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05/09/2024 07:36 PM
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𝕠𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕡𝕦𝕤
drabble ft. ❝beauti𝖋ul delirium. & 🍭inscrutable.  “YOU CAN'T LET GO OF ME EVEN NOW, CAN YOU?” His mother’s drawl crooned over the cacophony of voices ringing in his head. She towered over him, a fanged demon, as last he saw her—before the very end. He felt so small again. Just as he had when he was William. Meek, forgettable… unlovable…
beneath her.
“I was trying to save you…” Spike whispered. “You’re thankless, always thankless.”
“If you had any gumption, you would have been waiting with bated breath to see me whither and die, boy!”
“I’m not a boy!” A sharp burst of anger, his fist beat a crack into the basement wall.
“And… not… yet a man…” Drusilla’s dreamy tone echoed through the room. “Always searching for a Mummy… a skirt to cower under…” she tilted her head. “A bosom to suckle.”
“I couldn’t leave her…”
“If you were half a man, you would have left!” His mother screamed. “What man wastes his life away scribbling poems and caring after a withering old lady? They all laughed at you. They still laugh.”
“I killed them all, tore them limb from limb.” Spike uttered, rocking forward on his tailbone.
“Painted the roses red… planted a garden for your mother in bloodied soil.” Drusilla sang. “Watered the thirsty little flowers with their blood.”
“Never done anything for yourself, have you?” said his mother. “You let everyone walk all over you. Wasted all your time on reasoning and reckoning, but it couldn’t fix what was wrong, could it? The sick little weakness…”
“I changed. Gone around the bend, yes, gone around the bend, but I got stronger.”
“And now you’re weak again,” said Buffy. “Got a soul like it makes any difference to me. You’ll never be the man I need.”
“You should have killed her when you had the chance,” said Drusilla. “Wrung her pretty little neck. But you never could make Mummy happy, could you?”
“No, could never make anyone happy. No one's happy, only hurt.”
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08/15/2023 04:45 PM
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limerence - original poem
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07/29/2023 08:54 PM
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oh don't cry... (ft. ❝beauti𝖋ul delirium.)
This was the new normal, and yet it remained unfamiliar to him. Dru was deteriorating quicker than he'd anticipated, to the point where he could no longer hide it. His sire, who was once the picture of vitality, had been fading away for longer than Spike cared to admit. No longer strong enough to hunt, Dru was almost entirely dependent upon him. Spike never spoke of fears, but he worried he failed her by waiting so long. He didn't mean to use his anger against her, but there were occasions when Dru’s affliction caused him more stress than others, and his frustrations couldn't be contained. It didn't help that she whinged about their circumstances, as though he wasn’t already doing his best to protect her.
Drusilla managed to accrue a number of enemies in her time as the undead, and if any of those enemies got even the merest whiff of weakness, it was all over. Or, at the very least, Spike would have to be prepared for the fight of his life. It seemed impossible to get her to appreciate this fact, though—her pretty little mind was too busy wandering through crumbling dollhouses.
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07/09/2023 09:51 PM
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𝖘𝖍𝖊 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖘 𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖌𝖊
 WILLIAM COULD STILL REMEMBER THE SHARP PRICKING OF FIRE from when he'd tried to step out into the sun from the dingey, moist catacombs Drusilla was holding him in. It didn't matter how often she repeated her explanation, the idea of life after death in a non-ghostly sense seemed impossible to him. He was rationalizing everything, trying his hardest to ignore her and explain for himself why he could neither venture out into the sun, nor thirst for water any longer. The hunger for food, which he hoped would return with time, had diminished to nothing as well. No amount of rational thinking could come to any other conclusion but that she was telling him the truth. William was now one of the living dead.
Oh yes, he suffered from hunger, but it was of a different kind — a visceral sort of need that pulled from deep within, origins unknowable. Chills washed through him, he was certain if he wasn't dead, a healthy sheen of sweat would be painting his brow.
The woman who'd killed him was in the corner of the room, peeking her eyes through the crevices between the brick, watching the clumsy fumbling of a black-widow spider making for herself a nest. William stood a ways away, his eyes trailing over the movements of her wrists and hands. She terrified him in a way he'd never been terrified before. The last thing he remembered was the icy, sharp sting of her bite, the sound of blood rushing through and out.
"She's nearly finished her web, diligent little dear…" she whispered, wiggling her index finger beneath the ceaselessly working spider and pouting her lips. "It must be sundown. It won't be long 'til she snares a plump, ripe feast."
