercover lab? Two guesses as to who, and he'll even give you a hint: blond hair, shiny plastic smile, perky little assets, the biggest bitch this side of Sunnydale.
It was Buffy. The very bitch whose window he's currently snooping under.
Harmony aside, he still couldn't figure out why he keeps showing up here. Why he keeps coming to this bloody tree, keeps watching her play out her domestic little love affair with the rustic soldier boy. He hates this girl, and she hates him just as equally. And she never showed any bit of respect for Spike, even as mortal enemies went. Yeah, he'd tried to kill her the time or four, and yeah, he wasn't exactly going at it on a level playing field - but he respected her! Respected the power she had, knowing that it was there, and she didn't even have the decency to ever show it back. Spike was the killer of her kind! Not even her precious Poof had managed to kill a Slayer during his soulless stints, but did that instill any bit of fear in the bitch?
Now he doesn't even have his reputation to fall back on.
Now he's pathetic. Useless. Oh, he'd make with all the posturing that was necessary, honestly not giving a piss what others thought about him - but it doesn't matter. What he thinks about himself is bad enough. He knows what he's capable of, knows what he's supposed to be, and he can't do a bloody thing about it. Was forced into this role of Neutered Vampire by a bunch of idiots with scalpels and tinker toys, and even though their entire institution had shattered and collapsed, he's still left to play out his existence with the internal digital programming they'd wired him up with. The one that keeps him locked inside this caged version of a Big Bad.
Hey, he can't bloody take the Slayer on, but behold the power of his glare! Yeah, can't fight her, can't even defend himself, but watch out for his varying menacing facial expressions. That's right, kiddies: Spike, once upon a time a legend the underworld over, and now? Shot down to the lower rungs of the Population Ladder in the demon world, just under Cairn Demons. And have you seen Cairn Demons? They're puppies with an extra set of teeth. About as dangerous, too. And there Spike is, below that. At least the Cairn Demon could attack something, never mind the fact that it's about as savage as a three day old kitten.
A sound to his right brings him out of his thoughts and he looks up, seeing Buffy slip out of her house, silently pulling the door shut behind her. Spike has just enough time to stomp out his cigarette before he slides back into the shadows, hiding from view. Except, right. He's not hiding, he's... exploring the situation from all angles. This angle being the 'behind the bark' one.
The Slayer practically skips past him, stepping down the walkway with a resolute look on her face, and veers off to the left, headed towards the nearest cemetery. Which just so happens to be his cemetery.
Slowly and undetected, he slinks out of the shadows. Starts to follow her, because what else is there to do? Go back to his crypt? In other, more enlightening words: go back to Harmony? Not bloody likely. So, carefully, light-footed, watching the noise he makes on the dead grass of her front lawn (really should tidy the place up a bit), he keeps up a few paces behind her.
Enjoyable, it is. Feeling stealthy. Hits him with a bit of nostalgia. Not too long ago he was doing the very same thing, only minus the literal embodiment of his castration currently tucked away in his head. That first time in Sunnydale, with a sick and weakened Drusilla. His own minions, useless as they were, with his own factory to hide out in. A reputation others equally respected and feared. The whole bloody lot of it. He used to stalk her then. Follow her around, have his minions tape her so he could watch her, study her. Get to know your enemies, really. He'd known little to nothing about her, personally speaking, but was obsessed all the same. Saw her the time or two, did the whole "Let's us have a throw-down, Slayer", got his ass kicked a good number of ways. Etc. Knew she had the brat kid sister, the doting mum. The Watcher and her accompanying group of do-gooders. Your basic observations.
Now he knows more about her than even her little military man left snuggled tightly upstairs.
Knows more about her than she wants to admit about herself, too. He sees that darkness inside of her. He's watched her on more than one night as she creeps out of her house. Like so. Sees that determination in her eyes. Can sense the anticipation rolling off of her, even from the couple hundred feet behind. She's looking for a hunt. Hoping for a fight. Knowing that she'll kill. Doesn't matter that it's vampires she's after, it's there all the same. It's something he can fully appreciate, seeing as it's there for him too. The thrill of the kill.
