Disclaimers: I wanted 'Buffy' for Christmas . . . but instead, I got a
pony. Dammit.
Feedback: Well . . . that was also on my wishlist.
Author's Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay. I know, it was really cruel, what with the cliffhanger and all. I figured that I ought to post another chapter, seeing as I'm going on vacation in two days, and that I won't be able to post again until early January. Hope everyone had a great X-mas, or Hanukkah, or Ramadan, or whatever. Just read.
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Buffy threw open the door with a bang, wincing at the sound of wood cracking.
'I hope that's fixable,' she thought, examining the long crack in the thick oak panel. Entering the dorm room, she searched the premises for a familiar face. 'Come on, Willow, where are you?'
Setting the black duster on her lap, she reached for the telephone, picking it up and cradling it between her shoulder and ear. She listened to the drone of the dial-tone, gazing down at the familiar jacket, running her fingers down the worn leather forlornly. Looking at the duster, her thoughts went immediately to Spike. 'I hope he's alright . . . he probably just lost track of time, but . . . something doesn't feel right.' The scent of cigarettes wafted throughout the room, and it took her a minute to realize where it was coming from.
'The duster . . .' Setting the phone back on it's cradle, she picked the jacket up, and brought it up to her face slowly. Inhaling deeply, the smell of cheap liquor and old cigarettes pervaded her senses. Buffy smiled. 'It even smells like him.'
She was so fixiated on the duster that she didn't even notice when the door opened.
"Umm, Buffy?"
Swerving her head around, she saw Willow standing behind her, looking confused.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Me? Uh, I'm, uh," Buffy stammered, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." She shot Willow a grin that was far too large and toothy, before she realized that she was still fingering the duster in her hands. Buffy chuckled embarrassedly, tossing it on her bed. She stood up and wiped her palms on her jeans, walking over to close the door. When Willow looked at her questioningly, Buffy explained, "Privacy. You know those drunken college students, always, umm, listening into private conversations."
"Riiiight," Willow said, setting down her things and sitting on her bed. She turned to Buffy, smiling weakly. "So, what's up?"
"Have you seen Spike?" She blurted out, her cheeks turning rosy. 'Oh, right, sound a little more obvious, why don't you?'
Willow's smile faltered. "Spike? I wasn't exactly hanging out at the bars or something . . . not that Spike is a drunk or something," she covered, "I just - why do you want to know? Did he do something?"
"Nah," Buffy sighed, grabbing a pillow from her bed and hugging it close to her, "I . . . we had this, um, thing set up where we were going to go patrolling tonight. I came to his crypt, and - funny thing - he wasn't there. Now I don't know if he just forgot, but . . . it wasn't just that he was gone. There was this table knocked over, and . . ." Buffy racked her brain to remember all of the things that she had seen in the crypt that night. "Oh! There was a mug! A, um, mug of blood that was on the floor, cracked and broken. And get this - the blood was spilled all over the floor."
"Buffy? Just because Spike is a lousy housekeeper doesn't mean that there's a reason to get all panicky. I mean, it's not exactly the shock you might think it is."
Buffy cast her expression downward, embarrassed. It was a weak reason to be worried, she knew, but still . . .
"That's not all, Will," she continued, "His duster was there, too, just sitting on a chair."
Willow's smile faded, her eyebrows knitting with concern. "Hmm . . . that's kinda weird. He goes everywhere with that thing. It's like his -"
"Security blanket," Buffy finished, excitedly, "I know! Everything was just so fishy. The whole situation stunk of fish."
"So what are we supposed to do about it? I mean, if something really is . . . going on?" Willow asked.
"Well that's where you come in," Buffy explained, "and this." She lifted the duster from the bed, handing it to the Wiccan.
"I need you to do a spell for me."
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He didn't mind torture, honestly.
It could be fun, used during sex . . . there was nothing wrong with a little S&M here and there, doled out evenly. Being a vampire, he enjoyed bloodplay. Whips and chains . . . he was expert in the stuff. But this . . . this was -torture-.
"Dru, love," he wheezed, wincing when his bonds rubbed against the open wounds covering his chest, "Could we break for a while? Maybe . . . take a breather?"
He chuckled dryly at the unintended pun. 'Vampire . . . needs a breather. God, that was bloody weak.'
Drusilla had her back turned to him, sifting though the various instruments of torture piled before her. He didn't have to see her face to know she was smiling. She loved it when they begged, he remembered.
