First Stanza - [Action & Voice]

[deadpoet]

[Action, Locked to Willow]
[A few moments before Spike arrived, he and Illyria had just escaped most of the main action and a great big bloody dragon come out of nowhere. He'd lost track of Angel and Gunn. Wesley was dead. So now it was just the two of them. Until Spike suddenly came to the surface of the river, cursing as he suddenly started burning and then swimming back underwater again until he could hide under the shade of the bridge. A bloody tiny bridge. And here he was with only a pair of white pants, now failing to hide much of anything, as he ended up STUCK in this tiny shadow. There was a book in the sunlight that was just out of reach. As the day passed on, it continued to get further away from him as the sun shifted the shadows further and further away.

What bollocks.

He decided he'd just wait until the first person came across the bridge and get their attention. That ought to do it.]

[Action/Voice, Open To All]

[Well, Willow took him 'home'. And he rather decided he liked it. Of course, a vamp can't make himself good and comfy without the proper accouterments. So after taking a nice long shower in House Seven, perusing the kitchen, and no doubt making his new housies terrible uncomfortable, he makes his way out as soon as it's evening. In his New Feather pants at first, because what else was there? But his first stop is the clothing store and he's soon back into slimming back. And then it's off to pick out a fancy weapon, get some blood at Good Spirits, find some smokes, recollect his lighter, and then snoop around town because he knows a certain old flame is around here. Not you, Buffy.

Around midnight, he hits up the journal after finally recollecting it from beside the bridge.]

This is a nice little village you lot have here. Very cozy. Has a certain quality to it, you might say. Very Shyamalan-type setting. Too cheerful. Downright unsettling, if you ask me.

Anyway, who do I talk to for the big plan? I've done my sitting around already. Relaxing, sure. Not too fond of the wings. Too ironic for my taste. But I'm ready to go and find the wankers who locked us up in here and do something about it. Champion of the people, right here. Just point me in the right direction.

Comments

[deadpoet]

"That's just LA, pet. It was unhappy even before it went to hell."

He moved further into the house, finally shedding his coat, draping it over a chair. It had the unfortunate effect of the stake slipping free and landing on the ground.

[bloodwaif]

"Spike." She stared at the stake, then lifted her eyes to his. Hers were shining with black joy. "You've killed her!" And Drusilla, mad and crazy and beautiful and pathetic and suddenly really turned on, launched herself at Spike, prepared to tear off his clothing and make a man out of him right then and there.

[deadpoet]

When he hit the ground, he was all at once concerned that she'd realize he was preparing to stake her if he had to. A notion long forgotten in the fact of some long missed sense of intimacy.

So much for that, then. When she hit the height of her excitement, he wasn't about to clarify that. Even if he did have a good solid guess on who 'her' was.

"I've been killing lots, love. All sorts."

He started to tear away his own shirt, not much concerned for the buttons lost in the moment. They were all free, after all. He could get as many as he liked. And he did want this. He'd have the guilt later.

[bloodwaif]

He was working on the shirt, she was working on the trousers. Maybe she could find a pair of black leather ones for him. Maybe she could iron his black leather trousers and be domestic for him. Shine them with lemon juice. Paint his nails jet black.

"One of the reasons I love you, Big Bad."

[deadpoet]

That felt invigorating. He tosses his shirt to the side, leaned in for a quick, aggressive kiss as he maneuvered her back towards the bed.

"Say it again, pet. Tell me how bad I am."

[bloodwaif]

"The baddest." That was a lie purred through those pouting lips. Angel was the baddest. Daddy was the baddest.



Angel was the biggest, too, really. Bigger.

Drusilla fell back on the bed quite happily. She could play this game.


"The baddest, lovey."

WARNING: May be X-Rated ahead? Come back later.

[deadpoet]

Fortunately, Spike wasn't perceptive enough to know when Drusilla lied. Different from Buffy, really. Likely because half the time, he could barely keep up with her.

"That's right, lamb. Badder than bad, that's me. And I've got you right where I want you."

He'd never admit it, but Harmony had turned him onto the idea of roleplay in the bedroom. It was never like that with Buffy. It was all visceral. Passionate, yes, but that was about it. Here, he was feeling powerful again. That was refreshing.

He descended onto the bed with her, leaning on one knee just above her. Cradling her head with one hand. He had her pinned down.

TASTEFUL. IT WILL BE TASTEFUL. A TASTEFUL VIGNETTE.

