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Spike caught sight of the Slayer in front of him as he followed a safe distance behind.
He was looking for her tonight, but not for a fight. Well, not unless she wanted one, in which case he'd be happy to oblige...
Earlier he'd snuck out, being driven away from the factory in anger. Angelus and Drusilla were back to their happy shagging ways, if Dru's screams the past few nights were any indication. And what bloody fun that was, watching the two of them sneak off every night. Or, sneak off in the sense where they lacked any bit of regard for Spike's presence, all making with the bedroom eyes and Dru's coos of content as the great block of hair gel swept up his girl and carried her to his room.
Like hell he was going to sit around and listen to that for another week. Had just about enough of it as it was.
Fed up, he got up and left. Except that wouldn't be entirely correct, seeing as he was confined to that wheelchair, his own literal hell on wheels. As amusing as it was to make fun of all the poor sods, all the easy victims who he didn't even bother to ever eat - actually being in the wheelchair was virtually as low as he could go, just shy of being staked. To be that vulnerable, to have had to have relied so heavily on Drusilla. He should've been taking care of her, not the other way around. And with Angelus there, cracking his sorry excuse for jokes every chance he got, well, it only made Spike further hate the bleeding thing.
Only the both of them, Dru and Angelus, were so caught up in rekindling their little romance (interrupted by a few decades worth of the Poof having a soul), they hadn't noticed the fact that Spike had grown strong. They hadn't noticed that he'd regained the use of his legs, that every time he was within leaping distance of either of the two, he had to fight to stay seated in that bloody chair and not pound the gelled wanker into a bleeding pulp.
He'd ditched the wheelchair a good ways away from the factory, not wanting any one of their minions to find it. Not like they'd have the brains to connect the two and report it back to the happy couple, but he'd rather be safe than... well, than be pissed and forced to face off with Angelus.
He'd initially set out just looking for a good bar to get decently sloshed in. Let the alcohol fuzz the soundtrack of Angelus and Dru's shags until it was no longer a loud, bloody incessant screaming orchestra in his mind. Let it work its mojo and numb the pain of his girl, his dark princess, cheating on him -- a-bloody-gain -- just a little.
Along the way, and admittedly a good amount of alcohol later, he'd thought up this brilliant (read: idiotic) plan he was now in the process of setting in motion: He was going to call a truce with the Slayer to get back Drusilla.
When the idea first hit him he'd practically stopped mid-step, checking the area around him to see if Angelus'd already sent the world to Hell and his little epiphany of sort was sign number one of the Apocalypse. Unfortunately for him, it wasn't. It was just him dwindled down to his last hope -- his last resort. It was just him, the Slayer of two Slayers, on his way to ask the supposed third for help. The irony wasn't lost on him. Neither was the incredible patheticness of it. He was William the Bloody; a master vampire, bloodline in the Order of Aurelius, the bloody textbook nightmare in her pretty little Slayer head - and he was going to call a truce with her. An honest to god truce with her.
Well, not entirely honest, given that he was a vampire, and evil at that...
Fuck, he was pathetic. With one last swig of his alcohol - one last swallow of his liquid courage - he screwed the cap back on and shoved the bottle underneath his duster (minding the leather), drawing in a deep breath. Letting it out slowly, he pushed off, quickening his strides until he caught up to the Slayer from behind and was only a few steps back.
Completely undetected by her, he'd like to point out.
"Slayer," he carefully called, keeping his voice intentionally even. He didn't want her to get all stake happy, dusting him before he even had a chance to explain himself. Sure enough, she whirled around fast, stake clutched tight as she immediately readied herself for a fight. Spike had to suppress a chuckle. She was a cute little thing. Predictable as fuck, but cute.
"Spike," she hissed as she caught sight of him, her beady little eyes immediately locking with his. "And here I thought the night would be boring."
Okay, he gave in and laughed at that. Quips weren't exactly a Slayer forte, so he noticed. "Funny," he replied, and began tapping his duster for his cigarettes. They were in there somewhere... all them pockets, bloody useless is what they were. A'ha. He pulled out his pack and with it, his eyebrow shot upwards. "I was just thinking the same thing myself. Seeing you? Guess that only confirms it." Determined to keep it casual, set the tempo for how he wanted this encounter to go, he sauntered the rest of the ways over to her, nonchalant as he could, shaking loose a cigarette in the process.
"Lemme guess," she drawled slowly, sounding all sorts of contemptuous and mocking. "Angelus sent you? Is this a suicide mission?"
He tensed, immediately hit with a blinding spot of anger. Bloody Angelus. Was everything about that wanker? It was bad enough Spike had to have been in his constant company ever since the Poof took a one-shag trip back to the dark side, worse even having to hear every bloody decade about 'daddy' from Drusilla, but getting it from the Slayer too? That was just too damned much.