"Don't you reckon it's a bit dangerous… to leave her here?" As the question flew from his lips, her head quickly turned to look at him. His eyes widened, and he gave a little hop of surprise. "Wh-what I mean to say is that the Black Widow spider's bite can be q-quite, quite deadly, and we shouldn't risk its presence should it… bite…"
As his words slowed and diminished in volume, Drusilla's viperous laugh crescendoed, echoing against the mossy bricks.
"It was merely a suggestion."
Without hesitation, she placed her finger within the spider's reach, and the tiny creature tap-danced unto Drusilla's lithe hand. She glided over to where William was standing, all the while dangling the spider high, cooing to the little beast. She held the spider to William's face, and he resisted the urge to flinch as the creature sprung from the dorsal of her wrist unto his sharp cheek. Eight legs tickled flesh, and William stared in wide-eyed horror as the arachnid ventured far too close to his eye.
"There, there…" she said with a shush, caressing William's jaw with her palm. "She won't hurt you." Drusilla lifted herself to her tip-toes and tapped his lips with her own.
Somehow… he believed her. After all, what could a spider do to one already dead?
"I've prepared a gift for my little fledgling," she cooed, drawing close. Instinctively, William nuzzled in closer, his jawline brushing along the soft hill of his sire's cheek. Fear mixed with desire, and clinging tendrils pulled from deep within, seeking her cool embrace. For none had more love for the spider, than the fly. "I think you'll like this one," she whispered. "The perfect way to step into your new destiny… Sometimes all we need is a little… push."
As the final word left her lips, she gave him a gentle shove, and he fell back onto the couch behind him, spraying the air with a healthy cloud of dust and straddling into his lap. She was strong, this woman — the strongest he had ever seen, and she was growing stronger by the day. Or perhaps it was he who was growing weaker.
"A gift?" he lifted an intrigued brow.
"You're so weak…" Drusilla ghosted her fingertips over his face. "You need to feed. It's the only way to heal after that stupid, stupid, foolish thing you did." She caressed the sea of blisters painting his skin like a crimson cavern carving out his left cheek, then kissed the wound. She pushed herself up from his lap and flittered through the room to grab her coat and shawl and toss them over her shoulders. "Come. That dreadful sun has finally gone down. Let us play."
༒
He should have recognized the mansion from the exterior. On countless occasions, William had stood outside of it, longing for a single glance at a silhouette. The movements of his love, viewed only from a distance, had inspired innumerous sonnets and odes in honor of her glowing chastity. Yet, it wasn't until they'd knocked upon the door and Cecily's visage came into view, that he'd realized where they were. Quiet as a mouse, Cecily pulled open the door, half hidden behind the dark mahogany, a flickering candle balanced precariously within her nimble fingers. At first, she seemed excited, then her face fell into disappointment.
"Matilda?" she whispered.
William knitted his brow and Drusilla nodded. He wondered how Cecily recognized Drusilla. He wondered more why she was addressing her with an improper name. Before he could question it, Drusilla's spry hand was pushing against the door, opening it further. She slithered over the threshold and Cecily fell back as if possessed, welcoming her into the home. Once Drusilla's back was turned on her, Cecily shook her head as if falling from an enchantment, and her gaze locked upon his own.
"William?!" she exclaimed, her eyes wide and prying.
He stepped forward, eager to be in Cecily's presence, the memory of his prior humiliation at her hands flung from his mind — yet upon reaching the threshold, William found that he could go no further. It was as though some intangible force stayed his movements, making it impossible for him to proceed.
Cecily studied him further, bringing the candle up so that she could examine his face in better detail. She gasped and fell back again, clutching her hand to her chest.
"What's happened to you? And where have you been? Your mother has been worried sick!"
"He's been badly burned and needs your help," exclaimed Drusilla, sounding far more concerned than William had ever imagined was possible for her witch-like drawl.
"Yes of course William, come in," Cecily whispered, though she rolled her eyes as though this entire encounter was just another bother. She wrapped her pearl night-coat tighter around her frame and stepped aside.
As quickly as the words fell from her lips, William had all but fallen into her home. Whatever force had held him back, melted to nothing, the immense weight upon his shoulders lifted. He steadied himself by gripping the door, before walking deeper into the sitting room.
Cecily let out a cry. Drusilla's hand was in her hair, gripping tightly from the scalp and tugging her deeper into the room. The candle nearly fell to the floor, but Cecily managed to right it as she was flung to the couch.
