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Damn it. Cannot finish my S/X story. Can't decide where to go, what to do, get into their voices...started fine, fizzled today. Of course, I did try and write it as the kids were munching tea. I can write under adverse conditions but I defy anyone to get all smutty under some circumstances...
'His throbbing cock pierced her moist depths - Lauren, do not throw your food on the floor! - Helpless in her ecstacy, she cried out his - you can get your own apple juice; you're seven years old! - as he poured his very essence - stop her from finger painting with the yoghurt! ..'
But tonight I've had hours alone to write and nada. So it's me. I'm useless. If anyone wants to read what I have so far it's here.
Xander walked towards the door of the Bronze, not bothering to say goodnight to Buffy and Willow. He could feel Willow’s reproachful eyes on him and he grinned, his lips twisting with savage amusement. She was too easy to hurt for it to be a challenge – but it didn’t mean it wasn’t fun. Buffy watched him too, her face hard and wary. He didn’t care. Slayer or not, she was just a girl and he’d chosen her as his mate. When the time was right, he’d see to her, strip away the pretence and give her everything she needed – no, make that everything he wanted. Soon.
People moved back as he came towards them, shifting out of his way, showing him the respect he deserved. Much better. There was something surrounding him, teasing at him, plucking his sleeve and murmuring that there was more, so much more, if he just relaxed and let the beast emerge. He wasn’t sure he wanted to listen. More power, yes, but he was in charge. That was how he wanted it.
In the club behind him his new friends continued to play, to torment the weak - and there were plenty to choose from. They wouldn’t leave with him and though he knew they were stronger together he had to get out. The Bronze was hot and crowded; he felt trapped in there. He wanted to smell the night air, wanted to feel it ripple over him like a thousand voices whispering at once, telling him secrets. Overhead the April stars hung low, dimmed by the street lights but becoming clearer as he moved into the dark alley that ran beside the club. Their faint sparkle was all he needed to show him the way.
The alley stank of blood and terror and his nostrils flared as he sniffed at it, savouring the layered richness of many deaths. How many people had died here, picked off as they left, by the waiting vampires? Buffy had saved a few but she hadn’t been there for all of the victims. He wondered how her face would pucker if he told her that, made her think about how they’d died in agony and fear as she danced or sipped her coke. He giggled as he imagined it, his laughter the only sound in the silence as he padded along noiselessly, his body moving with a fluid balance that felt so natural he never noticed the change from his normal walk.
***
Spike looked around him thoughtfully. Been a while since he’d visited Sunnydale. He’d paid his respects to the Master now and then; they were related in a way and it didn’t do to piss the old sod off. Never knew if he’d pull the cork and pop out one of these days and he had a good memory for a slight. Not that he needed it. Once you got under his skin he tended to rip yours off. Slowly, inch by inch. Entertaining if you were in the audience, not so much fun if you were the main attraction. Spike took care to curb his tongue – a little – and always brought a present. Last time it had been twins, identical, pretty little things. The Master had made them fight for their lives, turned the winner and let her feast on her sister when she arose. Spike grinned at the memory, wondering how long his present had lasted before she annoyed the Trapped One. He doubted she was still around. His minions had a short shelf life.
His smile faded. He wasn’t here for fun though. Drusilla’s weakness was growing, her hair, once lit with a hundred shades of darkness, from the ebony of a winter’s night to the sable of a raven’s wing, was now flat and dull, a blackboard on which his nails scratched like – he shook his head impatiently. Too many thoughts. It was time to do something. This was the Hellmouth. This place, the fount of all evil, would cure her. It had to. She would lie under the glow of the baleful stars and recapture the fire that he used to keep himself warm. Only she could do that, could make him feel real, make him whole.
He had to find somewhere safe to bring her, had to make some contacts. This wasn’t the Sunnydale he used to know. Something had changed since his last visit and he didn’t mean the opening of the dismal dive at the end of this alley. No. It was all he’d heard about as he walked the night.
Sunnydale had itself a Slayer.
He heard someone coming down the alley and his eyes narrowed. Moving so quietly – one of his kind? Didn’t smell like a vampire. Didn’t – quite – smell like food either. Spike glanced down as a gurgling noise distracted him.
“Oh, sorry, love. Got lost in my thoughts. Quite forgot about you.”