He remembers a time when he used to hate the Slayer. Hell, it was only about two weeks ago. Not that he still doesn't, but there was a time when it rivaled even his hatred for Angelus. He hated her more than he hated the bloody chip, most times. Hated her because she was the reason he had the thing in the first place. Hated her because every little thing systematically gone wrong the past two years of his unlife, every failure, every sodding plan of his that had backfired, all related directly to her. Big surprise.
First off, his break up with Drusilla? The Slayer's fault, though she'd probably spin it otherwise. If it wasn't for that truce with her, Dru'd never have left him in the first place. He'd be off who-the-fuck-cares-where, him and Dru, mass bloody chaos and carnage, together. Instead of being here, in this godforsaken town, with a bint more brainless than Angelus as a roomy.
Wouldn't be chipped either.
Would be immortal. Even more so. Would be able to walk about freely in Mr. Sunshine, free of combustion, thanks to that Gem of Amara. The thing he spent a good amount of time and energy finding, only to have it handed to Captain Fuck-Over over at his LA branch.
And he wouldn't be here. Following her, like some shadow of his former self. They're at the cemetery now, and just like he's seen nights before, the Slayer's in another one-sided fight. The tosser doesn't even have a chance. First instant it'd climbed out of its grave, she was on it. Helpful even, as she grabbed it by the wrists and pulled it out. Spike stays hidden in the shadows, watching her. Reluctant respect for the way she fights, the moves she uses, the ease of it all. Hardly works up a sweat, just barely quickens her breathing as she ducks and parries, kicks and dodges.
She doesn't disappoint, keeping with the predictability as she does the whole 'hit and quip' thing. You know: shot to the nose, delivers a pun or two, another blow. Repeat as necessary. It's almost kinda funny, being on the watching end of it. The Slayer spends so much time just belting out those quips, you'd think the current quippee would grow a brain and use her moment of regrouping/attempted comedic relief to attack. Maybe not stand there like a complete dolt, listening to what it is she's saying, and instead go after her.
Oh, and look - the git indeed grows a brain and lunges for the Slayer, catching her off guard (was still busy with the quipping). Spike watches as the vampire tackles her, the force of it hard enough to send Buffy toppling backwards, her stake rolling out of her hand when she hits the grass. Before Buffy can make any effort to retaliate, the vamp is on her, holding her down with its weight.
Now that's more like it.
He can hear her loud grunts and groans as she tries to push it off of her, but this vampire is suddenly well aware of who it is it's fighting. It's got this gleam in its eye, this... sort of sparkle to it, that Spike knows all too well. Little to nothing can come close to the feel of fighting a Slayer, and Spike can only imagine what it'd be like to pin this Slayer to the ground.
The vampire straddles Buffy, gripping her tightly so that she can't roll over and flip it off of her. Can't hardly even move her legs, it's got her so well covered. Spike's own adrenaline starts to kick in, watching, as the vampire grabs the two tiny wrists of the Slayer and pins them above her head. Another quiet whimper falls out her mouth, and Spike can't help but grin. It really is hilarious. The Slayer's such a self-absorbed little bint, always so damn sure of herself, and what's that? Gonna get bested by a bloody fledgling. By some wanker she'd helped pull out of the ground, no less - no more than five minutes old.
But suddenly that doesn't seem right.
The Slayer's gonna die at the hands of this vampire? Some over-weight embarrassment of a demon? There's no glory in what Spike's seeing. The vamp took a cheap shot at the Slayer when she was distracted, collapsed and crawled on top of her, and suddenly it's worthy of this? Hell, up until it'd knocked her over, it had no clue who she even was.