"Newsflash, Blondie: I'm my own vampire with my own bloody reputation. I don't need daddy Angelus telling’ me where to go, or who to kill." He straightened then and stuck the cigarette between his lips, biting down just a bit as he lit it. After taking a drag and relishing in the feel of the smoke trickling down his throat, he pocketed both the package and his lighter in a deliberately slow manner, intentionally drawing the whole process out while she waited for him to continue. He kind of liked the way it made him feel - her, waiting ever-so-patiently for him to continue. Well, minus the patient part anyway. He took another deep drag. "And besides," he continued, smoke blowing out with his words. "The 'suicide mission' thing? Bit on the self-absorbed side, wouldn't you say?"
Calmly, and, you know, bitchily, she folded her hands across her chest, tilting her head just a bit. A small, taunting smile curled her lips upwards and those eyes of hers started to gleam. "Oh, I don't know, Spike. Seems to me Drusilla has no problem listening to 'daddy'."
Spike huffed, and with it a cloud of smoke poured out of his nose. "Did I catch the Slayer on the other end of a revelation?" he jabbed back harshly, wondering where the hell her cutesy little retort stemmed from. He shrugged his shoulders as he inhaled around his cigarette, deciding that he'd rather taunt the Slayer then give into his own Angelus hate. More fun that way. "I thought Cap'n Cursed was a big 'no touch' subject for you? You found another boy toy to take your mind off him or something?"
The Slayer didn't even blink, didn't even wince or tear up a little at his words. "Gee, and let me not have this conversation with you," she drawled, dropping her arms and pulling up into her defensive stance again -- stake clutched tight, like a good little Slayer. "We gonna fight, or are you just gonna stand there and smoke all night?"
Spike smiled, more than amused at her continuing predictability. Were he a betting man, and he was, but that's beside the point - if he were up for a spot of gambling, given the predictability of the way things were falling into place tonight, he'd wager that pretty soon her little Scooby mates would all come filing into view. Stakes held awkwardly in place, their hearts racing, their blood pumping in that entirely pleasant way that it did when they were terrified. The whole bloody gang of them.
He kept with the game of casual, knowing he had an actual purpose for this encounter. Leered just a bit, because, well - fun. Kept her on her pointy little toes, too. "I didn't come looking for a fight, Slayer."
"So it's my exceptional conversational skills you're looking for?"
Spike smirked. Couldn't help it. "You are so bloody self-involved."
"And you are so bloody... about-to-be-staked," she shot back.
Hell, that one was almost painful, literally speaking. The thing he said before about quips not exactly being a Slayer forte? Yeah, well there's your solidifying of that statement. Press and proof, because that was just unpleasant. Even she winced at her own words, which was saying something given the amount of drivel she had to hear coming out of her mouth.
"That was sad," he felt obligated, as mortal enemies went, to tell her. He shook his head, deciding then that 1) not only was he not going to talk anymore or think anymore about the Great Forehead that was Angelus, but 2) He needed his inhibitions lowered for the continuing part of this conversation. Even more so than they already were. So, again with great intent, he stuck his cigarette back between his lips, bit down to keep it there, and began to feel around under his duster until he found what he was looking for - his bottle of Jack Daniels. God how he needed some of it. He pulled it out with a bit of an appreciative grin, happy as hell to see the thing, and twisted the top off in satisfaction. Might've even sighed a little at the sight of it.
In front of him, the Virgin--Ohh wait, no. The One-Time Poke with the Poof snorted. Eloquent as ever. Those hands of hers dropped again from her Ready-For-Battle! position and went to their second natural state, so he'd come to learn - folded across her chest in that patented stance every teenaged bint in Sunnydale had seemed to have perfected. Her eyes widened, all judgmental and the like.
Spike quirked an eyebrow upwards, a little put off that she was so blatantly staring at him, all scrutinizing and deep-set glower, but he ignored her all the same. He took a quick swallow, enjoying the feel of the alcohol as it burned its way down his throat, warming up his chest in the process.
"You carry alcohol in your coat?" she finally said, all dainty-like. "Do you know how lame that is?"
He blinked. "Where else would I carry it?" He stared for a few quiet seconds at her, genuinely expecting an answer to that question. And then he realized that she wasn't exactly going to answer, if the thinning of her lips were any indication, so he continued on, elaborating in the sake of hopefully annoying her. "It's bloody convenient, and economical at that. It's humanitarian, too. Otherwise, if I'd hadn't have had it here, I'd have had to go out and get some. Would've had to kill some bloke to get it, wouldn't I?"
He ignored the fact that he did actually go out, and did actually pay for the sodding thing - but that was beside the point. She didn't know that.
"And instead, this way? It's already here, in my coat." He pulled opened his duster for a demonstration of sort, so as to further emphasize his point by highlighting the vast amount of varying usage his coat provided. "Just have to open it, no killing." He leaned forward then, letting his duster drop back against him, and stared at her through narrow eyes, his voice dropping down low. "You should be thanking me for my consideration, Slayer."