His hand was locked around the throat of a young woman, holding her in place. He’d fed a little, and then stopped, relishing the terror in her eyes as she watched him lick her blood from his free hand, as fastidious as a cat. He pursed his lips, studying her. Was she weak enough to stay put until he’d killed whoever was coming along? He was still hungry and he didn’t want to hunt twice. Too much effort. Shrugging, he swung his fist, hitting her on the temple and sending her to the floor. She’d keep. He just hoped he didn’t trip up over her.
The newcomer stepped towards him and paused. Spike gauged the way he stood, the aura of violent assurance, the sneer. It was like looking in a mirror as far as personalities went and Spike was honest enough to admit that it appealed to him. Bit of a kid, mind you. Teenager, all fresh faced and lanky, but his eyes – they were scary eyes. Unless you were a vampire of course.
Spike saw the boy look down at the girl lying on the ground, his lips peeling back to show teeth too sharp for a human, though no match for the fangs Spike was flashing. He smiled. “You want a nibble? Yeah, I bet you do. But she’s mine so you’d better push off. I don’t share well with others.”
The boy smiled back, and Spike frowned. The lad’s face was human but something lay over it, something disturbingly feral. He moved as though he belonged on all fours and he wasn’t showing any fear or surprise at meeting a vampire. “What are you? Werewolf or something?”
“Something,” the boy agreed, prowling around Spike, never getting within reach, his eyes restless and alert. Spike found that he had to spin to keep the boy in sight. It was annoying. Tiring of the game, Spike’s hand shot out abruptly. His punch missed as the human – or whatever he was – swayed out of the way and then retreated. Spike heard him chuckle from a patch of shadows and lost his temper.
“I don’t like games, boy. You want a taste of her, you get a taste of me first, right?”
“Fine by me.” A sudden rush and Spike was hit by six foot of solid muscle and sent to the ground. The boy landed on top of him, straddling him and laughing down into Spike’s astonished face. “So, how do you taste?” He leaned in and Spike only had to twist a little to reach his throat but he lay still, captured by the intensity in the dark eyes above him. They reminded him of Dru’s and his body, long denied her pale curves, responded instinctively. Anger became lust and the hunger changed focus.
***
Xander became aware of the tang of arousal in his mouth, the ripe sweetness of the blood in the air adding to his ardour. The vampire beneath him smelled of it too. Xander leaned in and licked at where the blood had sprayed scarlet across the vampire’s cheek, lapping at it delicately and then eagerly as it fuelled the change within him.
The skin was clean in seconds but he was still hungry. Just wasn’t food he was craving anymore.
'His throbbing cock pierced her moist depths - Lauren, do not throw your food on the floor! - Helpless in her ecstacy, she cried out his - you can get your own apple juice; you're seven years old! - as he poured his very essence - stop her from finger painting with the yoghurt! ..'
But tonight I've had hours alone to write and nada. So it's me. I'm useless. If anyone wants to read what I have so far it's here.
Xander walked towards the door of the Bronze, not bothering to say goodnight to Buffy and Willow. He could feel Willow’s reproachful eyes on him and he grinned, his lips twisting with savage amusement. She was too easy to hurt for it to be a challenge – but it didn’t mean it wasn’t fun. Buffy watched him too, her face hard and wary. He didn’t care. Slayer or not, she was just a girl and he’d chosen her as his mate. When the time was right, he’d see to her, strip away the pretence and give her everything she needed – no, make that everything he wanted. Soon.
People moved back as he came towards them, shifting out of his way, showing him the respect he deserved. Much better. There was something surrounding him, teasing at him, plucking his sleeve and murmuring that there was more, so much more, if he just relaxed and let the beast emerge. He wasn’t sure he wanted to listen. More power, yes, but he was in charge. That was how he wanted it.
In the club behind him his new friends continued to play, to torment the weak - and there were plenty to choose from. They wouldn’t leave with him and though he knew they were stronger together he had to get out. The Bronze was hot and crowded; he felt trapped in there. He wanted to smell the night air, wanted to feel it ripple over him like a thousand voices whispering at once, telling him secrets. Overhead the April stars hung low, dimmed by the street lights but becoming clearer as he moved into the dark alley that ran beside the club. Their faint sparkle was all he needed to show him the way.
The alley stank of blood and terror and his nostrils flared as he sniffed at it, savouring the layered richness of many deaths. How many people had died here, picked off as they left, by the waiting vampires? Buffy had saved a few but she hadn’t been there for all of the victims. He wondered how her face would pucker if he told her that, made her think about how they’d died in agony and fear as she danced or sipped her coke. He giggled as he imagined it, his laughter the only sound in the silence as he padded along noiselessly, his body moving with a fluid balance that felt so natural he never noticed the change from his normal walk.
