title: I Am Trochee
author: Casix Thistlebane
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, I've just put
them together.
spoilers: season five up to and including "Fool for
Love" I wrote this awhile ago and rediscovered it, so
for the sake of this story, the rest doesn't exist.
summary: Spike tries to take his mind off of Buffy.
I Am Trochee
by Casix Thistlebane
For a brief moment, all he could think about was that
he was finally rid of her. It took him a moment to
realize which "her" he meant. It might be the "her"
who had followed him through his dreams, in sleep and
in waking, for the last month, tormenting him by
making him love her in spite of himself; or he might
mean the "her" who had followed him everywhere else,
and talked, talked all the time, without ceasing. He
had never loved that "her", never even really
pretended to love her. She was a bloody great shag,
but no one could beat the woman he was holding right
now.
She ran her tongue over his gums, making him shiver at
the cold texture. Each taste bud stood out in stark
relief against the violet rose petal that now moved to
his lips and his nose. She was more than he had ever
dreamed of, and she knew what he wanted without ever
asking.
"Tell me poetry, Spike."
He let his own kitten-rough tongue lash at her neck
before responding.
"Poetry, Love?"
"Yesssss." Her green irises swerved down to run
themselves over his chest like velvet. "You have so
much in you to share. Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm not a poet." He groomed the back of her neck
with his mouth, sucking gently at the nape. He didn't
want to think of his past any more. Every time he
thought of his past he thought of the first "her", the
evil, dark-haired saint who had graced him with the
power to become more than he was. And the other had
tainted those memories now, the first "her" lead him
to think of the battles, and the battles of the
Slayer. He'd knelt before her, that Slayer, asking in
the only way he knew how for her to be his, at her
mercy in mind and body. And he'd been beneath her.
He'd offered her what she wanted: release from her
duties, release from everything that had ever made her
weep; his knees pressing cold asphalt as his eyes
pressed cold emotion. And he'd been beneath her.
"I'm not a poet." His mantra ever since.
It was a better mantra than "I'm not in love with
her".
"You're the only kind of poet that really counts. You
liven up the world with pepper and spice, graceful
statements and ill humor, all with the most beautiful
words ever to shiver over the Earth." She took his
ear in her mouth and licked across his ear drum.
Drawing back, she blew in his ear. "You wrote her
poetry, your first woman. She turned you down because
she didn't understand you. She couldn't see that you
were more than she could ever be, and thought that you
were less."
"Cecily." He shook his head slowly, smoothing her
skin with his teeth. "Not since I've been turned. I
haven't been William the Bloody for a long time."
"No, you let your words rename you. A railroad spike
through his skull and you were a new person."
"That was a good one, wasn't it. He deserved it, he
did. It was justice, not poetry."
"Poetic justice." She licked down his hair line till
she neared his collar bone, and bit down.
Spike frowned as she sucked once, twice, incapable of
pulling out much more than a drop of stale blood that
dripped through him.
"Lee, what are you doing?"
She sat up, her expression horrified as her Irish
accent came out in full. "You're a vampire!"
"Yes." Spike nodded as though talking to a
particularly dense and slow child. "So are you."
"But--" Leanan-Sidhe hissed and backed up. "It's not
fair! I haven't had a decent poet since the famine!"
"Sorry, Love," Spike lit a fag. "We had a good thing
going though. Shame to cut it off early, right?"
Lee spared him one despairing glance and ran out of
the crypt.
"Really, a man lives in a crypt, talks about turning,
and she doesn't realize he's a bleedin' blood sucker?"
He turned back to his television, as visions of Buffy
started to resurface.
Dawson's Creek or dimpled chads. The more inane, the
better.
The end.
Leanan-Sidhe: (lan-awn-shee) On the Isle of Man she
is a blood-sucking vampire adn in Ireland the muse of
poets. Those inspired by her live brilliant, though
short, lives.
