A Heads or Tails fic for Imogen blue
Title: Hotter than the Sun
Genre: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG 13
Prompt: Roses are red, violets are blue, Spike is hotter than the sun, but Drusilla is the moon.
Requester: Imogen blue
I hope that you have fun with your little fic. Thanks for playing along and thanks to Spakry955 for her beta.
Spike roamed the confines of the crypt restlessly. He hated being cooped up here. The others had gone to feed and play havoc with The Slayer, something Spike loved doing. However, since Angel had come back to town, everything had changed… including Drusilla. Ever since Captain Poof had returned, Dru had drifted, shifting the bulk of her attention to Angel, while unbeknownst, Angel only had eyes for the Slayer. Spike knew it, but no one else could apparently see it, certainly not Drusilla.
He knew that Angel had turned the woman, robbing her not only of her family and her life, but also her sanity. She couldn’t go out on her own anymore. It was too dangerous. The Slayer would take her in a moment. That couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. Although she was dangerous, probably even more dangerous than a normal vampire, The Slayer loved Angel and Angel, well, the Pansy King whined until The Slayer agreed to give Drusilla a pass as long as she was with him.
But Drusilla wasn’t with Angel. She was with Spike.
Spike saw red when he thought of anyone taking his place. They were forever, he’d proved that again and again, so why did he feel so ill at ease when Angel headed out with the pack? Why did he wonder if he’d ever see his Dru again?
A scrap of paper on the floor caught his eye and Spike picked it up. It was written in a familiar hand, although Spike couldn’t immediately identity it. He read it, blinked slowly and read it again.
“Well, bullocks,” he murmured, quietly. Spike prided himself on being on top of things, but this… this put everything into another light. “Who…?”
He plopped down upon the makeshift bed and pondered this. It wasn’t Dru who’d written it. He knew her blood ran hot and she was ever bit his equal in bed. She did things to him that would kill a mortal, but she did not write this.
Spike’s lips curled at the thought and he absently traced a scar of his arm - their scar. She carried a similar one, made with a holy relic, a lasting mark binding them together.
Drusilla was cruel, demanding and totally insane, but she was not a poet. It was a little sad in a way. Spike reckoned she could be a good one, since most of her world danced in and out of lunacy, a good thing for a poet.
No, whoever wrote this. It was not his Dru. He thought of the other vampires holed up with them. None of them seemed able to harness free verse either.
He reached for a bottle of whiskey, some rotgut he’d pulled off the drunk he rolled. Spike took a deep swig and closed his eyes as the liquor burned a path to his stomach. Just for a second, he was almost alive. Almost…
A noise pulled his attention and he slipped into his game face. A moment later, Angel came into view, Drusilla in his arms.
“What did you do?” Spike was at his side in a moment.
“Nothing.” Angel sounded like a whiny three-year-old. “She was fine and then the next thing I knew, she was feeding on a junkie.”
Dru giggled. “Spike, the stars are dancing.”
“I bet they are.” He carried her to their bed and settled her down. “You get some sleep.”
“But, Spike…” she trailed off, staring at a faraway place. Spike turned, surprised that Angel was still there.
“What do you want?”
“Uh, nothing really. Did you find some paper? I thought I left it over on my desk, but the wind…”
“Wind? Down here?”
“It’s not there now.”
“Well, it’s not here ever.” After a moment, Angel hesitantly left their corner of the crypt and Spike smirked as he took another swallow of alcohol. Fool, served his right for leaving strips of paper…
Spike choked then and spewed the alcohol all over the bed. Drusilla laughed and held her arms out. “Rain, rain…”
“Bloody hell,” Spike whispered. No wonder the handwriting seemed familiar. He pulled the paper from his pocket. “Bloody, bloody hell!”
Roses are red, violets are blue, Spike is hotter than the sun, but Drusilla is the moon.
He was in so much trouble…
Genre: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: PG 13
Prompt: Roses are red, violets are blue, Spike is hotter than the sun, but Drusilla is the moon.
Requester: Imogen blue
I hope that you have fun with your little fic. Thanks for playing along and thanks to Spakry955 for her beta.
Spike roamed the confines of the crypt restlessly. He hated being cooped up here. The others had gone to feed and play havoc with The Slayer, something Spike loved doing. However, since Angel had come back to town, everything had changed… including Drusilla. Ever since Captain Poof had returned, Dru had drifted, shifting the bulk of her attention to Angel, while unbeknownst, Angel only had eyes for the Slayer. Spike knew it, but no one else could apparently see it, certainly not Drusilla.
He knew that Angel had turned the woman, robbing her not only of her family and her life, but also her sanity. She couldn’t go out on her own anymore. It was too dangerous. The Slayer would take her in a moment. That couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. Although she was dangerous, probably even more dangerous than a normal vampire, The Slayer loved Angel and Angel, well, the Pansy King whined until The Slayer agreed to give Drusilla a pass as long as she was with him.
But Drusilla wasn’t with Angel. She was with Spike.
Spike saw red when he thought of anyone taking his place. They were forever, he’d proved that again and again, so why did he feel so ill at ease when Angel headed out with the pack? Why did he wonder if he’d ever see his Dru again?
A scrap of paper on the floor caught his eye and Spike picked it up. It was written in a familiar hand, although Spike couldn’t immediately identity it. He read it, blinked slowly and read it again.
“Well, bullocks,” he murmured, quietly. Spike prided himself on being on top of things, but this… this put everything into another light. “Who…?”
He plopped down upon the makeshift bed and pondered this. It wasn’t Dru who’d written it. He knew her blood ran hot and she was ever bit his equal in bed. She did things to him that would kill a mortal, but she did not write this.
Spike’s lips curled at the thought and he absently traced a scar of his arm - their scar. She carried a similar one, made with a holy relic, a lasting mark binding them together.
Drusilla was cruel, demanding and totally insane, but she was not a poet. It was a little sad in a way. Spike reckoned she could be a good one, since most of her world danced in and out of lunacy, a good thing for a poet.
No, whoever wrote this. It was not his Dru. He thought of the other vampires holed up with them. None of them seemed able to harness free verse either.
He reached for a bottle of whiskey, some rotgut he’d pulled off the drunk he rolled. Spike took a deep swig and closed his eyes as the liquor burned a path to his stomach. Just for a second, he was almost alive. Almost…
A noise pulled his attention and he slipped into his game face. A moment later, Angel came into view, Drusilla in his arms.
“What did you do?” Spike was at his side in a moment.
“Nothing.” Angel sounded like a whiny three-year-old. “She was fine and then the next thing I knew, she was feeding on a junkie.”
Dru giggled. “Spike, the stars are dancing.”
“I bet they are.” He carried her to their bed and settled her down. “You get some sleep.”
“But, Spike…” she trailed off, staring at a faraway place. Spike turned, surprised that Angel was still there.
“What do you want?”
“Uh, nothing really. Did you find some paper? I thought I left it over on my desk, but the wind…”
“Wind? Down here?”
“It’s not there now.”
“Well, it’s not here ever.” After a moment, Angel hesitantly left their corner of the crypt and Spike smirked as he took another swallow of alcohol. Fool, served his right for leaving strips of paper…
Spike choked then and spewed the alcohol all over the bed. Drusilla laughed and held her arms out. “Rain, rain…”
“Bloody hell,” Spike whispered. No wonder the handwriting seemed familiar. He pulled the paper from his pocket. “Bloody, bloody hell!”
Roses are red, violets are blue, Spike is hotter than the sun, but Drusilla is the moon.
He was in so much trouble…