Then again, sod the glory. What's Spike care? It's Buffy's own fault. He'd always known those puns were lethal, and now here's his proof. Maybe he'll jump out at the very last second, right before she gets bit, and tell her just that. Watch then as she slowly gets drained, and hey - maybe he'll kill the wanker afterwards. Might get a taste of Slayer blood after all, if he can work his way around the chip. Maybe wait until Buffy's good and dead, then stake the vampire and finish her off himself. Yeah. And then he'll carry her limp body back to the Watcher's. Congratulate him on a job well done at keeping his Slayer alive. Give them his heart-felt condolences, because it really would be a bloody shame if this bitch kicked it.
The vampire begins to lean in, and Buffy's heart starts to race, starts pitter pattering wildly, and Spike can feel it pulsing in rhythm to the blood suddenly rushing to his more reactive parts. Great, he's getting turned on by seeing someone else kill the Slayer. That's how you know deprivation has set in. He's been held back for so long, been without a good fight for longer than that, that even some one else fighting her gets him hot. Kinda twisted. Kinda kinky. The Slayer starts to struggle underneath it, her tight little body writhing, her grunts becoming louder and more desperate. He waits for that Slayer pride to kick in. Waits for her to buck the thing off of her, because there's no way the Slayer's gonna die like this.
Slow-motion like, the vampire heads for Buffy's neck, fangs glistening in the moonlight. Indecision starts playing with Spike’s head, natural instinct versus common sense. His legs are aching to be set in motion, to propel forward and knock the thing off of her, and he can‘t for the unlife of him figure out why. Spike hates the Slayer. Said Slayer is about to become worm-food. Why in the bloody hell is he then having to forcefully restrain himself from taking off and rescuing her?
Fuck. It’s the chip. Gotta be. Up until he’d had the thing, none of these thoughts would have been within in a ten mile radius of him. No thoughts of playing the Dashing Hero to Buffy’s Damsel In Distress. He’d have kicked back on his heels, hands folded comfortably behind his head, and he’d have watched like a bloody spectator at a show as she took her last, gasping breath before that final sweet release. And instead he's literally having to lock his legs in place, not the least bit relaxed as he watches her panicked attempts to free herself.
He’s got to do something though, Big Bad or not, the Slayer's savior or not. Move or leave, cheer the vampire on, make a bloody decision, and whatever it is, he’s got to do it quick because Buffy’s two seconds away from becoming a chew toy for the undead.
The scattered, brief thought of Spike being the Slayer's savior decides things for him. Mind made up, he stays put, feet planted firmly on the soft overturned soil of the cemetery. He truly doesn’t care if this bitch dies, honorably or not. So long, anyway. Good riddance. Better for him, Spike figures, as it’s one less daily annoyance he’ll have to deal with. A world without the Slayer in it. A world without Buffy in it. Feels good, rolling around in his head when he puts it like that. A Buffy-less Sunnydale. No more nightly intrusions. No more shots to the nose. No more self-righteous, prissy, holier-than-thou, bitchy little Chosen One’s making their way into his every current dream, his every waking thought, blinding and consuming his every heightened sense.
So, it’s settled then.
The vamp’s just about to bite her, just about to clamp down on her throat, when Spike breaks forward with a growl. Before he has time to question why he’s making with the sudden movement, and why the hell it isn’t in the direction of his crypt, he’s swooping down to pick up Buffy’s forgotten stake. The next second, before either can make sense of his presence, he’s driving the redwood through the vamp’s heart, pointy side first.
As the dust parts and sprinkles to the grass below, it gives way to Buffy, who looks equally shocked. She lays still, not making any immediate effort to move as she catches her breath.
Spike watches, matches her heavy breathing with his own, fuck knows why, and can't help but grin. He just saved the bitch's life. The Slayer was two seconds from death, he had a bloody front row seat, and instead of reveling in every last minute of it - he saved her.
If only Dru could see him. Wonder how covered she'd tell him he was in the Slayer now...