"What are you doing?! Leave this place at once!" she yelled, standing from her seat.
Cecily was pushed back again as Drusilla set upon her with a vicious glare. Her features changed — the face of a hardened demon. Cecily shivered with fear, frozen to her spot.
"I'll scream. I'll wake my parents! They'll come down. It's best if you leave now," her voice shook. She was hardly intimidating, no matter how she tried.
Drusilla bit her lower lip and slowly the plump flesh slithered out from between her razor ivories. A girlish giggle sat within her throat.
"You're lying. Clever girl. But mother knows better. You haven't seen them in a day. I know because I killed them."
Cecily's breath hitched in her chest, her eyes grew wide.
"Not just me," Drusilla continued. "I took my Mummy and Daddy with me too." She grinned and pranced around the love seat until she had draped herself about Cecily's shoulders. "Daddy, took your mum and oh the way she screamed when he tore her open." She pressed her crimson lips to Cecily's cheek, frozen in fright. Cecily's breath hitched and her spine straightened. A single tear slithered downward. "Daddy wanted you. You're very lucky that I stopped him, he's made girlies half your age squeal like swine. But he couldn't have you, no. You belong to William."
As if synchronized, the women lifted their heads to gaze upon him, Cecily pale with fear, Drusilla bright and carnivorous. Besides Cecily, Drusilla seemed a phantom. His former love no longer quite as effulgent next to the ethereal beauty of the silver moon. Instead, she looked rather pathetic.
You belong to William. That shouldn't have made his weak heart quicken in his chest. This wasn't like him.
He wondered what he must have looked like to Cecily now, towering above her, his form billowing in the candlelight, the flesh of his face still blistered from his moments in the sun.
He knew how he felt.
Monstrous.
Pandora's box had been opened.
He had never known what it was like to feel monstrous. William so often felt like prey. A lever had been pulled, gas brought forth flame. A fire to burn him from the inside out. He would never feel like prey again.
William watched from the shadows as Drusilla's ethereal form slithered through the darkened sitting room, pouncing toward him like a panther, her graceful feet silent on the rug. Her gaze extended from the starry night glittering in the windows behind her. He pulled his eyes away from Cecily's terrified gaze, breaking the tension.
"How do you know about her?"
"I've seen her… in there…" Drusilla motioned toward his head. "You curse her in your mind. She occupies too many of your thoughts, and mummy is displeased with her." The vampiress tilted Cecily's head to face her and pouted her ruby reds. "Isn't that right, dear? Isn't he… beneath you…"
It was as though Drusilla had pulled the trigger, how quickly his mind snapped to anger. He was flooded with the memory, the shadow of humiliation made his whole body shiver. Drusilla smiled and gently nodded her approval. She turned to Cecily once more.
"We'll give you a head start, but I can't make any promises. William is but a babe and will have very little control once I give him a taste of you."
His sire slithered in closer to Cecily, drawing a whimper from the girl with a single swipe of her dark claws. Crimson bloomed to the surface from three slices across Cecily's cheek, first as tiny bubbles, then a slow flowing stream over Drusilla's fingers. William's nostrils flared as the scent of copper filled his senses. There was a dull ache at the pit of his stomach, a heavy weight between his thighs. Drusilla turned to him and pressed her bloodied hand to his mouth. His lips parted, and his tongue darted out. Stars danced in his vision as he was struck with his very first taste of human blood. Up until this point, his sire had been sustaining him with her blood alone, but it was clear that hadn't been enough. His desire to truly feed had been eating him alive, and he hadn't even known it until now.
William felt himself change. He felt the hardening of his brow and the thrust of sharp maws. His tongue curled along the length of Drusilla's finger until he sucked the digit into his mouth and left it thoroughly clean.
"That's right…" she cooed. "Such a good boy…" Drusilla turned to Cecily, (frozen in abject horror), and her voice darkened once more. "I suggest you run, little rabbit."
As though released from invisible restraints, Cecily burst from the couch, clawing clumsily past the table and then half running, half crawling up the spiral staircase. The candle was abandoned, left to fall to the floor with a thump, the flame snuffed out by the rug. It wasn't until she was out of sight that William flew after her in hot pursuit.
He was a wolf on the hunt, reaching her just as she got to the windows in her bedroom. The tips of her fingers just barely brushed the frosted glass as he pulled her back, tossing her unto the mattress behind them. He was upon her in an instant, gripping her frail wrists and forcing them above her head as she kicked at him and arched her back. All her fighting was in vain, and there was nothing she could do against his strength. First, he flattened his tongue against her bloodied cheek, licking and smearing the ruby droplets. Then, like an animal possessed, he drew his head back and forward again, plunging sharp teeth into the curve of her shoulder.