He quickly straightened again, smiling proudly at his words. She should thank him for it. That was bloody genius on his part.
"Are you drunk?" Buffy, the wide-eyed picture of innocence, asked after a few seconds, blinking several incredulous times.
Spike scowled at her accusation. "Drunk?" he scoffed. He wasn't bloody drunk. He'd had maybe 1/3 of a bottle, no-- 3/4 of a bottle. That wasn't enough to get him drunk. Drunk. He winced inwardly at the implications that he was a ponce, a sodding lightweight who couldn't handle a bit of alcohol. Plus - vampires constitution and all that obligatory rot. It'd take a little more than a few shots to get him drunk. "Drunk, drunk, drunk," he heard himself muttering. Well, fuck. So maybe he was a little drunk. Just the slightest bit pissed. But - what's it to her? Like he's not allowed to get drunk? Hell, she didn't hear what he heard between Angelus and Dru back at the factory . Maybe if she'd have, she wouldn't be so sodding uptight. She might even loosen a little, and... well there's a pretty little imagery: the Slayer, all loose...
He realized she was still staring at him, her lips puckered together as she looked expectantly up at him, waiting on an answer he supposed. "Oh, right," he remembered. Not the loose Slayer in front of him - the bloody bitchy Slayer. "No, Slayer, I'm not drunk," he enlightened her matter-of-factly. Except, right - he was drunk. He'd forgot about that. Spike looked down at the bottle in his hand, his face scrunching up at the sight of it mostly-gone. That didn't seem right. He returned his gaze back to her. Both of her. "Wait, probably," he admitted, blinking his eyes, watching as the two Slayer's merged back into one. "Unless there's supposed to be two of you?"
She widened her eyes, letting out a derisive snicker. "You are so stupid."
Spike tensed at that, feeling oddly insulted. He threw his cigarette to the ground, frowning, and snorted out damning breaths of air that all were heavily emphasized by his hatred for this girl in front of him. "Hmmm," he muttered, stomping on the butt with the heel of his boot as he fought to keep his anger in check. "I shagged my boyfriend out of a soul. My boyfriend who now is trying to send the world into a bloody apocalyptic hell to end all hell-- no, wait." He paused, glaring at her accusingly. "That's you. Guess that makes you the stupid one."
"You're drunk and having a conversation with a Slayer," she retorted calmly. "A fully sober Slayer."
He took a moment to let that sink in. She did have a point. Getting drunk and then seeking out the Slayer while his inhibitions weren't at their highest wasn't particularly the most brilliant of moves. "Okay, you're right - I'm the stupid one," he conceded, taking a step closer to her. And how fun was this, to be enlightened by the Slayer. Frustrated, he threw his bottle of JD on the ground, and had to chuckle pathetically when the thing only made a soft thud before it rolled away. So bleeding typical. Going for dramatic with the big breaking of the bottle, trying to instill a little fear in the bloody bitch, and all he gets is a sad little thump.
"It's not my fault," he sulked, suddenly overcome with a wave of depression. Unlife was a royal bitch now-a-days. And it shouldn't be, not when just a few months ago he'd had everything. Drusilla all to himself. A reputation other vampires respected. His own factory, with his own minions, useless as they were. Came to Sunnydale, all swagger and trailing clouds of cigarette smoke, looking to claim the life of his third Slayer, looking to further make a name for himself -- separate himself from the reputation of Angelus.
And what's he have? None of that. He's standing in a sodding cemetery with the bleeding Slayer, and for what? A truce. He's exchanging barbs with the Slayer, when he should be killing her.
And Dru! Bloody Angelus and Dru...
He peeked up at her, seeing that face of hers turned towards his in disbelief. No stake in sight though, which meant she'd pocketed the thing when he hadn't noticed. Smooth little action, that.
"And besides," he continued, swallowing away the urge to confide in the Slayer in some mutual 'scorned lover', some mutual Angelus-hate type way. He winced inwardly at the fact that that idea had even occurred to him. Since when did he get soft? He glared at her to make up for his nancy boy thoughts, his voice turning bitter. "Your darling boyfriend's shagging the brains out of my Dru--"
"Your ho of a girlfriend?" Buffy's mocking words interrupted him.
Spike growled, leaping on her before she had time to react. Before she even had time to finish her thought, he was on her, driving her backwards and pinning her up against the nearest crypt wall. Instinct and his defenses kicked in as he held onto her by the collar of her jacket, keeping her weight up with his body. "Watch your tongue, Slayer," he warned, his voice low and dangerously even. He tilted his head to the side, a slow smile forming as he stared into her stunned eyes just inches in front of his own. Leant forward, just a little, just enough to make her heart start to pound a bit faster. "If my girlfriend's a ho, what's it make your boyfriend sleeping with her?"
