Gloomy Little Tomb With No View

Rating:
Total Chapters: 13

Harsh Light of Day rewrite.


Chapter 1

The Slayer circled to the left as he bounced in place, following her moves with his golden eyes. It was all Spike could do to keep from throwing back his head and howling with glee. This was living, or unliving in his case. The fight, the exhilaration of the ultimate opponent – the Slayer, his for the taking if he could only earn the prize.

He circled to the right in response to her steps, keeping her in his sights. And what a sight she was. He had to give it to her. Vamps were as distractible as any males and he’d lost his concentration more than once to a flash of her legs as she kicked high and twirled in that short little white skirt. Far cry from the demure little Chinese Slayer from the turn of the century, or even that foxy New York Slayer, though that one had her own appeal. Guess they couldn’t all be California girls he mused to himself as he watched her set her stance and wait for his move.

The sunlight reflected off her bright hair and highlighted her bronzed skin, giving her a golden glow he didn’t remember from their last encounter. Spike paused. Wait, that couldn’t be right. Sunlight? He momentarily diverted his gaze and snuck a glance at his arm. No smoking, no incineration. Ah well, he shrugged and turned his attention back to the main attraction.

The dance began in earnest as he made a graceful lunge and she parried his attack. Twist and bob, turn and weave, the pair circled the open courtyard with a dance unique to them. He did howl then as he executed a particularly swift move, pinning her lithe body. The Slayer who’d been the bane of his existence, the one just out of reach, was finally his. His mouth watered at the prospect of the rich tang of her blood rolling down his throat.

He was only moments away from sinking his fangs into her ripe flesh when she deftly reversed their position and he found himself suddenly pinned against the rough surface of the wall that flanked the courtyard they had traversed in their back and forth. As the Slayer twisted his left arm behind him with just enough pressure to be painful, he suddenly became aware of the proximity of their bodies for the first time, her heat against his back, his own hardness now pressed uncomfortably against the unyielding stone of the wall.

Her hot breath tickled his ear as she leaned closer and spoke for the first time. “Do we really need weapons for this?” He gasped as he felt the point of a wooden stake trace the back of his neck and slowly settle below his shoulder blade, poised for a entry that would reduce him to dust.

“I just like’em, they make me feel all manly,” he responded as he found himself suddenly whirled around to face the Slayer and heard the clatter of the stake hitting the ground. Somewhere in the transition, the distracting little white skirt ensemble had mysteriously disappeared and he was now confronted with the full-frontal image of a highly aroused Slayer. He blinked rapidly, then realized as her eyes slid appraisingly down his body that he was in a similar condition. Well . . . now this could get interesting.

“I think you feel all manly without them,” she purred as she licked her red lips and slid one toned thigh up his hip to grind herself against him. He growled and slid his now free arms down to hoist her higher as he reversed their positions again and planted her against the wall. Their tongues met and began a vicious thrust and parry as she wrapped her legs firmly around his waist, poised ever so enticingly just a hairsbreadth away from letting him bury himself in the warmth that he suddenly craved.

Somewhere in the back of Spike’s lust addled brain, it occurred to him that this wasn’t right, he should be sinking his fangs into her smooth white neck, not devouring her mouth like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever had access to. He batted the thought away and sank further into the smells and taste of Buffy.

She broke away from their kiss, twining her fingers though his hair and pinning him with her hazel eyes. “You want me, don’t you Spike?” He circled his hips, desperately trying to loosen the iron grip of her thighs so he could slide in further. She shivered at the friction, but refused to back down, grasping his chin and forcing him to meet her eyes. “Admit it Spike. Say it out loud. You’re mine, aren’t you?”

As she spoke, he sighed in defeat. “I’m yours, Slayer, I’m all yours.” His acquiescence complete, she slowly impaled herself and he shuddered as he felt her sweet walls surround him and begin to milk him…..