With a tense 'pop', Cecily's flesh opened to him and her jewels poured forth passed his lips and down his throat. Thick, sweet metallic blood coated the inside of his mouth, filling his belly. He felt a strength like never before possess his body. A rush of adrenaline. The sweetest drug.
He hadn't even noticed Drusilla had entered the room until she was crawling over him, gently as the spider. She ran her fingers through his hair, then kissed him hungrily, Cecily's life-force mingling on their tongues. With ease, she plucked Cecily's left wrist from out of his fist and with legs bent like a praying child, Drusilla pressed her lips to Cecily's forearm. William heard the stab of her jaws into Cecily's skin, the pulse of Drusilla's first gulp.
"William…" Cecily whimpered. Their gazes met, and he could watch the lights behind her eyes as they dimmed.
But William wouldn't save her. His heart was a stone in his chest, impervious to her cries for mercy. Her dirty, fruitless, disposable nature had been laid bare before him. She wasn't Cecily anymore. She was now flesh and blood, bone and sinew. Nothing more. His mouth was on her throat again. She thrashed until they sucked her dry, emptied and spent. Her thrashing withered to a wriggle, and then she went still.
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12/03/2021 08:58 PM
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stalking | reply for buffy (inscrutable)
au—canon divergent; with original concepts loosely based on movie lore
  AFTER THE ALLEYWAY | STALKING THE SLAYER
Spike kept his distance as he followed the Slayer, silent as a thought. Even if she hadn’t just bled from her nose (the three droplets were drying like tiny copper coins on her pink shirt), Spike would have been able to sense her. The scent of her bathed him in nostalgia.
How did it all begin, his desire, his affinity for destroying Slayers? All it had taken was a single sentence, a tiny threat uttered from the lips of Angelus in a moment of frustration. Spike had only just come into his strength, only just shed the terrible weight of his weaker self. That terrified man was no more, William was dead and gone, and in his place stood a vicious killer with no cares or worries about rules and traditions.
How long had he been afraid? How long had he hidden himself away from threats, cowering, snivelling like an animal? This new man, this new monster that Spike had become, clashed with how Angelus wished to live. In Spike's eyes, Angelus showed nothing but weakness, wanting to lie low.
‘Licking the floor with his tail between his legs was more like it.’
"You can't keep this up forever," Angelus' words rang in his mind. "If I can't teach you, maybe someday an angry crowd will. That—or the Slayer."
The Slayer? Spike hadn't known what that meant, but once he knew who she was, there was no stopping him from finding the Slayer to challenge her.
For two decades, Spike watched as Angelus targeted the weak and defenseless like a coward. Yet, no one ever questioned it, somehow Angelus commanded their respect through it all. Even when he had gone, leaving Spike to lead the pack, after Spike guided and protected Drusilla and Darla, still they longed for Angelus' return.
Spike was becoming restless with yearning to prove himself. He had bested some of the strongest demons unfortunate to cross their path in Angelus’ absence, but he was ready for more. Buzzing with anticipation for the next threat.
With Angelus’ return, Spike’s desire grew tenfold. Spike had been pushed aside again, disrespected. He was thirsty to prove himself to be the superior leader. Perhaps Angelus thought if he mentioned the Slayer, Spike might slow down in his quest to make a name for himself.
How wrong Angelus had been.
The idea of this all powerful obstacle only tempted his appetite. Spike was itching for a true challenge, for a proper adrenaline rush. Angelus acted as though he’d given the dog a leash, when in fact he’d dangled meat in front of the beast instead. Perhaps Angelus was content to carry on stealing candy from babies and stepping on sand castles, but it was time for Spike to move on to bigger and better things.
Spike was wrong to think that his first Slayer would have been enough to satisfy. In his naivety, Spike was certain that he would be given the respect he deserved if only he killed the Slayer. And that was true… for a time. Drusilla had become his as more than just as a sire, but as a true lover. She no longer regarded him as a pet, but as a man fit to her level. He should have been satiated. He soon learned that it didn’t matter how others viewed him. They would always underestimate him. Spike's battle was internal. A constant fight with the man he used to be. The one he never wanted to be again.
He could still remember the sights, the sounds… the smells of Beijing in 1900. Gunpowder and desperation. The rebellion of religious zealots on both sides, fighting for their own traditions, the chaos of the Boxer Rebellion—perfect for hunting.
