Title: Sensory Perception (1/2)
Author: Angelus
E-mail: angelus1317@hotmail.com (Please put "Perception 1" on the subject line.)
Subject: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Category: BSR
Rating: Strong PG-13/Mild R
Summary: Buffy compares her new vampire to her old one.
Spoilers: None.
Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.
Disclaimer: Yeah, right, sure I own 'em. In my dreams. Buffy, Spike, Angel, and Drusilla are the property of Joss Whedon, WGN, and Mutant Enemy Inc. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's notes: I have to say that although I'm fascinated by a Buffy/Spike relationship, I'm still trying to work out all the little kinks in my head as to how exactly they feel about one another. Therefore, if I decide to write more Buffy/Spike fics, the tone might be slightly different, as this one is very different from "Winterlude". (Note: I will be taking "Winterlude" down soon and incorporating it as a chapter in a small series (a trilogy, most likely) called "Bare to the Elements".) Prepare for plenty of experimentation.
Dedication: For my 3 loyal Buffy fans. To Nikki, because I wouldn't be watching this show if not for you, and because I know that it pisses you off seeing Buffy with anyone other than Angel. For Oliver, because I would have to give up Gillmore Girls if not for you. And Zac, for all the hours-on-end telephone conversations about the best show on television, making wisecracks and developing theories. Merry Christmas, you 3!
~*~
She had expected him to be the same as Angel. But the second that Buffy was in Spike's arms was the second she realized that, save for large expanses of cold, pale skin, the symmetry stopped.
He didn't smell like Angel. He wore no expensive cologne. In fact, he wore no cologne at all. She smelled dirt on him, and her enhanced Slayer senses recognized it as graveyard dirt. Vaguely, she wondered how much more she could pick up with a vampire's nose. With her nose, she smelled hair gel and the faintest tinge of peroxide. If she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated, she could pick out all of the little smells that were so uniquely him - musty leather, motor oil, and alcohol all rolled into one.
She tasted the alcohol, too. It was always vodka or whiskey or some other hard liquor. If she had to attribute some sort of alcoholic beverage to Angel, it would be an expensive, classy wine. But Spike cared nothing about being classy or sophisticated, and thus tasted like liquor, cigarettes, and blood. She had kissed Angel once right after he had fed, and had almost gagged. It had been an unwelcome change from his usual smooth, pleasant flavor that she pegged as wine and strawberries and chocolate, though he ate no such things. One could not experience them properly, after all, without taste buds. But whatever it was, it had always made her feel safe and loved. On Angel, blood was revolting. On Spike, it was delicious. The metallic tang only added to the dark, sinful, erotic taste that lingered on her tongue even when she didn't see him for days on end.
He looked absolutely *nothing* like Angel. Even as Angelus, they referred to him as "the one with the angelic face". And he had one, allright. Trusting and kind, though mysterious and enigmatic at the same time. No one would ever accuse Spike of having an angelic face. He looked like he was: dangerous, sly, sarcastic, and roguish but charming in an irritating sort of way. There was no doubt that he was gorgeous. Devastatingly so, as Angel was, but oh so different. When his dark eyes bore into hers, they covered his underlying passion with a glare where Angel's had begged for sympathy with their vulnerable, sad puppy-dog look. They even dressed similar, in dark, muted tones and sexy leather. But like everything else, it was different with Spike. While Angel made leather sexy in a sensual way, Spike turned it racy; the perfect wrapping for Buffy's forbidden, guilty pleasure.
They sounded different as well. Both moved with catlike grace and stealth when it was called for. But Angel had walked with the same saunter all the time. Spike, who lived to break every rule ever set, crashed through the forest with a cocky swagger, safe in the knowledge that no intelligent being would ever dare to touch him. When he entered his crypt, his boots clattered noisily, announcing his arrival to any man or beast within a five mile radius of the cemetery. Then there was his voice. Rough, hard gravel as opposed to Angel's silky purr, smooth as honey. Angel whispered sweet nothings in her ear and had once sang her to sleep with an Irish lullaby. Spike shouted insults and the occasional warning. But it was the accent that really turned her on. British that slipped easily from the upper-class dialect that he must have used some time in his early life to the lower-class Cockney that he preferred and felt more comfortable with. It made her wonder what he had been like before his fateful meeting with Drusilla. Angel's voice had calmed her, but Spike's excited her.
His touch, too, inflamed her where Angel's hand had once soothed. Without even having to ask, he had known that he didn't have to touch her as if she were made of spun glass. Angel had touched her that way. It was wonderful to be treated like a princess, bit sometimes it felt good to be treated like a whore. He slammed into her again and again, bringing both pleasure and pain. His muscles were hard beneath her, his fingers rough and callused. The concrete floor dug into her back; a feeling she always equated with Spike. The one time she had been with Angel, it had been warm and soft and slow in his bed. Whenever she was with Spike, it was hard and fast right here on the cold floor of his dank crypt. She and Angel had made love. She and Spike simply screwed. This whole situation felt strange. He wasn't Angel; he never would be. And yet, she couldn't help but compare them. He didn't match sex with love and tenderness and emotions. His hands seemed incapable of expressing passion and desire; only lust and greed and possessiveness. He didn't make her tremble when she saw him. Her knees didn't go weak when he walked into the room. Her heart didn't begin to beat double time when she thought about him, and she could resist him when he kissed her. She didn't love him. She had no idea how she felt about him.
This was insane.
But it felt too damn good to stop.