--Faeries, descripted and illustrated by Brian Froud
and Alan Lee
author: Casix Thistlebane
disclaimer: the characters aren't mine, I've just put
them together.
spoilers: season five up to and including "Fool for
Love" I wrote this awhile ago and rediscovered it, so
for the sake of this story, the rest doesn't exist.
summary: Spike tries to take his mind off of Buffy.
I Am Trochee
by Casix Thistlebane
For a brief moment, all he could think about was that
he was finally rid of her. It took him a moment to
realize which "her" he meant. It might be the "her"
who had followed him through his dreams, in sleep and
in waking, for the last month, tormenting him by
making him love her in spite of himself; or he might
mean the "her" who had followed him everywhere else,
and talked, talked all the time, without ceasing. He
had never loved that "her", never even really
pretended to love her. She was a bloody great shag,
but no one could beat the woman he was holding right
now.
She ran her tongue over his gums, making him shiver at
the cold texture. Each taste bud stood out in stark
relief against the violet rose petal that now moved to
his lips and his nose. She was more than he had ever
dreamed of, and she knew what he wanted without ever
asking.
"Tell me poetry, Spike."
He let his own kitten-rough tongue lash at her neck
before responding.
"Poetry, Love?"
"Yesssss." Her green irises swerved down to run
themselves over his chest like velvet. "You have so
much in you to share. Tell me what you're thinking."
"I'm not a poet." He groomed the back of her neck
with his mouth, sucking gently at the nape. He didn't
want to think of his past any more. Every time he
thought of his past he thought of the first "her", the
evil, dark-haired saint who had graced him with the
power to become more than he was. And the other had
tainted those memories now, the first "her" lead him
to think of the battles, and the battles of the
Slayer. He'd knelt before her, that Slayer, asking in
the only way he knew how for her to be his, at her
mercy in mind and body. And he'd been beneath her.
He'd offered her what she wanted: release from her
duties, release from everything that had ever made her
weep; his knees pressing cold asphalt as his eyes
pressed cold emotion. And he'd been beneath her.
"I'm not a poet." His mantra ever since.
It was a better mantra than "I'm not in love with
her".
"You're the only kind of poet that really counts. You
liven up the world with pepper and spice, graceful
statements and ill humor, all with the most beautiful
words ever to shiver over the Earth." She took his
ear in her mouth and licked across his ear drum.
Drawing back, she blew in his ear. "You wrote her
poetry, your first woman. She turned you down because
she didn't understand you. She couldn't see that you
were more than she could ever be, and thought that you
were less."
"Cecily." He shook his head slowly, smoothing her
skin with his teeth. "Not since I've been turned. I
haven't been William the Bloody for a long time."
"No, you let your words rename you. A railroad spike
through his skull and you were a new person."
"That was a good one, wasn't it. He deserved it, he
did. It was justice, not poetry."
"Poetic justice." She licked down his hair line till
she neared his collar bone, and bit down.
Spike frowned as she sucked once, twice, incapable of
pulling out much more than a drop of stale blood that
dripped through him.
"Lee, what are you doing?"
She sat up, her expression horrified as her Irish
accent came out in full. "You're a vampire!"
"Yes." Spike nodded as though talking to a
particularly dense and slow child. "So are you."
"But--" Leanan-Sidhe hissed and backed up. "It's not
fair! I haven't had a decent poet since the famine!"
"Sorry, Love," Spike lit a fag. "We had a good thing
going though. Shame to cut it off early, right?"
Lee spared him one despairing glance and ran out of
the crypt.
"Really, a man lives in a crypt, talks about turning,
and she doesn't realize he's a bleedin' blood sucker?"
He turned back to his television, as visions of Buffy
started to resurface.
Dawson's Creek or dimpled chads. The more inane, the
better.
The end.
Leanan-Sidhe: (lan-awn-shee) On the Isle of Man she
is a blood-sucking vampire adn in Ireland the muse of
poets. Those inspired by her live brilliant, though
short, lives.
--Faeries, descripted and illustrated by Brian Froud
and Alan Lee