The candle flames warmed the air in the temple. The girl that tumbled out from behind the curtains hardly looked capable of hurting anyone, but Spike didn’t need to be told she was the Slayer, he could sense it, smell it on her. Something that he had never encountered before. Spike hadn’t known what to expect during those long months that he searched far and wide for her across all continents, but once he had found her… he knew.
It wasn’t until she was moving, the swift swish of her steel splitting the air as she twirled in place, that the amount of skill she possessed became evident. The danger aroused his senses. Spike’s nostrils flared. He grinned and went to work, dodging the swing of her blade, until he was off by a hair and her steel tore into his left brow. She was quick, but so was he. Spike was no longer a fledgling, the last twenty years had all been practice for this very moment. There was something in the Slayer’s eyes that told him he would win this fight.
Then he had her, she was locked in his embrace unable to fight her way out—her sword discarded too far to be of use to her. When his fangs pierced her throat, and he drank deep and long, Spike was filled with a rush of power that he had never imagined was possible.
What followed was more than a decade of freedom and mayhem, and Spike was the demon that had brought it about. The new Slayer had been born just as the last one had died, and for the first time since his rebirth as a vampire, Spike felt it and knew it to be true. Spike couldn’t say where she had been born for certain, but that didn’t matter. She would be of no use until she was at least a teenager. Bringing about a new age of disaster was quite the feat. He’d finally made a proper name for himself, a name that struck fear in the hearts of others. Was it any wonder that he would chase such a feeling again and again?
That was only the beginning of an impressive chain of conquests. A chain about due for another link.
This new link had honey blonde hair. She was taller than his first, her legs and lips fuller as well, but she didn’t seem any less small or fragile. Yet Spike had lived long enough to know that looks could be deceiving, especially as far as the Slayer was concerned.
He was anxious to take care of this one, to finish the job before anyone had time to question his abilities. Between the aggravating chanting that had turned his warehouse into a bloody cathedral and constantly defending Dru from those that wished to thin his weak and sickly companion from the pack, Spike was murderous. It was a shame that he had to wait until the Feast of St. Vigeous to take a proper crack at the Slayer. Not that he thought he would need the extra power to best her. Even so, there was a part of him that felt the Feast was a waste. Besting a Slayer was often about timing. All Slayers knew when it was their time to go, they begged for it. Spike could see it in their eyes, a skill most vampires would never possess. With each conquest, Spike’s skill was honed until it was almost second nature. He learned to strike at that very moment it became apparent, not a second later or before.
‘Every Slayer has a death wish,’ he thought, staring, watching as her blonde hair bobbed with each short stride. ‘When will you realize yours?’
“I hope to make quick work of you,” he whispered.
From the display of her skills just moments ago, Buffy was a messy fighter, clumsy. The distraction of the fledgling from the club had been the perfect opportunity to observe her. The fact that such a young vampire had knocked her on her arse right away was comical to him. Spike had killed Slayers that were trained since they were in their nappies to be monster hunting machines. This girl didn’t fit the bill. Certainly, she had strength and agility, ingenuity even. Enough to get by, but there was something off about her. Where had she been all this time? And why hadn’t he felt her birth?
'This is the Slayer that defeated the Master?' Spike thought. 'She's the one they have to pay me to defeat? This might be just about the easiest payday I've ever had in my life.' Yet he had to admit there was some sort of skill there. She had won the fight in the end. It was much too early to tell for sure what sort of challenge she would be.
The scent of her was rich on the breeze, guiding him as he followed her down the street. He kept his distance, aware that even the Slayer had a certain sense about her, one that could feel a demon’s presence like a vice-like grip on her insides. Spike wondered how she felt him—the silent stalker hidden in the shadows. One who had ended four of her past lives, who had taken the one just before her. Did her soul feel him? Did her soul fear him?
‘Where are you going, little dove? Home I assume,’ he thought. ‘Shall I make myself known, or wait and see what lies there for me?’
“F*** it,” he whispered. “I don’t know the first thing about patience.”
He sped up, like lightning—a shadow flying, until he was just behind her.
clap clap clap
Spike sauntered forward through the shadows into the glow of a streetlamp, the sharp clang of his slow applause echoed between the grimy brick buildings. He placed a cigarette between his lips and craned his neck to set it alight.