Soon enough, Buffy controls her breathing to a less panicked sort, her heartbeat scatters about in normalcy, and she starts to glare at him from her comfy spot sprawled invitingly on the ground.
Hang on.
That doesn't look right. The Slayer's glaring at him? He just saved her life and he's getting that look?!
"Spike," she says with a sigh, chest still heaving. She looks none-too-pleased with his current act of heroism as she starts to push herself upwards. Spike almost offers her his hand, some odd sense of propriety kicking in, but thankfully manages to suppress that instinct. Offering her his hand? That's just too wrong to even begin to think about. Standing, she starts to brush herself off. "Go away."
His mood darkens considerably. He'd known she was ungrateful, hell, he wasn't exactly expecting a parade in his honor, but to get the ever-predictable hostility after what he'd just done? Bitch.
"Yeah, or not," he drawls irritably, snorting out his annoyance. "Free bloody country, right? Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, and all that rot."
With an eye roll, she turns on her heels and starts to walk away. He, of course, follows right after her, saddling up to her side despite the overly obvious fact that she clearly doesn't approve of their close proximity.
"Oh, no need to voice your thanks, Slayer. I only just saved your life, but I guess that fun twitch in your jaw'll serve as gratitude enough."
She barely dignifies his comment with a glance, and in doing so, catches sight of her stake he‘s still holding. She snatches it out of his hands with a huff. Touchy little bint, obviously not keen with the sharing of toys. She pockets it, secure, in the waistband of her jeans. His eyes linger (on their own account, mind you) at her waist, watching as she stomps along. As her hips sway back and forth, as her shirt rides up a little and shows the smallest line of tan skin. Then he remembers whose hips it is he's so appreciatively watching, so they dart back up to meet her eyes, him disgusted with himself and that slight distraction.
"You so didn't save me," she ever-so-eloquently counters, mercifully drawing his attention back to his big mental reminder of the night: He hates the bitch.
"Right," he snorts, marveling at her ignorance. "So that was just, what - middle of time-out, then?"
"Don't you have a brainless vamp ho to get back to? How ever will Harmony plot the ways to kill me without her Blondie Bear around?"
"Ohhh, big words coming from your mouth," he shoots back just as tersely. "Don't you usually have a bit of growth attached to you? About 6 feet of uselessness, typically camouflaged? Come to think of it, it is a bit unusual he's not around." He mocks surprise, gasping a little for added dramatic effect. "Oh, no. Don't tell me: trouble in paradise?"
"I'm patrolling."
"No, you're hunting. And that's beside the point - you saying your man can't handle a little thing like a fledgling?" He snickers, because it really is kinda funny. "Can see why they kicked him out of The Initiative, then. Apparently this one lacks both brains and brawn. Hey, it's like Angel then, isn't it?"
Buffy comes to a quick stop at that, immediately shooting him a glare deadly enough to deter a weaker man.
"What?" he asks, stopping alongside her. He studies her for a few seconds, taking in the thin line of her frown. The tightly folded arms across her chest... another second for said chest in particular. The sparkling fury lit behind those hazel eyes. "Oh, don't tell me I've gone and offended you. I mention the great Poof, and that's what gets you all dainty?"
"I'm not offended or dainty-- I'm annoyed. Which, hey..." She makes a big show of being equally surprised, mimicking his earlier gasp. "You're here! Now we know why."
He shoots her an obligatory smile, playing along with her cute show of trading insults. "Personal attacks?" he mocks, sounding disappointed. Might've even tsked a little. "Slayer, that's low, even for you."
"Why are you here?" she asks suddenly, anger gone in replace of frustration.
"Cemetery, pet. I live here. More interesting the matter is - why are you here?"
"And once upon a time," she starts sarcastically, eying him like he's an idiot. "There was a girl. We'll call her 'the Slayer'--"
"Yeah, history lesson, fun. That's not what I meant."
She shoots him a look, one that just screams of self-righteousness, before setting off again. "Patrol equals cemetery, Spike," she mutters.