Spike sat up with a gasp, looking wildly around the shuttered darkness of the posh villa he’d ‘liberated’ from it’s owner after his return to Brazil. What the hell was wrong with him? Life was good, he had Dru back, well, mostly back, Rio was a perfect hunting ground and Sunnydale was a distant memory. He rubbed his eyes. This had to stop.

It had been innocent enough at first. She’d popped up here and there in his dreams after that pitstop in Sunnydale, part of the melody of mayhem and violence that made for the most pleasant of nightmares. He found that her appearances, though sporadic, were always prominent when they occurred.

Sometimes he won, relishing the victory of his third slayer, sometimes she won and he’d had that peculiar sensation that occurs when you meet your own death in the world of Morpheus. But he’d thought it was nothing more than him wanting to do what he always did – best the best.

Dru had taken him back after he’d reasserted his Big Badness and he felt he’d carved out a comfortable little niche for them in the warm, dark, vibrant city that demons of all kinds called home. He’d deliberately maintained a low profile, but found that Dru liked to be seen and frequently begged to be squired to the latest party or event that was thrown. So he’d dutifully accompanied his black beauty, glad they had repaired the wounds opened by that sodding resouled ponce.

But as the months passed, the dreams had changed. No longer was she an infrequent visitor. Her appearances became an almost nightly occurrence, taunting, teasing, fighting, until he was no longer surprised to see her when he closed his eyes. He tried to shake it off, there was no way he was going back to Sunnyhell. He’d wait for the next Slayer to make his mark again. But she continued to invade his sleep.

News filtered through the demon grapevine that some crazy type, the Mayor of Sunnydale, had attempted an ascension that failed spectacularly, thanks to the efforts of one Miss Buffy Summers. Spike had shuddered gratefully to be far from the scene of that debacle and renewed his vow to stay out of California for a good many years.

But that same night, as he lay sated from feeding and fucking, his dreams had taken an even more disturbing twist. For the first time, the Slayer didn’t approach him in full battle mode. She’d sauntered up, garbed in some come-hither little straps of material he’d seen chits of her age wear to attract men, and begun to flirt with him, before suddenly surprising him with a roundhouse to the head which had knocked him flat. Her laughter had echoed in his ears as she’d staked him that time.

At the summer progressed, the dreams grew more vivid. She taunted, she teased, she lured him ever closer, like a moth to the flame, always promising, never delivering, as the dance between them grew more intense. But it had never gone this far, never been this vivid. He’d felt her heat, smelled her musk, drowned in her eyes.

Spike gripped his head as he suddenly became aware the sheets were a mess due to his little dream excursion. Bugger, wouldn’t do to have Dru find this, didn’t want to answer the questions that would raise. Puzzled he looked around, suddenly realizing Dru was missing, again. He knew it was nearly dusk, but they often spent the early evening together before going out.

Except the last few weeks she’d been rising earlier, flitting about and murmuring in her charmingly incomprehensible manner about things he’d been less attuned to than he should have. She’d taken to frequenting Ric’s Place, an open-air bar that catered to the demon population, run by a vamp with an apparent fascination for Casablanca and Ingrid Bergman. He’d humored her fascination with the bar, personally finding most of the locals to be less than interesting. But it seemed to make her happy and she’d return chattering about the antics of Tim or Rick or Selena. Spike sighed. Keeping Dru happy and content seemed harder than ever these days, even worse than before that little stunt she’d pulled in Prague that had nearly gotten them both killed.

He glanced at the clock on the mantle. He didn’t have long before his appointment with Edward, another ex-patriot who had found the South American environment and high demon population to be a boon for his art and collectibles business. He’d contacted Spike a few days before with information about a new trinket, some lovely rare emeralds he’d come into possession of. He’d visit Edward, pick up something nice for his lady, maybe take her out for a bite or two, then home for a good shag that would rid his mind of the bloody slayer and bring his Dru close to him again.

He shuddered again at the memory of the dream. Must be some sort of id thing – sex and violence and all that – getting all melded together and representing itself in the icon of death for vamps. Well, he’d always been a little twisted. He shrugged into his jacket and exited the villa.

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