“Well wasn’t that a show, luv?” He called out to her. The cigarette between his lips danced precariously with each syllable. “You know, it’s dangerous to walk alone… especially for one so… pretty...” She was certainly the most beautiful Slayer he’d ever encountered.
It wasn’t any surprise to Spike that she was on her own. Slayers rarely socialized. Their independence often had a way of being their greatest weakness.
He took several pulls of cancerous smoke, watching her through the grey cloud he had created. The orange embers ate their way up the shaft.
"Someone told me the party's over, but from the looks of you, I'd say it's only just beginning.”
Spike rose a brow, still scarred from the swipe of his first Slayer’s blade. The only mark he’d retained in the afterlife. All other injuries had faded to immaculate flesh, yet that scar remained. As though its purpose was to remind him of his past triumphs and goad him on for the triumphs to come.
“Y’know,” he said. “I was pretty certain I’d ended you.” He stepped forward, dropping his cigarette to the concrete and crushing it beneath his steel toed boot. “Seems like you just took an extra long vacation. How rude of you. Ever heard of leaving a notice? ‘Gone for holiday, be back in oh, say ten or fifteen years,’” Spike quipped. He grinned and tilted his head.
“Now you’ve just popped up out of nowhere to ruin the fun. I really don’t appreciate you getting my hopes up like that. It’s disappointing, luv. Though, I will say, I am looking forward to the opportunity to kill another one of you.” He shrugged leather clad shoulders. “The afterlife just isn’t the same without Slayer hunting season.”
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[ This blog post is viewable to friends only ]
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11/23/2020 09:16 PM
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monster (i almost lost you) || inscrutable
tw; mentions of sexual assault and near sexual assault.
 "I could never trust you enough for it to be love."
"Trust is for old marrieds, Buffy. Great love is wild and passionate and dangerous. It burns and consumes."
"Until there's nothing left," she said. "Love like that doesn't last."
His little whispers
"Love me, love me."
That's all I ask for
"Love me, love me."
He battered his tiny fists to feel something
Wondered what it's like to touch and feel something
"I want you to remember," he cooed. "Don't you remember, how this feels? How you've always wanted me?"
Feathery caresses turned to wrath. Spike's powerful hands swept over her body. He held Buffy fast in a vascular grip of thumb pads pushing into roseate flesh. He pressed his nose against her throat, inhaled her, the scent of vanilla and honey consumed his senses. Drunkenly he groped at Buffy, but his hold was not light. Spike held the strength of desperation, the strength of an all consuming love fighting hopelessly not to be snuffed out by indifference, by denial.
"No, Spike, no. Stop it!" Her voice was hoarse but small, so small. It shivered like her trembling body as she resisted him.
But Spike was no stranger to resistance, and he had heard that word spill forth from her lips like venom so many times before. Buffy's 'no' always rolled over into the sweet ambrosia of tiny repetitions of 'yes' and the curling toes - broken gasps and clinging ribbons of golden hair. yes, yes, yes…
no.
Down they fell. She had lost her balance on the sleek bathroom tiles that still shimmered with the perspiration from her shower. Buffy reached out for the curtain but it couldn't hold their weight, pop, pop, pop, the clips snapped from the rod, ricocheting and spinning to the ground as Buffy's back collided with the edge of the bathtub. Her towel slipped too, and he gripped her waist in desire. Spike clung to her familiar body, brushed his lips over scented skin, recreated the motions that had tempted her so often in the past. Just a moment longer, just one more touch, and she would know how wrong she was. There was no doubt in his mind that Buffy loved him just as deeply, just as voraciously. Just one more moment, one, and she would know it too.
"You feel it… I know you do."
But that moment never came. Her defiance blinded him, awakening a demon Spike thought had long been put to bed. A horror he'd vowed to push away from the very moment he had fallen for the Slayer with honey blonde hair and cherry blossom skin.
"Don't do this, please… Spike..."
"Buffy…"
"Stop!"
"I'm going to make you feel it…"
"I mean it! STOP!"
Spike flew back across the room and into the far wall. With all of her Slayer strength, Buffy had kicked him away, a final act to command his obedience. When his head hit the wall with crushing force, Spike was pulled back into his senses. His eyes widened and his chest heaved, the wealth of his guilt was written in his gaze.
But it was too late. He saw her inching away like a cornered animal, clinging to the thick fabric of her towel as though it were a shield.
"Ask me again why I could never love you!" the panic in her voice curled her lips in disgust. Fear danced in her kaleidoscope eyes.
Monster
How should I feel?