He's right back at her side, matching her fast stride easily. "Right. Guess you got me there," he tells her, mockingly contrite. Her answer doesn't explain anything though, and he's not particularly satisfied with it. "This is Sunnydale. You telling me there weren't the other dozen or so cemeteries you couldn't've gone to?"
She stops again, and he's stopping just as abruptly. "Spike," she says, only it comes out as a sigh. Getting a bit annoyed, no doubt. "Can we not do this tonight?"
He has to hold back laughter. She's really kinda cute when she's frustrated. He'd ask if it was a sexual sort of frustration, but being that he'd recently been having his own camp outs under her window each night the past week, he knew it wasn't. Finn slept over every night, and Spike always arrived early enough to catch the show. The whole four minutes of it.
So maybe it is sexual frustration that's got her so easily annoyed lately. Probably the soldier isn't living up to Slayer standards, being that he's nothing but Joe Normal in extra-large. Disproportionately so.
Oh, right. She'd said something. Probably should answer her, lest she starts to think she's actually bested him in their ongoing battle of barbs.
He plays it casual. Intentionally ignorant, because that's likely to piss her off more. "Do what?"
Sure enough, those eyes of hers narrow. Become little slants, hardening with aggravation. "Is there ever a point where you annoy even yourself?" she asks back shortly.
He snorts, shrugging a little. "What can I say. You live with Harmony, you pick up habits."
"Annoyance being one of them?"
He shrugs again. "High fashion sense, appreciation for all things pink and frilly, among others."
"Nuh uh," she decides after a moment. "You were annoying before Harmony."
"Slayer," he says, mockingly flattered. "Didn't know you noticed."
She rolls her eyes again and starts to take off. Would it be redundant to say he followed? Because, he did. Right at her bloody heels, and for no reason that he could see, other than the fact that he was still bored.
"You're not gonna leave, are you?" she asks, all exasperated. Like it's such a chore that he's sticking around.
"And why would I do that when I know being here's bothering you so much?"
She huffs. Snooty little breath of air. "Fine," she says, and shoots him a look. "But you know, if you keep showing up like this every night, I'm gonna start thinking things..."
There's a retort on the tip of his tongue about the Slayer and her ability to "think things", but it dies there. For a split second, an odd sense of panic sets in. Odd because when the fuck has he ever been scared of anything, let alone bitty Buffy? But that thought gets pushed aside, because, for an instant, he thinks he's been too obvious. His dreams about her, with the kissing and the... declarations of sort, words he'd said, feelings he had... maybe she's picked up on them, somehow. And that just terrifies the hell out of him, because it's one thing to dream about the Slayer, it's a completely other to play out the fun game of stalking he's been doing lately - but for her to know about it?
"If you want to be a Scooby, Spike, you're gonna have to be initiated--"
Bloody hell. Scooby? He shudders at the thought. We're talking visible full-body shudder, here. It's horrifying just to think, but it also means she hasn't picked up on his recent shifting feelings for her. His saving her hadn’t even blipped on her radar screen as meaning anything. He doesn't know whether to be relieved or offended, or -- he mentioned horrified, yeah?
"--We're talking group meetings, sleep-over's at Willow's... you and Xander would have to bond."
Horror officially sets in, sod the relief. She shoots him another look, smiling sweetly in a way that pretty much secures the fact that - He Hates This Bitch. Bugger the dreams, bugger Dru and her visions, there was no way he was covered in this.
"Yeah, sod off," he mutters, shooting her his own glare. "I'll bond with the bloody Whelp. Bond him to a wall and let Harmony eat him."
That doesn't go over to well with her, and she's the one who started it. "See, and therein lies my point," she says, stepping in between headstones. "You hate me. I hate you. Ergo ensuing confusion at why you're suddenly playing the role of tag-team patrol buddy."
Patrol buddy? He bites back the urge to laugh. William the Bloody, the Slayer's patrol buddy. Reputation to be feared.
