So this is called the Proverbs verse, it turns out...
This is the full version of the third part of the Proverbs verse; a short version is posted at sb_fag_ends as this got too long for the comm.
Title Tired of Life
Author Brutti ma buoni
Words 1200
Rating R, with sex and swearing
Prompt To appreciate the earth is for the gods; I am merely covered in dust.
Setting Follows The One Eyed Man and While There’s Life There’s Hope
It takes a lot to scare Spike. Always has, ever since he died. But this is fucking unnerving.
He’s in a club, with the Slayer, and she’s dancing with him, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue why.
His brain is full of nervous swearing. Not a good sign. Not a good place to be, in the event that she whips out another stake from some handy hidey hole and starts killing him again. Since he has, as aforementioned, not a fucking clue why she stopped, he has no idea why she wouldn’t start again.
Thing is, he’s curious. Curious enough not to be planning to kill her, not tonight. He’s just… observing.
(”You know bars here, right? I mean, you drink?”
“Alcohol? ‘Course.”
“I want to drink. And also dance. Take me someplace?” She’d looked up at him, still smiling that apparently ingenuous smile. )
They’ve been here three hours now. She’s getting pretty buzzed, he reckons, unless it’s put on - but he doesn’t think so. This is the Vampire Slayer, come to town to clean up evil, and instead hanging out with a neutered vampire gang boss.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
Finally, he asks.
A slowish song is playing, so she doesn’t bother to stop dancing as she moves closer, starts talking. Apparently, all he had to do was ask.
“I was coming here to kill you.”
“Figured as much.” He can’t be bothered to feign indignation; she’s right, it is her job, though it’s not his job to make it easy for her.
“You were next on the list. Vampire masters. I’m taking them out. Cleaning up America. Next stop, the world.” Buffy reels it all off, like rote-learned schooling. No joy. Not even steely heroic determination. Just tasks.
“But?” He breathes it slowly into her ear, plastered up against her back as the music impels. He’s been close to Slayers before, but never lacking the adrenalin of the fight. He remembers, a little surprised, how bloody gorgeous she is.
She shrugs, full-body, shoulders lifting against his chest, head rolling back to speak into his ear. “You said ‘Hello cutie.’ And I remembered.”
She slips away from his hold, turning to face him, stepping into his space again, interleaving their thighs. “I remembered how you wanted to save the world.”
“Just that once,” he says, hastily. Not time to get a hero’s rep. The last thing he wants is a role as some Slayer sidekick, even if the alternative is a fight to the death.
A finger to his lips stops the incipient babble. “I know. But you… you stopped. You didn’t do the evil thing. So maybe, maybe I don’t always have to do the good things?”
The song ends then, and Buffy goes to retrieve her drink, swallowing hard as she downs the lot. When she turns back, Spike realizes he’s been merely standing, agape, watching her. Buffy reaches out a hand, and he walks forward till he’s within touching distance. She grabs, and manoeuvres the two of them till he’s sprawled on the booth seat and she’s straddled over him. Any sense of personal space long gone. Her mouth is practically on his as she continues.
“I do the right thing, and I die, and it hurts. I do the right thing and I come back, and it hurts. I do the right thing and other people still die, and it hurts. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe nothing on earth really matters. Maybe it’s not worth the fight?”
“Thought you loved the fight,” is all he can think to say. She still moves like a dream, he saw that earlier.
All he can focus on are her lips, still within a few inches of his face. His eyes must be crossing, not a good look. Her lips move again. “Maybe. Maybe it’s time to end it?” She leans back, unzips her top, and he’s staring at a lightly-scabbed scar over one breast. He can smell the old blood. “Maybe I’d be more fun undead?”
On the one hand, Spike is fiercely aroused by the whole scenario. Dangerous, self-harming nutjob females are a species Drusilla hardwired him for, and curving blonde Slayer is a gorgeous example of the type, tits virtually in his face and blood pumping under her soft, flawed skin. On the other hand, his mind is screaming, horrified by her ennui, and oddly prim about her proposal. A Slayer doesn’t ask to be turned. A vampire doesn’t kill Slayers on demand. What does she take him for?
