-----Now the real fun begins! I should say now I own nothing, it belongs all to Mr. Joss Whedon. Aren't fan fictions fun?
...I went hunting every night. To ravage and pillage beautiful lost youths. I stole the sexiest most sensual black lace and leathers I could find. Every night I started a form of penitence before I went out. I would burn and re-burn each night my rosary onto my flesh. The pain was all I had to satisfy my thirst. It was the only release I had of the pain that consumed me through my obsession and my inability from pride to act upon my urges.
I had been in a demon bar for a few hours getting wasted when he showed up.
"Fancy meeting you here, pet." He smiled blankly.
"Go away," I unenthusiastically growled, "I hate you."
"Well then you will be glad to know I return those strong feelings so you can stop planning the wedding." He was mocking me and I had enough sense to slap him before I fell over in a drunken stupor.
I remember hearing the clink of glasses then being lifted. I had a sense of comfort I had never felt before, I feeling of strength and firm leather. I was lifted into my bed and I felt dull humiliation as I felt him exploring the burn mark on my chest and hearing snickers from him but I especially remember grabbing my mentor in a death grip, hearing a curse of "Bloody Hell!" and falling asleep.
When I awoke at dusk he was gone. I was tired of playing games and had a nasty hangover which put me in an unpleasant state of mind, in the mood for a fight so I got punked up and went out for a different type of hunt.
Torn panty hose assaulted my sculpted legs ending in doc martins. I had a black lace belt skirt and a worn motor cycle jacket. My lips were red but passers by would not know it was more then just a smear of lipstick
I walked the slick night streets with a fury. Puddles of mud reflected neon lights of nothingness back into nighthawk happy faces. An infamous cure for insomniacs was to move to New York. You aren't cured merely now in a concentration of people who never sleep.
In the deepest dark of night I stood huddled by a mailbox. I had fed and searched high and low. I was sure he had either left town or did not want to be found. My suspicions were confirmed when a heard a British voice purr, "Looking for someone Ms. Street Walker? Or do you wish me to leave you to your self inflicted miseries?"
A tendril of smoke curled up from the embering light at the end of a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He was outlined in night fog and moon light. I had found my prey.