***
Spike looked around him thoughtfully. Been a while since he’d visited Sunnydale. He’d paid his respects to the Master now and then; they were related in a way and it didn’t do to piss the old sod off. Never knew if he’d pull the cork and pop out one of these days and he had a good memory for a slight. Not that he needed it. Once you got under his skin he tended to rip yours off. Slowly, inch by inch. Entertaining if you were in the audience, not so much fun if you were the main attraction. Spike took care to curb his tongue – a little – and always brought a present. Last time it had been twins, identical, pretty little things. The Master had made them fight for their lives, turned the winner and let her feast on her sister when she arose. Spike grinned at the memory, wondering how long his present had lasted before she annoyed the Trapped One. He doubted she was still around. His minions had a short shelf life.
His smile faded. He wasn’t here for fun though. Drusilla’s weakness was growing, her hair, once lit with a hundred shades of darkness, from the ebony of a winter’s night to the sable of a raven’s wing, was now flat and dull, a blackboard on which his nails scratched like – he shook his head impatiently. Too many thoughts. It was time to do something. This was the Hellmouth. This place, the fount of all evil, would cure her. It had to. She would lie under the glow of the baleful stars and recapture the fire that he used to keep himself warm. Only she could do that, could make him feel real, make him whole.
He had to find somewhere safe to bring her, had to make some contacts. This wasn’t the Sunnydale he used to know. Something had changed since his last visit and he didn’t mean the opening of the dismal dive at the end of this alley. No. It was all he’d heard about as he walked the night.
Sunnydale had itself a Slayer.
He heard someone coming down the alley and his eyes narrowed. Moving so quietly – one of his kind? Didn’t smell like a vampire. Didn’t – quite – smell like food either. Spike glanced down as a gurgling noise distracted him.
“Oh, sorry, love. Got lost in my thoughts. Quite forgot about you.”
His hand was locked around the throat of a young woman, holding her in place. He’d fed a little, and then stopped, relishing the terror in her eyes as she watched him lick her blood from his free hand, as fastidious as a cat. He pursed his lips, studying her. Was she weak enough to stay put until he’d killed whoever was coming along? He was still hungry and he didn’t want to hunt twice. Too much effort. Shrugging, he swung his fist, hitting her on the temple and sending her to the floor. She’d keep. He just hoped he didn’t trip up over her.
The newcomer stepped towards him and paused. Spike gauged the way he stood, the aura of violent assurance, the sneer. It was like looking in a mirror as far as personalities went and Spike was honest enough to admit that it appealed to him. Bit of a kid, mind you. Teenager, all fresh faced and lanky, but his eyes – they were scary eyes. Unless you were a vampire of course.
Spike saw the boy look down at the girl lying on the ground, his lips peeling back to show teeth too sharp for a human, though no match for the fangs Spike was flashing. He smiled. “You want a nibble? Yeah, I bet you do. But she’s mine so you’d better push off. I don’t share well with others.”
The boy smiled back, and Spike frowned. The lad’s face was human but something lay over it, something disturbingly feral. He moved as though he belonged on all fours and he wasn’t showing any fear or surprise at meeting a vampire. “What are you? Werewolf or something?”
“Something,” the boy agreed, prowling around Spike, never getting within reach, his eyes restless and alert. Spike found that he had to spin to keep the boy in sight. It was annoying. Tiring of the game, Spike’s hand shot out abruptly. His punch missed as the human – or whatever he was – swayed out of the way and then retreated. Spike heard him chuckle from a patch of shadows and lost his temper.
“I don’t like games, boy. You want a taste of her, you get a taste of me first, right?”
“Fine by me.” A sudden rush and Spike was hit by six foot of solid muscle and sent to the ground. The boy landed on top of him, straddling him and laughing down into Spike’s astonished face. “So, how do you taste?” He leaned in and Spike only had to twist a little to reach his throat but he lay still, captured by the intensity in the dark eyes above him. They reminded him of Dru’s and his body, long denied her pale curves, responded instinctively. Anger became lust and the hunger changed focus.
***
Xander became aware of the tang of arousal in his mouth, the ripe sweetness of the blood in the air adding to his ardour. The vampire beneath him smelled of it too. Xander leaned in and licked at where the blood had sprayed scarlet across the vampire’s cheek, lapping at it delicately and then eagerly as it fuelled the change within him.
The skin was clean in seconds but he was still hungry. Just wasn’t food he was craving anymore.