"Naughty puppy," she growled, turning to face him. He cringed inwardly when he saw the sharp dagger she was holding. She hadn't used that one, yet. "Mummy's not nearly finished."
She fell to her hands and knees, crawling over towards him like a lion stalking it's prey. Drusilla watched him through heavily-lidded eyes, smiling sexily. She made her way to his limp, bloody body, lifting her skirts and straddling him. Her fingers played on his chest, tickling the unmarred skin but causing him to wince in pain whenever her long nails dug into his wounds. Rising the dagger from the floor, she gently tickled him with the cold, sharp edge, pressing lightly enough as to not draw blood.
"We've been playing for near an hour now," she continued, watching the knife as it traced the marks on his torso, "The sun has set but the children have yet to be called in. The headmistress allows them to continue their games. They sing songs, with their sweet, little voices, like Ring Around the Rosy and London Bridges. Dancing in circles and holding hands."
Spike, had he not been in such a situation, would have rolled his eyes. He hated it when she did this, rambling on about nonsense; it was quite irratating. Part of him wished that she would just dust him and get it over with. Running the knife over his battered torso, her eyes grew foggy and distant.
"London Bridges, falling down, falling down, falling down," she singsonged, "London Bridges falling down -"
"For the love of God, Dru, shut up!" Spike shouted, mustering up as much strength as he could, "Leave the songs to the kiddies, okay!? I'm already being tortured, you don't need to add to my pain by singing that . . . crap!"
He was breathing heavily, feeling slightly triumphant.
She fell silent, and Spike's unbeating heart leapt to his throat. Drusilla was most dangerous when she was upset, he knew this from experience.
"Pet," Spike pleaded, hoping to calm her, "I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, luv, I adore your singing. Please, I just -"
His voice caught in his throat when she lifted her head, her demon visage shifted into place. Her yellow eyes were watery, but her mouth was a thin line, her expression stoic. He shouldn't have let his frustration worm it's way to the surface, he was sure of that now. 'Stupid, stupid vampire,' he chastised himself.
"You used to love our songs," she pouted, "You used to beg me to seranade you, and we would dance . . . dance underneath the stars. -Our- stars."
"Dru, I-"
"The stars are dying," she cut him off, "She is killing them. I need to get them back, Spike, I need them . . . they need you, too. It's too dim without them . . . too dark. Everything is dark," she finished, her voice thick with emotion.
"I didn't mean to upset you, pet," Spike said, "The stars are still there."
"You're lying," she said, her voice seething, "I need to make you feel it again. I need to reclaim you."
She bent down, lowering her mouth to his neck. She sucked on it lightly, fangs grazing the unmarred surface, before she bit into the sensative flesh. Spike gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut. No one had marked him for . . . centuries; he had lost track of time, it had been so long. The demon in him was howling with rage, but his heart sank. 'It's a show of dominance . . .' he thought, and then, 'I've forgotten how much this hurts'.
He listened as Drusilla lapped up his blood, moaning with pleasure. She finally withdrew her fangs, a smile on her face, and pressed her lips against his with force. He ignored the kiss, but couldn't help but taste his blood on her lips. She eventually pulled away from him, and Spike found himself licking his lips. It repulsed him, but the urge to feed was great. Her minions had prevented him from eating his evening meal, so it had been a day since he had last drank anything. She smiled at him lazily, then shifted over to the other side of his neck.
Spike's eyes widened in surprise; he had hoped that she would have been sated the first time. 'Apparently not,' he thought without humour. She bit into him again, deeper this time, and Spike realized that her goal now wasn't to feed, but rather to scar him. 'Claim her territory . . . can't she just piss on me or something? Would hurt a hell of a lot less.'
Drusilla pulled away quickly, but the smile on her face had vanished. She collapsed to the floor, holding her head and moaning. "No," she gasped. She stilled, then got to her feet quickly. Clapping her hands together twice, minions flooded into the room. Spike noticed a few of them murmuring and pointing, some of the males grinning and chuckling at him. He did his best to give them his deadliest glare . . . although he knew he wasn't very threatening when he was shackled to the floor.
"She is going to ruin it," Drusilla whined, "The Slayer is going to wreck my beautiful plan . . . all of the work. She cannot." She faced the fledglings, her voice deadly serious, "Stop her. Use whatever means . . . she cannot have him back."