[bloodwaif]

"You have me." She struggled against him, but it was only a token gesture. Exciting. If her flesh could generate any warmth, it would be a flood of heat right now. "Like a wild thing. A wild lamb. Grrrrrrr."


Wild lambs, apparently, growl like tigers.

Dru wrapped one lean dancer's leg around his waist, urging him closer.

Yes. Tasteful. That's exactly what it will be.

[deadpoet]

"A wild one, are you? The way I like it."

He didn't resist. They were joined together for the first time in years. By his reckoning, anyway. Bloody hell, it felt good.

: |

[bloodwaif]

The woman below him growled again and dug her nails into his shoulderblades, just above his wings. Spike. Her Spike had finally come home to her, just as she had foreseen it -- and now he was loving her: an agreeably heavy, hard presence writhing with her on what had been a dark and lonely bed.

Her feathers splayed out across the mattress beneath her, but there was plenty of give in the bed -- no pain. She would keep him in her nest. She would keep him every night, and this would be their home. She would bake him a pie made of kittens.

At the thought, Dru moaned encouragingly and licked his earlobe. More.

[deadpoet]

It was in these moments that Spike was able to share in her madness. Where he could partially see the world in the same sort of chaos and beauty and horror that she did.

His wings still ached, but he was able to stretch them out, flexing them freely, and that felt good. And though she was on top of hers, he could still see them beneath her. He'd not yet touched anyone else's wings, so while she remained entangled around him and he supported himself with one arm, he ran his finger along the feathery edges of her right wing.

And more. He gave her much more. As much as he had in him.

[hismasterpiece]

That touch on her wings was ecstasy. Drusilla cried out and shivered beneath him, all the while clawing for whatever Spike had left. At her head, the headboard of the bed slammed cracks into the wall; one foot twisted around his, the other snaked beneath a crisp white sheet -- both for purchase.

She was still shivering when she came moments later: not sated, but shaken. Wonderfully shaken.

[deadpoet]

So she liked that. The wings were sensitive in many ways, not just bad. Useful knowledge, that. But not filed away until later. Still in the moment, he tensed, giving up whatever he had left, and finally being spent.

Satisfied, but not finished, he leaned in closer, inevitably resting his forehead on hers.

[hismasterpiece]

"We. We are great. We will be great, dearest."

[deadpoet]

"We've always been great, pet. There's no one like us."

[bloodwaif]

"Mmmmm. And now your pet won't be alone anymore. She'll have it again: family.

And if Angelus returns....."

Oh, what a delight. She squirmed happily beneath him. Things would be alright once more.

[deadpoet]

Angelus. If there was any word that could kill the moment, it was that.

"We don't need Angelus, Dru. He's gone. Good and gone. Not coming back."

[bloodwaif]

A pout. Drusilla reached up and traced her nails across his back before licking the very tip of Spike's nose.

"Then it shall be you and I in our little house, together. I've a perfect room in back to store the victims. Also? A lovely window for houseplants."

[deadpoet]

Oh how he wanted to simply enjoy that. Soak it up in the moment. He could do it, but having a soul meant knowing when you were up to thinks you shouldn't be. He was starting to become aware of how much he hated who he was being right now.

He rolled away from her, sitting at the end of the bed instead. "There's not going to be victims, Dru. I can't live here with you. Not in the middle of sodding nowhere."

[namesthestars]

"What?"

She sat up abruptly, the glow of being with him scraping off at his sudden departure.


"But...we need nowhere, my dangerous boy! My deadly boy! They'll come for us, otherwise! With torches!"

The Inquisitor....

[deadpoet]

"Because you're sodding reckless, Dru. The rules are different here."

He reached down for his pants. "I ran into the other Slayer looking for you. She had a stake ready for you. Wouldn't have hesitated to use it on you. Victims or no victims."

[namesthestars]

"Numbers, dearest," she crooned, trying to reach his pants first. "The more of us? The weaker they are."

What was he doing? Was he....


He was going to leave her.

[deadpoet]

He took hold of them. Tightly. He knew what she was doing.

"I don't sire, Dru. Not now, not ever again."

[bloodwaif]

"That soul!" she cried, trying to fully engage in a tug of war with those trousers, now. "It's the soul, is it not? It's made you all feeble and I'm cross! CROSS."

[deadpoet]

He gave them one solid tug. To prove his strength. "Feeble is one thing I've never been, pet. Weak for love, yes. But never feeble."