A few quiet seconds passed between them, their eyes locked together, the only sound her heavy breathing and rapidly beating heart, before her look of surprise faded into anger and disgust. Just as quickly as he'd startled her, realization came steamrolling through that bitty blonde brain. "Get off," she growled, her voice equally low, all implicated death threats and dusty endings if he didn't immediately oblige.
Sucker for sodding the rules, he naturally resisted.
Spike fell forward, closing the gap between them despite her tiny squeak of protest, and pressed his forehead against hers. He laughed dryly in response to her little spark of self righteous fury, swallowing it when he breathed back in. Her scent overwhelmed him with that unneeded take of air, so strong with her so close. Stared into her eyes, seeing the fear just barely registered in them, and loved every luscious wave of it rolling off of her. "You know," he started tauntingly, breathing his words out. "I like the way you think, Slayer."
With her nervous swallow, he stopped staring at her wide, incredulous eyes, and closed his own, suddenly very aware of the fact that he had a Slayer pinned up beneath him, just the thinnest pieces of fabric separating them from each other. And maybe it was the alcohol talking, but it didn't exactly feel bad.
Fact One: The Slayer felt good. Warm body pressing into his, angry as she was, felt all kinds of nice. Especially paired up with the way his body still tingled of alcohol.
Fact Two: This was the Slayer. The bloody Slayer, only the literal embodiment of sodding Angelus' every wet dream-- who he still wasn't thinking about. The wanker may have played it like he hated the bint, and hell, he probably genuinely did - Spike would give him that much - but the Poof wanted her. Angelus didn't have it in him to kill her, not in this lifetime, anyway. Too slow with his same boring brand of predictability: the decorative torture, the fun little chase, all that "to kill this girl, you have to love her" rot - but he wanted her.
Fact Three: Being of the wheelchair bound, and being that his Drusilla was currently... preoccupied, Spike had to find his pleasures elsewhere. That elsewhere usually coming from his left hand. As much as it got the job done, it wasn't exactly the same. Understatement of the bloody century.
Truthfully, he'd thought about the Slayer before. Thought about what it'd be like to be with her. Had to have, what with the way he first saw her. That first time, at the Bronze, with her dancing in the middle of the crowded room. Was wearing this... this tight fitting shirt that kept riding up, exposing that tan waistline, that perfect skin that just radiated of warmth, and all the while those hands of hers were held above her head, her hips swaying back and forth in beat with the music.
He remembered seeing her, knowing it was her from the first look. Saw the power in her eyes, even as she laughed with her mates. Saw the darkness in them, embedded so deep the bint probably wasn't even aware she had it. Probably didn't know how deep-rooted her power went, either. How closely it matched his.
He'd watched her, too. Not just that night, but on those tapes he'd had made of her. Saw the hunger in her eyes every time she fought. The Slayer got off on it. And he, occasionally, got off on watching her get off. But that's beside the point.
Spike had fought other Slayers before. Fought and killed. That first one in China? Admittedly, it lacked craft on his part. Oh, one of the best fights of his lifetime, what with the way he instinctively dodged swipe after swipe of her sharp pointy sword (well, minus the mark she'd made just over his left eye - but that was a battle scar, and one he was proud of at that), but he'd been quick with that one. Hadn't even played at it properly. Knew little to nothing about her, just who she was; that she was the killer of his kind, and him hers. That was enough. So, yeah. He'd sought that one out. They played out their game of sizing the other up, of wielding their most fatal of weapons. Her with the sword and stake, him with his fists and fangs. Only needed the latter, but it was more fun with the former.
The second one he'd been a bit more interested in. Taunted her a bit. Played it a little like Angelus, making with the mind games. Knew she'd had some brat clinging to her shins, trailing along on patrol. Like that was professional. He didn't even kill her the first time he'd come into contact with her, either. Just let her know that he was there. Hell, she knew who he was, too. And yeah, he was damned proud of his reputation, so it thrilled him to no end when those dark eyes of hers had lit up with recognition. But he didn't kill her. Just let that resignation sink in. Soon, death would come knocking. And it didn't need the sodding invite, because he'd killed her in easily the second best day of his life. In the most dramatic, most glorious, brilliant of ways, they'd fought. Blow for blow, she'd matched him. Got in her own hits, too. But he'd ended up besting her, and had the coat to prove it.
But this Slayer, here. This was a whole new game. Little bint by the name of Buffy. And true to her name, she was as blonde as they came. Though, and not to cast stones, Spike figured that wasn't exactly her natural shade. A little help from Angelus' friend Clairol, if you get the general idea of what he's saying. But she'd thrown a loop in his plan faster than anything. More than Dru. More than Angelus and the dissolving of his soul. It was the Slayer who'd thrown everything to hell.
