Prompt 009: The Bronze
Title: Every Angel's Terrible
Author: skull_theatre
Rating: R
Word Count: 900
Prompt: 009
Episode: Becoming - Two
Notes: Thanks to the mods of the comm for their gentle reminder to post! I'm trying to "work out" Spike in my head - I've only seen BtVS up to mid-Season Six and I'm struggling terribly with this amazing chara. Re-examining older Seasons...to suss out some clues.
The front door of the Summers house closed with purpose and steely intent behind him. He lingered for a brief moment on the porch, inhaling the last wafting scent of the Slayer, the summer air warm on his cold skin, crickets calling out their insect love, speaking to some small part of him. The chirping was his birdsong, night being his day, and it was familiar and yet still a strangely plaintive sound in his ears. He cocked his head and closed his eyes, the night was young. He had thrown in with the Slayer and she had seen some sort of light in his dark logic and would help. He would be away by morning time with Drusilla, Angelus could very well be dead, the world, he hoped with a barren chest full of emotions, would be saved and all he had to do was insure that her Watcher wasn’t tortured to death by either Angelus or even, he sighed, his Dru.
His Dru. He leapt off the top step of the porch and swaggered down the sidewalk, his legs were strong again, his feet almost winged with need and desire. But desire for what, exactly? Revenge? Escape? A solid world reality? Drusilla?
She wasn’t his Dru any longer. Not really. Not the way that she had been. And although he was a creature who let change guide him as he moved through his undead life, he hadn’t wanted this change. Hadn’t even begun to anticipate the changes that had been wrought by Angelus and Sunnydale and the damnably intriguing Slayer. But no matter, he had set up the game board tonight, wrestled back some small bit of power over the players, and now would be ready to make his own move.
But first, he was ravenous. And his throat ached, his fangs lengthened, his cock twitched. The Bronze.
It was later than he’d thought, the kiddies were all gone home and The Bronze had metamorphed into a bar. A lovely, darkling bar full of dislocated young people. And he slipped himself into it like the mongoose into the snake pit. He stood in the shadows by the door, eyes perfectly adjusted to the dim, smoky air, a smirk teasing the corners of his lips. He scanned the crowd and found her, she was sitting alone on a barstool, waist-length hair, requisite black togs, and oh, he broke out into a grin, knee-high stiletto boots. Yes.
He approached her, not looking directly, but could sense her face tilt up and her eyes fasten on him. He rolled his shoulders back beneath the leather trench and motioned with two fingers to the bartender, “Can I buy you one, luv?”
And she startled and he liked that. He looked down at her, she was beautiful beyond words and his still-life heart began to sing its blood song, loud in his ears and he had to take a deep breath to hear again. She nodded and he fished bills out of his jeans pocket, the black denim stretching tight across his heated crotch and he watched as she took in the show.
He handed her the drink, took up his own and downed it in a quick toss. He turned and seated himself on the stool beside her and again, leaning back, retrieved his pack of smokes and watched as she watched him. He smiled and raised an eyebrow at her as she brought her gaze up to meet his own. He was rewarded with a hungry look, her face mirroring something in his own but edged with a bit of fear. Oh, he liked that very much.
She took the proffered ciggie and he bent towards her with the lighter and breathed in deeply. The smell of her rushed into his skull, she was the delectable fruit, his for the plucking. But he was short on time and this fruit wasn’t going to be allowed to ripen on the vine. He had to get back to the mansion.
“Finish your drink,” he indicated with his cigarette and a toss of his head. “Let’s blow this joint.”
She obeyed quickly, standing in the impossible boots, her throat convulsing as the hot liquid coursed down. He could see the pulse on the side of her neck and she looked at him over the rim of the glass, kohl-lined eyes, and he was suddenly harder than steel and he had to have her now. Now.
He reached out and she offered her hand, he took it and the heated electricity of it was too much. He couldn’t wait. He led her to the far corner of the dark room and pulled her into the loo. Flicking the light switch to off and leaning heavily against the closed door. His legs spread wide, both of her hands in his now, he coaxed her to him and felt her warm body come up against his in the dark.
“You, you’re my angel,” she whispered to him, into his neck, her mouth hot beneath his jaw.
He pawed down at her skirt and lifted it roughly to her waist; he bent his knees and with both hands on her arse, pulled her to him fiercely. “That’s right, dove. I’m an angel. Your angel.”
And he descended. The furious noise of bloody wings beating around his head, filling his ears, the sound of it like a child being slapped.