Creatures lie here
Looking through the window
How often in the past had he stolen innocence - ignored fevered pleas for mercy? Somehow the thought of those acts had been enough even to sting his soulless conscience. Now it was morphing into endless torture. Now the specters flashed in his vision, whispered in his ears, driving him to madness. He pressed his head against the damp brick, dragging it back and forth against the jagged surface until his scalp bled, slamming until he had painted the walls red.
"Oh to have a soul when you've committed so many soulless acts…" an angry voice amongst a million, another ghost come for her revenge. A life snuffed out too soon.
Spike's bloodshot eyes fluttered open to watch her in the dark. The spirit sat before him, legs crossed beneath her long tartan skirt, her bodice torn and stained with blood, red as the day he'd ended her.
"Do you even know my name?" her brows knitted in disapproval.
Spike tried to swallow but his throat was as a dry as a stone, he dragged his heavy tongue over his concrete lips and shook his head 'no'. He wouldn't lie. He did not know her face, nor did he know her name. Spike remembered every rape, every kill, every squeal and cry of pain that had sent excited jolts of electricity through him, but he didn't remember the important things, the sorts of things that mattered to mortals - that mattered to those with souls.
"Dorothy," she croaked. "But everyone in town called me Ruth." Ruth exhaled and leaned forward. "But you… you called me li'l dove," the strength in her cockney accent grew as she mimicked his sly demeanor, growing closer to his lips and hissing.
"Ruth…" he whispered, and he searched her features, guilt rising in his chest.
"I wasn't ready!" she screamed. Her bright eyes clouded over with sadness. She looked so innocent, so like Dawn… like Dawn after Joyce... "I was so afraid," Ruth's voice broke. "And I begged you! I begged for my life but you wouldn't listen!"
"I'm sorry!" he yelled back. The tears brimming in his eyes spilled over. His cheeks shimmered with them.
"You wouldn't listen!"
"I'm sorry…" Spike's voice softened as he reached out to touch her cheek to no avail. She was only a vision, a spirit tormentor, and she slipped through his fingers like cigarette smoke.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry! I'M SORRY!" He chanted as he tugged the hair at his temples, bashing the sides of his face with clenched fists.
That night he caged her
Bruised and broke her
He struggled closer
Then he stole her
Violet wrists and then her ankles
Silent pain
Then he slowly saw their nightmares were his dreams
"Oh… daddy…tsk, tsk, tsk..."
The next voice caused him to roll against the bricks, curling his legs up into his abdomen like a child. How pitiful he must have looked to her. His love for Drusilla had pushed him to commit so many heinous acts. His driving force to abolish weakness from his tortured shell. She swung her arms above her head, curling her fingers, billowing like a flower on the wind, drumming up the voices all around him, commanding them, leading the attack on his psyche.
"Stop…" Spike groaned and hugged himself tighter, a grimace of pain shadowing his face.
"Daddy's been a bad boy. Went off and got himself a silly little soul, with silly little thoughts and concerns mucking about in his silly... little... brain…" Drusilla's skin glinted like moonlight. She tapped the side of her head with her finger and cooed, humming. "Made yourself weak... again - weak as willow leaves…"
"I'm not weak…" said Spike, but the strength in his voice had faltered.
"You were always weak, William. A mistake," his mother's voice hissed into his left ear. "You were even too weak to let me die in peace!"
"Shut up!" Spike hurled his fist into the brick beside his head. He attacked the darkness with all his might, but he couldn't stop the specters, couldn't touch them, not the way they touched him. They burrowed deep into his core, clawing at his newly acquired soul like mad, rabid animals all itching for a taste. He pressed his palms over his ears, but he couldn't drown out the sound of them. Their taunts were coming from inside.
"Weak…"
"Such a pity…"
"I begged you…"
"I had a family…"
Monster
How should I feel?
Creatures lie here
Looking through the windows
I will
Hear their voices
I'm a glass child
I am Buffy's regrets
"Ask me again why I could never love you..."
Another voice broke through the fray, one that made his heart beat fiercely against his rib cage. Spike's stomach did a somersault and his tear-filled eyes shot open. Blurry in his vision he saw the shiny ribbons of her hair falling over deceptively delicate shoulders. Her gown of silver tousled as she walked towards him. Her beauty lit up the darkness. Effulgent. From beneath, he felt it smoldering, from beneath, singeing him to ashes.
"You'll never change," Buffy said. "It'll never be enough, not even this," she hissed.
"But I have changed," he pleaded. "Look at me! Look what I've done to myself."