She’s watching him, intent, so she sees the moment when primness wins the day. Sighs a little. “Too much?” He nods. “Okay. But we can still hang out, right? It looked like Faith had fun being evil. And I’m sure you could use a Slayer sidekick. Props to the vampire master, right?”
Undeniable. “Um. Yeah, okay. You want to play evil, who am I to turn you down?” Because she may be in urgent need of psychiatric help - he’s moderately certain of that, in fact - but there’s nothing in the evil vampire handbook that says you make allowances for weakness among your enemies. A Slayer on the staff would be one hell of a feather in his cap. “I’ll start you on a lieutenant’s pay, see how it goes.” Nothing in the evil vampire handbook about minimum wage, either. If she really wants to play at being bad, she’ll find ways to make more cash soon enough.
She nods, wriggles on his lap, and says, “And we can fuck too, right?”
Primness resurges. Last time he saw the girl, she’d just got dumped by a college one night stand. He knows she knows how to fuck. Under pressure, he’d probably admit she even knows the word. But to hear the cold-blooded proposition is a genuine shock.
More so, when she reaches for his fly, unzips, and yanks aside her underwear to sit down on his cock.
“What, no foreplay?” he manages, before his braincells start dying. It’s not awfully comfortable, as it goes, what with zipper teeth, rough denim, the cotton and elastic of her knicker-edge chafing at the side of his cock as she rides, and she wasn’t half wet enough for his liking at the start. But she’s determined, and he’s willing enough after a few hours of teasing.
She watches, cool-eyed, as he finds his way towards pleasure under her insistent flesh. Not too difficult, despite all. He always did fancy her.
After, when he’s hazy with post-coital glow and aware that several other patrons in the bar are now watching them, he half expects the stake to come out, for this all to be a ploy. It doesn’t happen. He offers at least to return the pleasure, since it apparently doesn’t come with a side of sudden death, but she’s having none of it, knocks his fumbling hand out from under her skirt.
“Later. Whenever. But we have a deal?”
He looks up at her, and against every self-preserving instinct he possesses, says, “Yes.”
***
Title Tired of Life
Author Brutti ma buoni
Words 1200
Rating R, with sex and swearing
Prompt To appreciate the earth is for the gods; I am merely covered in dust.
Setting Follows The One Eyed Man and While There’s Life There’s Hope
It takes a lot to scare Spike. Always has, ever since he died. But this is fucking unnerving.
He’s in a club, with the Slayer, and she’s dancing with him, and he doesn’t have a fucking clue why.
His brain is full of nervous swearing. Not a good sign. Not a good place to be, in the event that she whips out another stake from some handy hidey hole and starts killing him again. Since he has, as aforementioned, not a fucking clue why she stopped, he has no idea why she wouldn’t start again.
Thing is, he’s curious. Curious enough not to be planning to kill her, not tonight. He’s just… observing.
(”You know bars here, right? I mean, you drink?”
“Alcohol? ‘Course.”
“I want to drink. And also dance. Take me someplace?” She’d looked up at him, still smiling that apparently ingenuous smile. )
They’ve been here three hours now. She’s getting pretty buzzed, he reckons, unless it’s put on - but he doesn’t think so. This is the Vampire Slayer, come to town to clean up evil, and instead hanging out with a neutered vampire gang boss.
What. The. Fuck. Is. Going. On?
Finally, he asks.
A slowish song is playing, so she doesn’t bother to stop dancing as she moves closer, starts talking. Apparently, all he had to do was ask.
“I was coming here to kill you.”
“Figured as much.” He can’t be bothered to feign indignation; she’s right, it is her job, though it’s not his job to make it easy for her.
“You were next on the list. Vampire masters. I’m taking them out. Cleaning up America. Next stop, the world.” Buffy reels it all off, like rote-learned schooling. No joy. Not even steely heroic determination. Just tasks.
“But?” He breathes it slowly into her ear, plastered up against her back as the music impels. He’s been close to Slayers before, but never lacking the adrenalin of the fight. He remembers, a little surprised, how bloody gorgeous she is.