Author: skull_theatre
Rating: R
Word Count: 900
Prompt: 009
Episode: Becoming - Two
Notes: Thanks to the mods of the comm for their gentle reminder to post! I'm trying to "work out" Spike in my head - I've only seen BtVS up to mid-Season Six and I'm struggling terribly with this amazing chara. Re-examining older Seasons...to suss out some clues.
The front door of the Summers house closed with purpose and steely intent behind him. He lingered for a brief moment on the porch, inhaling the last wafting scent of the Slayer, the summer air warm on his cold skin, crickets calling out their insect love, speaking to some small part of him. The chirping was his birdsong, night being his day, and it was familiar and yet still a strangely plaintive sound in his ears. He cocked his head and closed his eyes, the night was young. He had thrown in with the Slayer and she had seen some sort of light in his dark logic and would help. He would be away by morning time with Drusilla, Angelus could very well be dead, the world, he hoped with a barren chest full of emotions, would be saved and all he had to do was insure that her Watcher wasn’t tortured to death by either Angelus or even, he sighed, his Dru.
His Dru. He leapt off the top step of the porch and swaggered down the sidewalk, his legs were strong again, his feet almost winged with need and desire. But desire for what, exactly? Revenge? Escape? A solid world reality? Drusilla?
She wasn’t his Dru any longer. Not really. Not the way that she had been. And although he was a creature who let change guide him as he moved through his undead life, he hadn’t wanted this change. Hadn’t even begun to anticipate the changes that had been wrought by Angelus and Sunnydale and the damnably intriguing Slayer. But no matter, he had set up the game board tonight, wrestled back some small bit of power over the players, and now would be ready to make his own move.
But first, he was ravenous. And his throat ached, his fangs lengthened, his cock twitched. The Bronze.
It was later than he’d thought, the kiddies were all gone home and The Bronze had metamorphed into a bar. A lovely, darkling bar full of dislocated young people. And he slipped himself into it like the mongoose into the snake pit. He stood in the shadows by the door, eyes perfectly adjusted to the dim, smoky air, a smirk teasing the corners of his lips. He scanned the crowd and found her, she was sitting alone on a barstool, waist-length hair, requisite black togs, and oh, he broke out into a grin, knee-high stiletto boots. Yes.
He approached her, not looking directly, but could sense her face tilt up and her eyes fasten on him. He rolled his shoulders back beneath the leather trench and motioned with two fingers to the bartender, “Can I buy you one, luv?”
And she startled and he liked that. He looked down at her, she was beautiful beyond words and his still-life heart began to sing its blood song, loud in his ears and he had to take a deep breath to hear again. She nodded and he fished bills out of his jeans pocket, the black denim stretching tight across his heated crotch and he watched as she took in the show.
He handed her the drink, took up his own and downed it in a quick toss. He turned and seated himself on the stool beside her and again, leaning back, retrieved his pack of smokes and watched as she watched him. He smiled and raised an eyebrow at her as she brought her gaze up to meet his own. He was rewarded with a hungry look, her face mirroring something in his own but edged with a bit of fear. Oh, he liked that very much.
She took the proffered ciggie and he bent towards her with the lighter and breathed in deeply. The smell of her rushed into his skull, she was the delectable fruit, his for the plucking. But he was short on time and this fruit wasn’t going to be allowed to ripen on the vine. He had to get back to the mansion.
“Finish your drink,” he indicated with his cigarette and a toss of his head. “Let’s blow this joint.”
She obeyed quickly, standing in the impossible boots, her throat convulsing as the hot liquid coursed down. He could see the pulse on the side of her neck and she looked at him over the rim of the glass, kohl-lined eyes, and he was suddenly harder than steel and he had to have her now. Now.
He reached out and she offered her hand, he took it and the heated electricity of it was too much. He couldn’t wait. He led her to the far corner of the dark room and pulled her into the loo. Flicking the light switch to off and leaning heavily against the closed door. His legs spread wide, both of her hands in his now, he coaxed her to him and felt her warm body come up against his in the dark.
“You, you’re my angel,” she whispered to him, into his neck, her mouth hot beneath his jaw.
He pawed down at her skirt and lifted it roughly to her waist; he bent his knees and with both hands on her arse, pulled her to him fiercely. “That’s right, dove. I’m an angel. Your angel.”
And he descended. The furious noise of bloody wings beating around his head, filling his ears, the sound of it like a child being slapped.