(no subject)
Title You Never Get to Sleep, When I’m Awake
Author skull_theatre
Rating G
Word Count 397
Prompt 014 - Pain
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
Kickin’ head, kickin’ head.
He tapped a staccato beat on his thighs with his fingertips as he sauntered down the sidewalk in the gloaming. Through slitted eyes he challenged the setting sun; it was never really twilight in the dark belly of the city. Not down here amongst the rats fighting in the rank garbage and the working birds douching themselves in the alleyways. It was an eternal night and he reveled in it. He breathed deep up into his nostrils, flaring them wider, snorting the wet, grimy air like it was powdered drugs, and he closed his eyes, intoxicated with it all.
A hundred bloody years and finally his Golden Hour had arrived. And fifteen minutes of fame be damned, he was going to make this work for him for some long time.
Cor, he wished he could see himself, the figure he cut, in the whisky glass, in a rear-view mirror, in the reflection of the storefront windows as he swaggered past, illuminated in all his glory beneath the yellow streetlights. Hair bleached as white as bone, eyes rimmed black. Stovepipes and a right pair of steel-toes. Skintight tee with the sleeves cut away, chalk farms flexing and twitching every time he made a fist or fished his hands down into his pockets.
He could feel the power in his biceps and it strung him out like a tripping junkie. He wanted a tattoo just there or an armful of them, but Dru had forbid it and she was his Queen. Just the night before he’d stumbled upon a biker taking a piss back of a pub and he’d come up behind him and waited for him to get all tucked away like and then grabbed him hard and drank deeply. When he dropped the body to the pavement he hesitated, hunkered down beside it, licking the sour whisky-tasting blood from his lips and reached out a black-tipped finger to trace the inked designs on one of the dead man’s arm.
Sudden, accusing sirens of the coppers shook him out of his reverie and he slowed a bit. Just a bit. He wasn’t afraid of anyone. But he couldn’t afford to be waylaid. Not tonight. Tonight he was a loaded pistol. And he was going to gun down that Slayer. And when he did her down, he was going to help himself to that duster.
Author skull_theatre
Rating G
Word Count 397
Prompt 014 - Pain
Characters/Pairing (if any) Spike
Kickin’ head, kickin’ head.
He tapped a staccato beat on his thighs with his fingertips as he sauntered down the sidewalk in the gloaming. Through slitted eyes he challenged the setting sun; it was never really twilight in the dark belly of the city. Not down here amongst the rats fighting in the rank garbage and the working birds douching themselves in the alleyways. It was an eternal night and he reveled in it. He breathed deep up into his nostrils, flaring them wider, snorting the wet, grimy air like it was powdered drugs, and he closed his eyes, intoxicated with it all.
A hundred bloody years and finally his Golden Hour had arrived. And fifteen minutes of fame be damned, he was going to make this work for him for some long time.
Cor, he wished he could see himself, the figure he cut, in the whisky glass, in a rear-view mirror, in the reflection of the storefront windows as he swaggered past, illuminated in all his glory beneath the yellow streetlights. Hair bleached as white as bone, eyes rimmed black. Stovepipes and a right pair of steel-toes. Skintight tee with the sleeves cut away, chalk farms flexing and twitching every time he made a fist or fished his hands down into his pockets.
He could feel the power in his biceps and it strung him out like a tripping junkie. He wanted a tattoo just there or an armful of them, but Dru had forbid it and she was his Queen. Just the night before he’d stumbled upon a biker taking a piss back of a pub and he’d come up behind him and waited for him to get all tucked away like and then grabbed him hard and drank deeply. When he dropped the body to the pavement he hesitated, hunkered down beside it, licking the sour whisky-tasting blood from his lips and reached out a black-tipped finger to trace the inked designs on one of the dead man’s arm.
Sudden, accusing sirens of the coppers shook him out of his reverie and he slowed a bit. Just a bit. He wasn’t afraid of anyone. But he couldn’t afford to be waylaid. Not tonight. Tonight he was a loaded pistol. And he was going to gun down that Slayer. And when he did her down, he was going to help himself to that duster.