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To be continued . . .
Feedback: Well . . . that was also on my wishlist.
Author's Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry for the delay. I know, it was really cruel, what with the cliffhanger and all. I figured that I ought to post another chapter, seeing as I'm going on vacation in two days, and that I won't be able to post again until early January. Hope everyone had a great X-mas, or Hanukkah, or Ramadan, or whatever. Just read.
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Buffy threw open the door with a bang, wincing at the sound of wood cracking.
'I hope that's fixable,' she thought, examining the long crack in the thick oak panel. Entering the dorm room, she searched the premises for a familiar face. 'Come on, Willow, where are you?'
Setting the black duster on her lap, she reached for the telephone, picking it up and cradling it between her shoulder and ear. She listened to the drone of the dial-tone, gazing down at the familiar jacket, running her fingers down the worn leather forlornly. Looking at the duster, her thoughts went immediately to Spike. 'I hope he's alright . . . he probably just lost track of time, but . . . something doesn't feel right.' The scent of cigarettes wafted throughout the room, and it took her a minute to realize where it was coming from.
'The duster . . .' Setting the phone back on it's cradle, she picked the jacket up, and brought it up to her face slowly. Inhaling deeply, the smell of cheap liquor and old cigarettes pervaded her senses. Buffy smiled. 'It even smells like him.'
She was so fixiated on the duster that she didn't even notice when the door opened.
"Umm, Buffy?"
Swerving her head around, she saw Willow standing behind her, looking confused.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Me? Uh, I'm, uh," Buffy stammered, "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." She shot Willow a grin that was far too large and toothy, before she realized that she was still fingering the duster in her hands. Buffy chuckled embarrassedly, tossing it on her bed. She stood up and wiped her palms on her jeans, walking over to close the door. When Willow looked at her questioningly, Buffy explained, "Privacy. You know those drunken college students, always, umm, listening into private conversations."
"Riiiight," Willow said, setting down her things and sitting on her bed. She turned to Buffy, smiling weakly. "So, what's up?"
"Have you seen Spike?" She blurted out, her cheeks turning rosy. 'Oh, right, sound a little more obvious, why don't you?'
Willow's smile faltered. "Spike? I wasn't exactly hanging out at the bars or something . . . not that Spike is a drunk or something," she covered, "I just - why do you want to know? Did he do something?"
"Nah," Buffy sighed, grabbing a pillow from her bed and hugging it close to her, "I . . . we had this, um, thing set up where we were going to go patrolling tonight. I came to his crypt, and - funny thing - he wasn't there. Now I don't know if he just forgot, but . . . it wasn't just that he was gone. There was this table knocked over, and . . ." Buffy racked her brain to remember all of the things that she had seen in the crypt that night. "Oh! There was a mug! A, um, mug of blood that was on the floor, cracked and broken. And get this - the blood was spilled all over the floor."
"Buffy? Just because Spike is a lousy housekeeper doesn't mean that there's a reason to get all panicky. I mean, it's not exactly the shock you might think it is."
Buffy cast her expression downward, embarrassed. It was a weak reason to be worried, she knew, but still . . .
"That's not all, Will," she continued, "His duster was there, too, just sitting on a chair."
Willow's smile faded, her eyebrows knitting with concern. "Hmm . . . that's kinda weird. He goes everywhere with that thing. It's like his -"
"Security blanket," Buffy finished, excitedly, "I know! Everything was just so fishy. The whole situation stunk of fish."
"So what are we supposed to do about it? I mean, if something really is . . . going on?" Willow asked.
"Well that's where you come in," Buffy explained, "and this." She lifted the duster from the bed, handing it to the Wiccan.
"I need you to do a spell for me."
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
He didn't mind torture, honestly.
It could be fun, used during sex . . . there was nothing wrong with a little S&M here and there, doled out evenly. Being a vampire, he enjoyed bloodplay. Whips and chains . . . he was expert in the stuff. But this . . . this was -torture-.
"Dru, love," he wheezed, wincing when his bonds rubbed against the open wounds covering his chest, "Could we break for a while? Maybe . . . take a breather?"
He chuckled dryly at the unintended pun. 'Vampire . . . needs a breather. God, that was bloody weak.'
Drusilla had her back turned to him, sifting though the various instruments of torture piled before her. He didn't have to see her face to know she was smiling. She loved it when they begged, he remembered.