She shrugs, full-body, shoulders lifting against his chest, head rolling back to speak into his ear. “You said ‘Hello cutie.’ And I remembered.”
She slips away from his hold, turning to face him, stepping into his space again, interleaving their thighs. “I remembered how you wanted to save the world.”
“Just that once,” he says, hastily. Not time to get a hero’s rep. The last thing he wants is a role as some Slayer sidekick, even if the alternative is a fight to the death.
A finger to his lips stops the incipient babble. “I know. But you… you stopped. You didn’t do the evil thing. So maybe, maybe I don’t always have to do the good things?”
The song ends then, and Buffy goes to retrieve her drink, swallowing hard as she downs the lot. When she turns back, Spike realizes he’s been merely standing, agape, watching her. Buffy reaches out a hand, and he walks forward till he’s within touching distance. She grabs, and manoeuvres the two of them till he’s sprawled on the booth seat and she’s straddled over him. Any sense of personal space long gone. Her mouth is practically on his as she continues.
“I do the right thing, and I die, and it hurts. I do the right thing and I come back, and it hurts. I do the right thing and other people still die, and it hurts. Maybe I’m tired. Maybe nothing on earth really matters. Maybe it’s not worth the fight?”
“Thought you loved the fight,” is all he can think to say. She still moves like a dream, he saw that earlier.
All he can focus on are her lips, still within a few inches of his face. His eyes must be crossing, not a good look. Her lips move again. “Maybe. Maybe it’s time to end it?” She leans back, unzips her top, and he’s staring at a lightly-scabbed scar over one breast. He can smell the old blood. “Maybe I’d be more fun undead?”
On the one hand, Spike is fiercely aroused by the whole scenario. Dangerous, self-harming nutjob females are a species Drusilla hardwired him for, and curving blonde Slayer is a gorgeous example of the type, tits virtually in his face and blood pumping under her soft, flawed skin. On the other hand, his mind is screaming, horrified by her ennui, and oddly prim about her proposal. A Slayer doesn’t ask to be turned. A vampire doesn’t kill Slayers on demand. What does she take him for?
She’s watching him, intent, so she sees the moment when primness wins the day. Sighs a little. “Too much?” He nods. “Okay. But we can still hang out, right? It looked like Faith had fun being evil. And I’m sure you could use a Slayer sidekick. Props to the vampire master, right?”
Undeniable. “Um. Yeah, okay. You want to play evil, who am I to turn you down?” Because she may be in urgent need of psychiatric help - he’s moderately certain of that, in fact - but there’s nothing in the evil vampire handbook that says you make allowances for weakness among your enemies. A Slayer on the staff would be one hell of a feather in his cap. “I’ll start you on a lieutenant’s pay, see how it goes.” Nothing in the evil vampire handbook about minimum wage, either. If she really wants to play at being bad, she’ll find ways to make more cash soon enough.
She nods, wriggles on his lap, and says, “And we can fuck too, right?”
Primness resurges. Last time he saw the girl, she’d just got dumped by a college one night stand. He knows she knows how to fuck. Under pressure, he’d probably admit she even knows the word. But to hear the cold-blooded proposition is a genuine shock.
More so, when she reaches for his fly, unzips, and yanks aside her underwear to sit down on his cock.
“What, no foreplay?” he manages, before his braincells start dying. It’s not awfully comfortable, as it goes, what with zipper teeth, rough denim, the cotton and elastic of her knicker-edge chafing at the side of his cock as she rides, and she wasn’t half wet enough for his liking at the start. But she’s determined, and he’s willing enough after a few hours of teasing.
She watches, cool-eyed, as he finds his way towards pleasure under her insistent flesh. Not too difficult, despite all. He always did fancy her.
After, when he’s hazy with post-coital glow and aware that several other patrons in the bar are now watching them, he half expects the stake to come out, for this all to be a ploy. It doesn’t happen. He offers at least to return the pleasure, since it apparently doesn’t come with a side of sudden death, but she’s having none of it, knocks his fumbling hand out from under her skirt.
“Later. Whenever. But we have a deal?”
He looks up at her, and against every self-preserving instinct he possesses, says, “Yes.”
***