Just like she was doing now, completely unaware of it. There she was, under him, against him, and she had no clue of the power that she temporarily held over him. Power she shouldn't have over him, fleeting or not. Ways she made him ache in all the wrong places that he didn't even want to question. He was obsessed with the girl, he could admit that. Had been for a while. But never before had he actually imagined that any of this would ever play out. Those completely useless wanks of his, with the videotapes of the Slayer being played as he got himself off to it. To her. With the dreams, and the fights-- the bloody fights of theirs. Fists and fangs. Blood, bruises, skin against skin in the most painful of ways...
And nothing could've prepared himself for it, for the feel of her. For the instant warmth that spread throughout him. For the instant sodding hard on as her hips unconsciously arched up into his as she struggled against him. And, bloody hell - the struggling felt so good. Her pelvis just dancing against his, side to side and up and down, alternating in intensity, making with the varying degrees of pressure and accompanying pleasure as she tried to break loose.
Mimic of a kill.
Hell, and the bint probably didn't even know what a turn-on that was. What a turn-on she was. The Slayer. Nothing but power there, and arousingly so.
And he reveled in it.
Natural instincts kicked in and the demon inside started to wake. What he wanted more than anything was to lean in just so and get a good grip on that neck of hers. He'd only tasted Slayer's blood the one time, that first time, and he was dying for more. Well, figuratively anyway.
He'd ignored those urges, that deep, primal yearning, and instead loosened his grip on her. Just a bit, so that he was still holding her up, but he wasn't pinning her there. If she wanted to leave, she could. Use the Slayer muscles of hers and push him off her.
"Let's see," she had started, voice all sorts of sugary sweet and taunting. It caught his attention, the warm air of her breath tickling against his neck. He pulled back to look at her, blinking himself out of his daze, out of all his useless thoughts, and back into the moment, cursing inwardly for letting himself get so effected by her, and effected so bleeding quick. Those eyes of hers were staring straight into him; cold, mutual hatred, with just a bit of a killers gleam in them. "You're drunk, delusional, and oh, look: suicidal!"
His hand shot out in reaction, instinctively knowing where she was heading with that train of thought, and just as he expected - he caught her arm, stopping her from pulling out her stake before this dance ended dustily. Sod the gentle approach, then. His fingers easily curled around her thin wrist and, with a smirk, he brought her arm up to the wall behind them, firmly holding it there in place beside her head. Spike clicked his tongue disapprovingly as he looked down at her. "Nuh uh uh, Slayer," he scolded lightly, reaching for her other hand. He brought it up, matching the other one, and pinned it to the opposite side.
A little whimper escaped her lips at the state of their newest position, making his eyes slam shut as he willed himself to not fall apart. Just because the Slayer was the very picture of submission under him, hands all bonded together beside her head, willingly held in place by him - he wasn't going to lose it.
Blowing out a deep breath, he opened his eyes, knowing of the darkness she'd see in them, knowing of the evidence of his arousal they'd show. Bugger if he cared. Should, but he couldn't find it in him to. Things were changing. He could feel it. Terrified the hell out of him, what with the general and somewhat respective idea that this girl here was his mortal enemy, was his sworn mortal enemy - but he couldn't bloody care. Like he'd said before, he was obsessed with this girl. Went beyond death, beyond claiming her as his third victim in the lifeline of Slayers.
Slowly, his head tilted to the side, and his eyes lingered lazily down her face. He didn't mind the bit of squirming she was still doing. Felt good, matter of fact. He stopped his appraisal when he got to her mouth and couldn't do a thing but stare hungrily at it. "I've always wondered about you," he admitted breathlessly, fixated on that bottom lip of hers. He watched her jaw flex, saw her swallow as she gulped. That sent a nice wave of mental imagery through his mind, picturing all the ways her mouth could be used on him. He knew his own mouth was watering, knew that she knew what he was fixated on, but again - there was this great lack of care he had.
When his tongue came out, wetting his lips in an entirely involuntarily way, she jerked away from him, pathetically trying to shake herself loose. Brought out of his reverie at that, he slammed her hands back into the wall, mercilessly, and pressed his body into hers more firmly, all the while chuckling softly at her attempt to break free.
Slowly, the Slayer relaxed again under his grip. She breathed in and out several times before she spoke, her eyes locked with his. "Wondered what?" she eventually asked, voice soft and low with the slight hesitation, and breathy with her previous efforts to fight back.
Spike smirked, pleased that she'd asked. He leaned in against her and dropped his head down to the side of her throat. He inhaled, breathing her in again. Liked that smell. Fear and power, all mixed into one. Was heady. Made him hard. "What you'd taste like," he answered, speaking barely above a whisper.
Meant to just say that and nothing more. Breathe out those words and then pull away with a grin. But being against her, lingering next to her throat and hearing that heart of hers pound in her chest, feeling and listening to her life pumping away through the vein so temptingly close to his mouth, he gave in. Crossed the line. Let the moment - the desire - effect and wash over him completely, drowning out the demon within that was still telling him to take her as she was; bite her neck and drain her dry, paint the town red with Slayer blood and reclaim all that he'd lost since stepping foot into this godforsaken place.