~*~
FIN
Author: Angelus
E-mail: angelus1317@hotmail.com (Please put "Perception 1" on the subject line.)
Subject: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Category: BSR
Rating: Strong PG-13/Mild R
Summary: Buffy compares her new vampire to her old one.
Spoilers: None.
Archive: Anywhere, just ask me first.
Disclaimer: Yeah, right, sure I own 'em. In my dreams. Buffy, Spike, Angel, and Drusilla are the property of Joss Whedon, WGN, and Mutant Enemy Inc. No copyright infringement is intended.
Author's notes: I have to say that although I'm fascinated by a Buffy/Spike relationship, I'm still trying to work out all the little kinks in my head as to how exactly they feel about one another. Therefore, if I decide to write more Buffy/Spike fics, the tone might be slightly different, as this one is very different from "Winterlude". (Note: I will be taking "Winterlude" down soon and incorporating it as a chapter in a small series (a trilogy, most likely) called "Bare to the Elements".) Prepare for plenty of experimentation.
Dedication: For my 3 loyal Buffy fans. To Nikki, because I wouldn't be watching this show if not for you, and because I know that it pisses you off seeing Buffy with anyone other than Angel. For Oliver, because I would have to give up Gillmore Girls if not for you. And Zac, for all the hours-on-end telephone conversations about the best show on television, making wisecracks and developing theories. Merry Christmas, you 3!
~*~
She had expected him to be the same as Angel. But the second that Buffy was in Spike's arms was the second she realized that, save for large expanses of cold, pale skin, the symmetry stopped.
He didn't smell like Angel. He wore no expensive cologne. In fact, he wore no cologne at all. She smelled dirt on him, and her enhanced Slayer senses recognized it as graveyard dirt. Vaguely, she wondered how much more she could pick up with a vampire's nose. With her nose, she smelled hair gel and the faintest tinge of peroxide. If she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated, she could pick out all of the little smells that were so uniquely him - musty leather, motor oil, and alcohol all rolled into one.
She tasted the alcohol, too. It was always vodka or whiskey or some other hard liquor. If she had to attribute some sort of alcoholic beverage to Angel, it would be an expensive, classy wine. But Spike cared nothing about being classy or sophisticated, and thus tasted like liquor, cigarettes, and blood. She had kissed Angel once right after he had fed, and had almost gagged. It had been an unwelcome change from his usual smooth, pleasant flavor that she pegged as wine and strawberries and chocolate, though he ate no such things. One could not experience them properly, after all, without taste buds. But whatever it was, it had always made her feel safe and loved. On Angel, blood was revolting. On Spike, it was delicious. The metallic tang only added to the dark, sinful, erotic taste that lingered on her tongue even when she didn't see him for days on end.
He looked absolutely *nothing* like Angel. Even as Angelus, they referred to him as "the one with the angelic face". And he had one, allright. Trusting and kind, though mysterious and enigmatic at the same time. No one would ever accuse Spike of having an angelic face. He looked like he was: dangerous, sly, sarcastic, and roguish but charming in an irritating sort of way. There was no doubt that he was gorgeous. Devastatingly so, as Angel was, but oh so different. When his dark eyes bore into hers, they covered his underlying passion with a glare where Angel's had begged for sympathy with their vulnerable, sad puppy-dog look. They even dressed similar, in dark, muted tones and sexy leather. But like everything else, it was different with Spike. While Angel made leather sexy in a sensual way, Spike turned it racy; the perfect wrapping for Buffy's forbidden, guilty pleasure.
They sounded different as well. Both moved with catlike grace and stealth when it was called for. But Angel had walked with the same saunter all the time. Spike, who lived to break every rule ever set, crashed through the forest with a cocky swagger, safe in the knowledge that no intelligent being would ever dare to touch him. When he entered his crypt, his boots clattered noisily, announcing his arrival to any man or beast within a five mile radius of the cemetery. Then there was his voice. Rough, hard gravel as opposed to Angel's silky purr, smooth as honey. Angel whispered sweet nothings in her ear and had once sang her to sleep with an Irish lullaby. Spike shouted insults and the occasional warning. But it was the accent that really turned her on. British that slipped easily from the upper-class dialect that he must have used some time in his early life to the lower-class Cockney that he preferred and felt more comfortable with. It made her wonder what he had been like before his fateful meeting with Drusilla. Angel's voice had calmed her, but Spike's excited her.
His touch, too, inflamed her where Angel's hand had once soothed. Without even having to ask, he had known that he didn't have to touch her as if she were made of spun glass. Angel had touched her that way. It was wonderful to be treated like a princess, bit sometimes it felt good to be treated like a whore. He slammed into her again and again, bringing both pleasure and pain. His muscles were hard beneath her, his fingers rough and callused. The concrete floor dug into her back; a feeling she always equated with Spike. The one time she had been with Angel, it had been warm and soft and slow in his bed. Whenever she was with Spike, it was hard and fast right here on the cold floor of his dank crypt. She and Angel had made love. She and Spike simply screwed. This whole situation felt strange. He wasn't Angel; he never would be. And yet, she couldn't help but compare them. He didn't match sex with love and tenderness and emotions. His hands seemed incapable of expressing passion and desire; only lust and greed and possessiveness. He didn't make her tremble when she saw him. Her knees didn't go weak when he walked into the room. Her heart didn't begin to beat double time when she thought about him, and she could resist him when he kissed her. She didn't love him. She had no idea how she felt about him.
This was insane.
But it felt too damn good to stop.
~*~
FIN