"Bored," he replies casually, as if it wasn't perfectly obvious. "Not to mention the fact that I enjoy a good kill, same as you."
That inspires a glare. "Except for the fact that, whereas you kill for fun, I do it out of duty."
He gives in and laughs out loud at that. It's cute how she almost says it with enough conviction to convince him.
"What?" she shoots back, not liking his response.
"Yeah, you're all about the moral obligations," he agrees dryly. "Slayer, you like this as much as I do, you can't tell me you don't."
"...I like patrolling," she agrees hesitantly, like she's testing the water. Doesn't want to admit to too much.
"Yeah, you like dusting vampires."
"It's my job," she tells him, getting a bit feisty. "I do it because I have to, not because I'm sick and twisted like you."
He stops at that. Halts completely in his movement and just stares at her. Oh, not that he was offended, not in the least, but - she actually expects him to buy that? He's seen her out here every night the past week. After hours, too. Puts in her nightly required slaying time, heads off home, off to play out her role of normality, and then soon enough - she's sliding back out her door, tip-toeing off the porch, quiet as can be so as to not wake Corn-fed, and heading again out here to do nothing but kill.
She stops, her arms folding across her chest. "What?" she asks self-consciously, knowing he's got her completely figured out.
He creeps closer, making sure his eyes are locked with hers. Making sure she's staring back, that her attention isn't straying elsewhere. "Admit it - you like the kill."
She looks instantly offended, ready to attack and defend. "I don't--"
"Yes, you do," he insists, and even though his voice is forceful, heavy with conviction, it's low and rumbling. "You like the power it gives you, taking life. Like the way it pulses through your body; adrenaline, and fear, excitement... pounding in your head, throbbing through your veins." He's up against her now, face just mere inches away from hers, bodies touching but not pressing. His voice drops impossibly lower. "Tell me, Slayer, what gets you hotter? The feel of soldier boy beneath you, moaning, bucking, panting out your name in his offered two minutes of pleasure... or driving that stake of yours through some vamps heart? Feeling it connect, tear through, and rip open, until there's nothing left but a pile of dust in your way?"
Eyes blazing, she lifts her head defiantly. "You're disgusting."
He smiles, his own eyes lighting up. "But you like it. Whether or not you want to admit it, you like it." He tilts his head to the side, still staring straight into her eyes, and softens his voice, suddenly awed. "It's in you, you know. That darkness, slowly consuming you… It's why you're out here, why you're not home cuddling with the soldier. You need this. Helps you sleep, don't it? Get in one good kill, satisfy that urge, that deep, primal desire before bedtime."
"You don't know what you're talking about," she bites out, jaw clenched tightly.
"One of these days," he continues, firm hand lifting up to her sweet face. She twitches initially, little flinch as she doesn’t know what to expect, but stays in place all the same as he starts to run his fingers through her hair. Can't take his eyes off of her, can’t believe he’s doing this, that she hasn't pulled out her stake. "You're gonna realize what's inside. Soldier boy won't be there for you. Not your Watcher, not your mum or your sis. None of your little playmates. It'll be me, Slayer. And you know why?"
She swallows audibly, something flashing behind her eyes. Something he picks up as fear, but it's gone the next second, replaced with black. She tilts her head to the side some, eyes hardening, lips thinning.
"It's 'cause we're the same, you and me," he tells her, running his hand across her face to cup her cheek. Tentatively, he starts to rub his thumb across the smooth skin, the palm of his hand soaking up her warmth. "It's only a matter of time before you realize it. Before death starts calling, starts waking you at night, keeps... screaming, building inside of you until it's all you can think of, 'til it's all you dream about. And you'll see. I'll be there." He drags his hand away, calloused fingers rubbing lightly against her soft pink lips, before he pulls back, pulls away, sliding backwards so that their bodies aren't touching, their connection gone. "And maybe next time, Slayer, it won't be to save you."
squawks
05/18/17 04:16 am
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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!