Spike knows what he wants tonight: A few shots of cheap whiskey, a smoke to go with it, and the petite blonde who's gazing at him from across the bar.
There's no shame in the leer she's giving him. It's often he gets to carry away a sweet, unwilling girl, but he's more in the mood this evening to let a pretty victim crawl into his lap. Literally, if he has a say in the matter later – and he will.
He takes the time to finish the glass of whiskey in front of him, knowing she'll wait, and wonders what song it is that's playing throughout the venue.
She peers up at him from beneath mascara-decorated lashes when he approaches, pretty hazel orbs that flash with a challenging heat. He'd wondered once if that'd ever get old – how quaint it was that such a breakable thing could look at him like she had control. It hadn't so far. Wasn't ever nearly as exciting as the real thing, a girl who could give him a run for his money in a fight for her life - but that wasn't what he was looking for tonight, and the confidence was still a turn-on.
He can't remember what he whispers in her ear before he takes her delicate hand, leading her up and out of the garish bar. It isn't important, not what he needs to pay attention to.
She's attractive. He watches the way the golden locks shift along the back of her shoulders as she leads him into her house, gentle waves that will wind prettily around his fingers. Small-framed and with modest features, but still soft and curvy in all the right places.
"Come on in," She says – Jennifer or Elizabeth or Brittany something like that, he can't recall – when he pauses at the doorway. Doesn't matter what it is.
"Think you're a naughty girl?" He purrs against her ear when they've fallen into bed together, her long, creamy legs straddling him as he lays back. She lets out a sultry giggle before she responds, "Yeah, I'm bad alright. Are you?"
Dru had been a delicious, bad thing, and she held up to all the games they used to play. He didn't think that Elizabeth – or Carolyn or Jennifer – would.
He takes his time with her stretched out beneath him. No use in being a selfish lover before he kills her, he supposes. Besides, she's warm and soft, and if the pleasurable simplicity in taking advantage of something like that isn't good, he's not sure what is. Brittany doesn't have to know it'll end bloody for her.
She's facing away from him, and Spike curls his fingers through the hair bouncing along her arched back, clutching loosely at the strands. She shouts her completion into the sheets, and that low heat sharpens in his belly, all at once tense and white-hot.
He takes that moment to tighten his grip cruelly, wrapping his free arm around her front to haul her up to her knees and pull her to him, bending her neck to the side.
A belated protest dies on the girl's glossy pink-painted lips when he sinks his fangs into her neck, and that's all it takes – he's there.
He's almost too late in stopping when he feeds this time. Groaning his pleasure into her flesh, he drinks her down in long, greedy pulls. He drains her nearly dry, sloppy at it so that he has to go back and lick away the drops that have strayed down her neck and on to her shoulder.
"Mm... You were brilliant," He murmurs against her ear when he finally dislodges himself, but she doesn't reply.
He lowers her back down to the bed, and she gives a dizzy moan when he rolls her over to face him, eyes unfocused. "Oh, damn. Nearly forgot, didn't I?"
Buffy's there, beside Jennifer, naked and stretched out on her back like a contented, languid creature. Her hair fans out to blend with his victim's tresses; They'd share more in common, but Carolyn is too stained with red and slicked with sweat to be a proper match for Buffy's smooth, clear complexion now.
"Oooh," Buffy hums, eyes raking over the other woman and a finger poised thoughtfully at her lip, "Naughty boy. We could be sisters."
She focuses on Spike, then, voice dropping low with anticipation, "Let me see the rest."
He reaches for his jeans and pulls the knife out from the front pocket, glancing over his handiwork. The lone girl on the bed breathes shallowly, and he realizes he's got to work quickly if he's going to finish what it is he needs to do here. He flicks the switchblade open, and slashes it neatly across his forearm before crawling back in to bed to sire his new girl.
Spike hates helping Buffy train with the girls. Hates it, with a passion, but he's not going to tell her no - has a problem with doing that, he supposes.
He'd woken groggy and unsure again, just like he did every time now. Like rising to the clinging remnants of a hangover from the previous night; He might as well have been blacked-out drunk, for as clear as he can remember it. He guesses it's some side-effect to the magic, what stuck the soul back in him. Maybe it'll get better.
All that doesn't matter at the moment, though, because now – now he has to concentrate.
These potential Slayers are all young and clumsy. They don't hold the stake like they're confident with it, and there had been a time when that would have delighted him. Inexperienced or not, he knew heir blood would still taste strong and intoxicating; Coppery-sweet and a little bit like magic. All the Slayers' did.
It's a careful balance between remaining relaxed and confident, and not giving in to what feels like a deceptively simple intuition. The demon in him is a reflex he has to tamp down, an inspiration to certain lines of thought that he's not always entirely sure are as black or white as he'd like for them to be.
Was he allowed to like it?
No.
Maybe.
Buffy did. It had been a big part of their relationship once, and she'd always had a soul. He realizes she was in a bad place then, but hell, a good fight got her riled any time. It was just something that was both true and somehow perfectly acceptable, not a thing that was so wrong for her to enjoy.
So where was the line? Would he ever be allowed to not hate himself for accidentally getting close to it?
The exercise begins, and he manages to take down the potential with the dreadlocked hair before she can even turn to find him. The blow to the back of the head is precise – he wonders if he looks any less smooth in his motions than he normally would, because it's so damned important now – and she drops to the ground. Not too hard, not too delicate.
The red-headed one whips around, eyes startled and impossibly wide. She flings herself at him recklessly, and he grasps her wrist with little effort, whirling her around and twisting it behind her back hard. Not enough to break or dislocate it, which would be easy enough to do with one thoughtless maneuver.
She screams in pain. Was it too rough? Buffy wouldn't want him to hold back enough for a demonstration like this to end up being useless.
He doesn't have time to spare a glance to seek approval from her.
The Potential's subconscious doesn't seem to care that it's a demonstration, that she's not in any real danger from the vampire holding her trapped flush and painfully against him. Her breath comes in harsh gasps and her heart is pounding in her chest like it's trying to escape. He'd wanted to have Buffy just like this, once. This girl – Dee? Something like that, he can't recall – has an awkward fashion sense, but he remembers how Buffy dressed when she was still in Sunnydale High. Sadly, she no longer wore skirts and tops with swooping necklines when she went patrolling.
Spike wonders if Buffy really trusts him this much, or if she's just a sadistic bitch and enjoys watching him squirm. A combination could also be likely.
He lowers his fangs to the girl's neck, pausing. It's all for show. Dee – Vi? Yes, Vi – tenses when his breath rushes out against her skin, but he stops there. Can't snack on the potential Slayers.
"Okay," He says steadily to the observing Slayerettes, "These two are dead. Why?"
Good. That sounded neutral enough, diplomatic even. He glances at Buffy.
Was it good enough?