Still, though - as arousing as that bit of imagery was - what he'd felt went far beyond being satiated by that. He wanted her. Before, other fights, yeah, he got hard. Was only natural, what with the way they'd mutually attacked one another. But here, now, with her all bonded by his own bloody hands, with that waist of hers pressed so intimately into his, he officially sod off reason and clung to desire.
Spike took a deep breath, still staring at her neck. Slightly was interested in the fact that she was still so willing in all of this, not screaming bloody murder or calling out for any Scoobies, but those thoughts got pushed away as he leaned in further. His grip on her tightened, instinctively, and slowly he tilted his head to the side. Then, softly, he brushed his lips against her skin, applying just the barest of pressure. And just that brief contact of his lips on the warm skin of her neck, sent him off the deep end. Just that one feel, just bloody knowing that he'd done it, and he was unraveling.
When he pulled his body back a little, just to ground himself, she took that as an invitation to start struggling again. He smiled at that, chuckling lightly against her neck. At least she wasn't giving in completely. No fun that way, and honestly - it'd be pretty disappointing to know that the Slayer just gave it up to anyone, or anything in his case. Still, though. He growled, and pulled back fully to stare at her, letting her know without words that this was his dance, and it'd end when he bloody well said it would.
"Spike," she breathed out quietly, going still under his weight. He couldn't help but smile, knowing she was as effected by this as he was. Knew it from the erratic beat of her heart, from the way her blood pulsed under her skin in that tantalizing way that it was, but that breathy voice only solidified it for him. "What are you doing?"
"Shh, love," he murmured, quieting her. Stilling her. "Promise this won't hurt."
His words had her struggling against him again, her hips slamming against his with renewed force as she fought to break free. He tightened his grip on her wrists, not wanting it to end just yet. Not yet, not when he hadn't even had a taste, and not knowing that she wanted it too, sod the fact that she was flailing underneath him like she'd gone mad.
Those hips of hers, soft and round as they were, arched up into his at his hold, instantly causing his head to fall back and his eyes to roll upwards into his head. Oh, they'd been making with the back and forth action since the moment he'd first gotten her in this position, but that one? That one was all muscle. All grim determination and force, and hit him in a way that dissolved a good portion of his logical thought as her hips went up in one moment of pleasantness, and slid back down just as sensually. He hissed in pleasure at the friction it caused, his own hips thrusting forward of their own volition in response to meet hers.
She stopped her struggling at that, frozen completely underneath him in the blink of an eye. Or the thrust of his hips, as it were.
Spike opened his eyes, pulled back to look at her, his face completely open as he met her shocked face. Fuck, and he was panting, all without even needing to breathe, but the feeling, it was so good. So good and so bloody hot, just that one little action, just that one feel of her against him. He noticed that her breathing had started to mirror his own; hitched by her own excitement, as aware of this thing happening between the two of them as he was. He controlled his breathing, swallowing away this... feeling, that was increasingly building up inside him... and smirked at her, his tongue darting out between his lips. Those eyes of hers immediately flickered down towards it, encouraging him. Teasingly, he ran it against the outside of his teeth, wet his lips top to bottom. And she watched it like a bloody show, like she couldn't take her eyes off it.
Which only went and hardened him further.
Slowly, he released his grip on her wrists. He watched her as she continued to stare at him, her eyes glued to his bottom lip before they darted upwards to meet his gaze. Still watching her, he let go entirely and took a step back; let her hands free, and she merely blinked as they dropped slowly back down to her sides. He watched her, the realization instantly dawning on her that she was no longer being held, as she continued to stare at him, despite her freedom. He watched her as he waited for her to react. Watched her eyes as they searched his. Watched her as her brow drew together in confusion, as the soundtrack that was her heartbeat started to pick up.
He was so busy watching, just waiting for the slightest hint of movement, it completely blindsided him when she launched herself forward. Before he could blink, his arms were full of Slayer. Before he could even muster a thought, her lips were on his. Before he could even register the taste of her mouth, her tiny, perfect hips were working their magic again and rolling against his. That action burst through his muddled brain, quickly having him give into instinct, sod all else, and wrap his hands around her waist as they stumbled together, falling back against the tomb wall, her body once again pressed beneath his.
She hit the wall hard, he knew, but her only response to it was to wind her hands under his arms and around to his shoulder, drawing him into her from underneath his duster. That went and unraveled him completely, his knees just about buckling beneath him as he fell into her, his body crushing hers against the cold crypt wall. She didn't protest, only moaned for more, clutching and grabbing and pulling him closer in complete desperation, giving in entirely.
