Loose Ends
Chapter 2 of several
by Lynne C.
Rating: This part rated PG, later episodes will become more adult.
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
The violent notes ricocheted off the dark, damp walls, reverberating back at the stage where four young men vomited their rage into the heavy, dank air of the club. As musicians, they were simplistic and unpracticed. But the dissonance of the notes, the grating, sneering vocals, were for both the audience and the band the equivalent of mainlining riot and revolution. It was a big enraged communal anarchy trip. It was electric; his teeth vibrated and itched; and the demon inside growled low in anticipation.
Spike slunk along the edges of the dirty room, breathing in the must of decades and the tang of sweaty, disaffected, pheromone-laden fury that was continually heightened by the music that assaulted the senses, and which, in turn spurred the band to new heights of cacophony. It was a thing of beauty.
And at the same time, he laughed at them. They imagined they knew animal rage – pure, uninhibited violence. They were children too bored and privileged to realize how good they had it; how little they truly had to rage against; how ill-equipped they were to utterly give themselves over to it, to become its instrument and its creator, to incite it as easily and as thoughtlessly as they breathed or spoke. He looked them over with the superiority of knowing that he was the king of the beasts in this room. Those who imagined themselves to be the agents of chaos were still bounded by their tiny little experiences. One of them would encounter the real thing before the night was over.
But it was early yet, so he hung back, reveling in the charged atmosphere, his senses humming.
His eyes fell briefly on a young woman in the full height of exhibitionism, wearing torn leggings with braces over a brassiere whose cups had been cut away, leaving her tits hanging out.
Neh, too obvious tryin' too hard…a real go-er don't flaunt it quite so….
Besides, she seemed attached at the hip to a cadre of chums, ranging from a fairly average-looking pale boy in a black leather jacket to a young man in fishnet stockings and heeled shoes being led around by a leash. It might be tough to separate her from the herd.
He moved on, visually sifting the crowd until he spied a blond girl, 20-ish. She appeared to be by herself, and had given herself over to the energy seething around her. Her eyes were closed, and she moved with the beat of the music, not dancing – "dancing" implied a coherence to which the music didn't even bother to aspire. But, she channeled the driving chords and ragged notes through her body in an ecstasy of interpretive movement . Yes, she was the one. He could already feel the curve of her hips under his hands, and the yielding skin of her neck.
To be continued….
Chapter 2 of several
by Lynne C.
Rating: This part rated PG, later episodes will become more adult.
Disclaimer: It's all Joss' - I worship at the altar of his genius, and acknowledge that he owns all these folks and everything that they do and say.
Setting/Spoilers: AtS Season 5, generally - and, Spike's "semi-canon" past (London, mid-1970s)
Summary: An unexpected epilogue to an incident in Spike's past, inspired by a throwaway line from Buffy 7.8
Misc: You can look in my ff.net profile for my website, and check there for updates to this story, or to read this part with its proper formatting (italics and such).
Loose Ends
The violent notes ricocheted off the dark, damp walls, reverberating back at the stage where four young men vomited their rage into the heavy, dank air of the club. As musicians, they were simplistic and unpracticed. But the dissonance of the notes, the grating, sneering vocals, were for both the audience and the band the equivalent of mainlining riot and revolution. It was a big enraged communal anarchy trip. It was electric; his teeth vibrated and itched; and the demon inside growled low in anticipation.
Spike slunk along the edges of the dirty room, breathing in the must of decades and the tang of sweaty, disaffected, pheromone-laden fury that was continually heightened by the music that assaulted the senses, and which, in turn spurred the band to new heights of cacophony. It was a thing of beauty.
And at the same time, he laughed at them. They imagined they knew animal rage – pure, uninhibited violence. They were children too bored and privileged to realize how good they had it; how little they truly had to rage against; how ill-equipped they were to utterly give themselves over to it, to become its instrument and its creator, to incite it as easily and as thoughtlessly as they breathed or spoke. He looked them over with the superiority of knowing that he was the king of the beasts in this room. Those who imagined themselves to be the agents of chaos were still bounded by their tiny little experiences. One of them would encounter the real thing before the night was over.
But it was early yet, so he hung back, reveling in the charged atmosphere, his senses humming.
His eyes fell briefly on a young woman in the full height of exhibitionism, wearing torn leggings with braces over a brassiere whose cups had been cut away, leaving her tits hanging out.
Neh, too obvious tryin' too hard…a real go-er don't flaunt it quite so….
Besides, she seemed attached at the hip to a cadre of chums, ranging from a fairly average-looking pale boy in a black leather jacket to a young man in fishnet stockings and heeled shoes being led around by a leash. It might be tough to separate her from the herd.
He moved on, visually sifting the crowd until he spied a blond girl, 20-ish. She appeared to be by herself, and had given herself over to the energy seething around her. Her eyes were closed, and she moved with the beat of the music, not dancing – "dancing" implied a coherence to which the music didn't even bother to aspire. But, she channeled the driving chords and ragged notes through her body in an ecstasy of interpretive movement . Yes, she was the one. He could already feel the curve of her hips under his hands, and the yielding skin of her neck.
To be continued….