All About Spike

Crimson Love
By Mala

Rating/Classification: 'R' , B/S-ish, Spike POV, angst, violence, sexual situations.
Disclaimer: Grrr aargh.
Summary: Spike thinks about what he has now vs. what he longed for.

"Its hard to see in a crimson love
so hard to breathe."
--Martin & Crichlow, "Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely"

It feels like time hasn't moved. Only she has. I watch her dance--no, seduce--as gits drool and some hideous black-clad garage band plays on. Her arms move sinuously above her head as her body rocks with a harlot's abandon. Her eyelashes are dark against her pale cheek and I could count every single one if I wasn't so enthralled by her bloody mouth. A flush of red that has given hard-ons to the purest priest and the saddest sinner. The same color as her tiny leather halter top and tight little pants. As her shining nail polish. She's red all over. Dripping. Luscious. Feeds me. Feeds my cravings and my insanity and leaves me thirsting for one more drop.

If I tilt my head and squint, she looks "just so." Almost like her. Like a living, breathing, goddess bitch. Like the little bird who used to hold a stake to my throat, and press me up against the cold wall of a crypt with her lush hips, and breathe her hot air into my face, and call me a "loser." The traitorous infuriating piece of flesh who kicked my arse so many times I practically had her high-heeled boot tattooed on the left cheek.

She's still dancing. Now she's sidled up to some poor little pimply lad who doesn't know what to do with the tits she's waving in his face. Her hair is so long and so blond its white, like mine. And it spills all over him. Forcing him back against a pillar as the band continues to make some old pop teeny song about love into some rant about suicide and the sound of drills. She turns her head and winks at me. The lashes fold over one bright green eye for just a second. And she looks..."just so." She drags her tongue slowly across her naughty whore's lips...tasting the treat to come.

But this haze of clove smoke and hash smoke still can't hide it. Neither can a squint or a pair of dark shades. She's not what I want to see. She's a bloody shadow. A bloody carbon copy who flops under me at night and winds her wicked arms around me and screams my name...but never the way I want it screamed. I'm just that weak now. Just that entrenched in red. She's not her. The bitch I haven't seen in ten years. The bitch who kissed me with childhood and rage and passion I'd never seen the like of before and haven't seen since. The bitch who never let me forget for an instant that she was good and sweet and kind while I was forbidden dirt that she couldn't get out of her system. I wanted to fuck the innocence out of her.

There's now a body slumped over by a pillar in this worthless shithole goth club. I haven't been that unsubtle since 1999. "Oh, Spike," she murmurs huskily, climbing into my lap. The lad's blood is on her lips and she leans down, kissing me so I can lick it off her smooth, long, fangs. "Spike, he was yummy."

I taste that. I taste that and her tart, slutty taste that addicts me like no other. Her crimson love.

"I know, Baby. I know."

"I hate it when you call me 'Baby'." She pouts and kisses me again. My teeth nick her lower lip and I suck. She fills me...she fills me up.

I don't say her name anymore. Except sometimes in the heat of sex and blood when I forget. When I forget what I did. What she used to be is much too sacred...much too white and soft and wispy for the red, hard, creature she's become. The Slayer. Buffy. Buffy Summers, the Slayer.

I wanted to fuck the innocence out of her.

I succeeded.



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