He pulled back, their lips parting as they both sucked in deep breaths of air, eyes both dark as they stared at one another. For the briefest of instances, he thought about Drusilla, thought about what he was doing and who he was doing it with. He was supposed to be here for something, and though at the moment he couldn't for the unlife of him remember what the hell that something was - he knew it probably wasn't to shag the Slayer. But fuck if he was gonna let a little technicality like that stop him from doing so. He'd killed Slayers before, hell - his whole bloody reputation was built around those two marks alone - but he'd never been with a Slayer. Never really wanted to. Until now.
The flicker of deep thought was gone when her lips came crashing back into his, fierce and passionate with just the little bit of tongue. How the hell he had gotten the Slayer to reciprocate this was beyond him. He was good-looking, hell, he'd known that. And his charm, well that was something men'd kill for, something he'd used to kill - but this mutual sort of attack on each other was something his brain was still wrapping itself around.
The Slayer apparently shared some small connection with his brain because one of her ankles came up, hooking around the back of his leg, and slid up its length as she simultaneously pulled him into her and arched her body upwards. The groan that he let out came out entirely on its own, the only thing he was capable of expressing from the intense pleasure spurred within him from that one small action. Her heartbeat hammered in his own head as he slipped his tongue through her parted lips, tasting her like she was his last meal, like he was a starving man getting his first and last bite. All thoughts of wanting this Slayer dead, of wanting this girl dead, evaporated from his mind in the two seconds it took for her to unwrap her arms from around his shoulders, and slide those scorching hands down to his waist.
That bit of blinding realization triggered a coherent thought in his head.
The simple notion that he, for a split second, didn't want to kill the bloody Slayer, kill his mortal enemy, kill this bloody bitch who was the face of everything gone wrong the past year of his unlife - served as the proverbial bucket of cold water being thrown on him and effectively snapped him out of this whatever-the-hell-it-was between them.
Fuck, fuck, fuck were the final triggering coherent thoughts.
He pulled back. Pulled away from her lips and out of her grasp completely and stumbled a few uncoordinated steps backwards, and just stared at her in a shocked sort of silence as she gasped for air against the wall in front of him. Admittedly, she looked beautiful. Face all flushed, lips swollen and wet, her shirt showing a hint of that tan skin where it'd ridden up between them, under her jacket--
No. Bloody hell, wrong.
Dark Drusilla. Thin-limbed, gorgeous, brown-eyed Dru. Pale skin. Lack of heartbeat, lack of bloody sodding life and warmth.
He took two more steps back when everything in him was screaming to go forward, to go back to her and lose himself in her again. But knowing that he'd even lost himself in her to begin with had him taking two more steps back, stretching out the distance between them.
"Spike," she called out, still out of breath, as she took a hesitant step forward.
"Don't," he immediately warned, his harsh tone effectively stopping her. He stopped his own movement, snorting out incredulously. His hand reached up, and he numbly started to run his fingers through his hair in an attempt to rationalize things and get a good grip on what it was that just bloody happened. "Fuck," he muttered to himself, letting his hand drop back down to his side.
"Spike--"
"What the bloody hell was that?" he cut in, finally looking up at her. He met her eyes then, saw some hurt in them. Made him feel both guilty and proud, and he couldn't for the unlife of him figure out which was the stronger of the two emotions. But then anger quickly set in at the fact that he felt anything that wasn't bloody fucking triumph at causing pain for this bitch, so he quickly shut out the guilt and latched onto the pride.
"I... I don't know," she admitted, taking another step in his direction.
Pride be buggered, the Slayer still had a hold on him, with those lips still shining and that chest still heaving.
He shook his head and quickly started to back away again. "No," he told her, dismissing whatever she was thinking and whatever she was about to do with the intensity of the one word. Space between them lengthened enough, he stopped and stared at her again for a few stretched seconds, watching as her face slowly hardened. As that jaw set, those eyes deepened, and that mouth thinned. Remembrance and recognition were starting to kick in for her as well, and he took that as a sign to make like a still completely dust-free vamp, and leave. And he did so, turning around in a flurry of billowing leather coat, and started to head to the nearest exist. His steps eventually began to quicken as he resisted the urge to just take off, to bolt out of there as fast as his dead legs could take him.
"So that's it? You're just leaving?"
Her softly spoken words came trickling through, stopping him almost immediately. He whirled back around, surprising her, but couldn't give a piss about it seeing as he was evil and a vampire and not some fucking wanker who'd just willingly kissed every bit of sensibility out of her. "That," he told her, gesturing towards the crypt wall with enough emphasis to impress even the overly dramatic Angelus. "Didn't just happen." Couldn't have just happened, because he was William the fucking Bloody, killer of two Slayers, a threat to be taken seriously. He killed Slayers. Didn't kiss them. Didn't want to kiss them, especially not this one. Maybe that second one in New York...