"You're nothing, Spike. Always have been nothing."
"I did this for you!" He screamed. Buffy didn't flinch, nothing, not even a strand of honey shivered with the gust of his breath. "All this pain! All this suffering! To be the man you need!"
"You deserve it!"
"I almost lost you..."
"William…" Buffy crooned, her face a stoic statue draped in shadow. "Oh, William, you never had me."
"Don't say that!" he cried. "Don't you say that. Don't you bloody say that! What we had was real!"
Spike lunged forward and fell to his knees, gripping Buffy around the hips with bare arms. He clung to her thighs, clenching the muscles of his arms, digging the pads of his fingers into the rough denim of her jeans. Spike pressed the side of his face into her abdomen as his body became wracked with unbridled sobs. His hands searched for support, hooking over her belt, into her pockets - nails tearing clumsily into the fleshy curves of her thighs. Spike's tears bled into the fabric of Buffy's shirt, moist and warm against her stomach. He held tighter with every second, fearing that if he loosened his grip she would vanish like the rest.
"Spike…"
There was no hiss of disgust, no sharp tongued venom oozing from the word. She was real, full and warm in his grasp, alive. Spike's heart halted its beating and his chest heaved against Buffy's knees as he craned his neck to look up.
Monster
How should I feel?
Turn the sheets down
Murder ears with pillow lace
There's bath tubs
Full of glow flies
Bathe in kerosene
Their words tattooed in his veins, yeah
"What have you done?"
"I tried to find it… the spark. The missing - the piece..."
They put the spark in me and now all it does... is burn.
song: here.
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[ This blog post is viewable to friends only ]
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[ This blog post is viewable to friends only ]
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03/19/2020 02:52 PM
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five. (beth)
A PAINTING OF A MANSION MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD AN EMERALD GREEN GOWN The crypt needed sprucing up. He was always looking for something new to change the scenery. Despite the crimson drapery, the walls were mostly bare. Buffy had complimented his alterations to the mausoleum before, so he thought perhaps she might enjoy another decoration. His first thought was a painting but there was never anything that called out for him to snatch it. That was until he saw it. Sitting there on the wall in the deserted theater, just begging to be taken. The painting was simple, not expert by any means but that was subjective anyway. The brush strokes were light, yet the ridges and dimples of paint still created hills and valleys of dimension. The house in the painting seemed so familiar to him, like it was torn out of his memory. It was almost mansion-like, pale peach bricks and soft curtains over the windows a stark contrast to the gray and dreary London street it sat on. That was how his childhood home had been. Warmth in the cool gray. His mother was like that too, raising him with a loving care that was rare for the time. While his peers hardly ever saw their mothers and were pushed off on nannies and governesses until it was time to be shipped off to school, William's mother had no issues with spending every waking moment with her son. She sang to him every night as she stroked his hair. The song was painful to remember, not only because of his mother's terrible passing but even as a boy because it was the tale of her love for his father. There was a gown she kept tucked away, one of the very few that she had been able to afford. Purchased by her father and fitted just for her during the coming out season. She'd met William's father in that gown, danced with him. In the following weeks, he had stolen her heart and her virtue. But as young men often do, he failed to cherish such a gift. Marriage was a bind of money, status and though Anne was far from a beggar, his other prospects promised… more. 'How could you use a poor maiden so?' His mother's voice echoed through his mind, the gentle hoarse timbre of her voice a lullaby with the crackling fire. He vowed to never leave her, she'd been deserted enough. In the end, his decision to change Anne had been a foolish one. It had only been to save her life from the growing fever and the rising cough but he had broken her, torn his mother from her very soul. She became a monster who loathed him. The image was shattered. Cold, only cold. When Drusilla discovered the gown and found it fit her perfectly, strumming down the stairs like a stalking cat, William had grown hot with anger. Had it been any other, it might not have mattered. He might have enjoyed her hypnotizing display of dancing, arms raised high above her head like a nymph from a tale, all cloaked in emerald - instead he was enraged. "Take it off, now!" he shouted. At first she stopped spinning and merely smiled that dreamy smile she so often held on her ruby lips. But he grew louder, rising to his feet and stalking his way to her, until their noses were little more than an inch apart and she could smell the cigar smoke on his breath. "Now, I said!" "Alright…" she whispered and disrobed, standing stark naked before him as the dress pooled around her feet. She stepped out of it and he bent down to grab the wrinkled hillock of fabric from the ornate rug. Into the fire it went.
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