"Naughty puppy," she growled, turning to face him. He cringed inwardly when he saw the sharp dagger she was holding. She hadn't used that one, yet. "Mummy's not nearly finished."
She fell to her hands and knees, crawling over towards him like a lion stalking it's prey. Drusilla watched him through heavily-lidded eyes, smiling sexily. She made her way to his limp, bloody body, lifting her skirts and straddling him. Her fingers played on his chest, tickling the unmarred skin but causing him to wince in pain whenever her long nails dug into his wounds. Rising the dagger from the floor, she gently tickled him with the cold, sharp edge, pressing lightly enough as to not draw blood.
"We've been playing for near an hour now," she continued, watching the knife as it traced the marks on his torso, "The sun has set but the children have yet to be called in. The headmistress allows them to continue their games. They sing songs, with their sweet, little voices, like Ring Around the Rosy and London Bridges. Dancing in circles and holding hands."
Spike, had he not been in such a situation, would have rolled his eyes. He hated it when she did this, rambling on about nonsense; it was quite irratating. Part of him wished that she would just dust him and get it over with. Running the knife over his battered torso, her eyes grew foggy and distant.
"London Bridges, falling down, falling down, falling down," she singsonged, "London Bridges falling down -"
"For the love of God, Dru, shut up!" Spike shouted, mustering up as much strength as he could, "Leave the songs to the kiddies, okay!? I'm already being tortured, you don't need to add to my pain by singing that . . . crap!"
He was breathing heavily, feeling slightly triumphant.
She fell silent, and Spike's unbeating heart leapt to his throat. Drusilla was most dangerous when she was upset, he knew this from experience.
"Pet," Spike pleaded, hoping to calm her, "I - I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, luv, I adore your singing. Please, I just -"
His voice caught in his throat when she lifted her head, her demon visage shifted into place. Her yellow eyes were watery, but her mouth was a thin line, her expression stoic. He shouldn't have let his frustration worm it's way to the surface, he was sure of that now. 'Stupid, stupid vampire,' he chastised himself.
"You used to love our songs," she pouted, "You used to beg me to seranade you, and we would dance . . . dance underneath the stars. -Our- stars."
"Dru, I-"
"The stars are dying," she cut him off, "She is killing them. I need to get them back, Spike, I need them . . . they need you, too. It's too dim without them . . . too dark. Everything is dark," she finished, her voice thick with emotion.
"I didn't mean to upset you, pet," Spike said, "The stars are still there."
"You're lying," she said, her voice seething, "I need to make you feel it again. I need to reclaim you."
She bent down, lowering her mouth to his neck. She sucked on it lightly, fangs grazing the unmarred surface, before she bit into the sensative flesh. Spike gasped in pain, clenching his eyes shut. No one had marked him for . . . centuries; he had lost track of time, it had been so long. The demon in him was howling with rage, but his heart sank. 'It's a show of dominance . . .' he thought, and then, 'I've forgotten how much this hurts'.
He listened as Drusilla lapped up his blood, moaning with pleasure. She finally withdrew her fangs, a smile on her face, and pressed her lips against his with force. He ignored the kiss, but couldn't help but taste his blood on her lips. She eventually pulled away from him, and Spike found himself licking his lips. It repulsed him, but the urge to feed was great. Her minions had prevented him from eating his evening meal, so it had been a day since he had last drank anything. She smiled at him lazily, then shifted over to the other side of his neck.
Spike's eyes widened in surprise; he had hoped that she would have been sated the first time. 'Apparently not,' he thought without humour. She bit into him again, deeper this time, and Spike realized that her goal now wasn't to feed, but rather to scar him. 'Claim her territory . . . can't she just piss on me or something? Would hurt a hell of a lot less.'
Drusilla pulled away quickly, but the smile on her face had vanished. She collapsed to the floor, holding her head and moaning. "No," she gasped. She stilled, then got to her feet quickly. Clapping her hands together twice, minions flooded into the room. Spike noticed a few of them murmuring and pointing, some of the males grinning and chuckling at him. He did his best to give them his deadliest glare . . . although he knew he wasn't very threatening when he was shackled to the floor.
"She is going to ruin it," Drusilla whined, "The Slayer is going to wreck my beautiful plan . . . all of the work. She cannot." She faced the fledglings, her voice deadly serious, "Stop her. Use whatever means . . . she cannot have him back."
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To be continued . . .