She flinched, he caught sight of, wincing despite the mask of pride she was trying to uphold. But she hid it as she straightened, and hastily started in his general direction. He tensed at her movement, but remained immobile all the same. Prepared himself for a fight, because there was no way the two could just walk away from this. Not with that kiss. Not with the way it affected the both of them. But instead of the expected, she stalked passed, pointedly making the effort to not touch him.
"I know," she spat, just at his side, while she continued on without stopping. He turned to watch her go. Couldn't help it. He watched her as she lengthened the distance between them, her body tense but held high as she marched away from him. And then slowly she came to a stop. Deliberate. Took a deep breath and then turned back around. Met his eyes. Her voice was low and serious when it came out. "Tell anybody about this, and I kill you. Try it again, and I stake you."
Anger swirled up inside at her words. So, yeah, he would've said pretty much the exact same thing, minus the bit about staking, but - bloody hell! The bitch, getting all high and mighty on him?! Not two seconds after those hands of hers had slithered their way into his sodding coat? "Don't have to tell me that, Slayer," he ground out, his voice dripping with mutual disgust. "You think I want anyone knowing about this? Please, I do have a reputation to uphold, and shagging the Slayer? Well, think I'll just leave that to your pal Angel."
He watched that chin of hers wibble a little. Saw those eyes of hers soften, and her body start to fold into itself. But before he had the immense satisfaction of seeing her fall into a crying pile of girly heap with the "I shagged my boyfriend out of a soul" blues, she'd stiffened. Switch of the mood, bloody convenient and effective as it was, and she'd pulled herself back together, in front of his very eyes. He had to give her props for that, at least. The Slayer stared at him for a few seconds longer, her cold eyes bearing into his, but she didn't say another word. Didn't make any effort in sake of belting out one of those quips she just couldn't seem to control. Just turned around in one self-righteous swirl of her heels and set back out of the cemetery, never looking back, never hesitating in her movement.
And Spike watched her the entire time. Was transfixed at the sight of it; on her golden hair, glowing in the moonlight and shining under the dim light of the lamps lining the walkway. On the curve of her body, outlined from the shadows of the graveyard. On the sway of her hips and the fading sound of her heartbeat.
When she'd gone, when she'd disappeared from view entirely and he could no longer feel her, couldn't sense her in that impending-sunrise sort of way anymore, he finally tore his gaze away.
Pissed, his eyes caught sight of his bottle of alcohol still laying pathetically on the ground in the spot it'd last rolled, the liquor inside glistening. He stormed over, picked it up, tore off the cap, and swallowed its contents in one quick, fuck-all motion. Felt it slide down, and he shook his head, clearing it, while breathing out his frustration. His frustration at his own bloody self. What the fuck was he thinking kissing the Slayer? And what the fuck was she thinking kissing him back? And what the bleeding fuck had she given him those hurt eyes for?
He growled, throwing the empty bottle against the nearest headstone with force fueled by anger, and closed his eyes in pure annoyance when the thing shattered with a loud bloody dramatic bang, the broken glass showering onto the grass below.
He cricked his head to the side.
Typical.
He sighed once, twice, breathing in and out in deep, calming breaths until the red behind his eyes disappeared. He heard the Slayer, he'd told the Slayer - what happened tonight, that bloody fantastic spark between them - it didn't happen. He was with Dru, whether or not Dru was also with Angelus. Dru was his, he was Dru's. That's who he wanted, that's who he was meant for. For Drusilla-- his Drusilla. Not some bloody Slayer with her do-good attitude, her Chosen One glower, her bleeding conscience and Superhero outlook...
Fuck if he wasn't screwed. At least both Angelus and Dru would be too caught up in their own fun to notice the smell of the Slayer that was caked on him, drowning him in her lingering scent as the smell seemed to cling to his duster, to his t-shirt where her hands had been, clutching at him...
And there was the alcohol to hide her scent even more--The alcohol of which he had to blame for this whole bloody thing to begin with! Yeah, because... if he hadn't had been so pissed, there was no way he'd have sought her out. Well, to fight, yeah, but - if Spike was in his right mind, the mind where he killed her kind, not wanted to shag them senseless - this wouldn't have happened. And fuck, if Drusilla and Angelus hadn't practically kicked him out themselves, he wouldn't have been drunk! So really, it was their fault. Both of theirs, and he wasn't going to waste anymore time thinking twice about it. He'd kissed the Slayer because he was drunk, because he was pissed and frustrated and annoyed. Turned-on as hell, but that had to do more with her being all curves and warm skin under his body than her herself.
Yeah, had absolutely nothing to do with her. Just alcohol and anger and a willing body beneath him.
Buggering fuck.
With one last sigh, he set off, back to the alley he'd left the wheelchair at. Back to pretending he was some invalid. Back to his perfectly fucked up unlife, and back to the perfect bloody soundtrack of the perfect bloody couple obliviously shagging away in his bed.