gillo
in
sb_fag_ends
Lust for a Vampire
Season Seven, Spike in a ranty mood. Some British naughty words. Because, Spike.
Buffy just couldn’t stop laughing when he told her the problem. Not that she was prepared to recognise that it was a problem - any more than Builder Boy or Witch Girl would have been.
In a way, she was right - it was a poetic justice. He could look at the pathetic little sod and see himself, how he’d carried on about Buffy that year Glory was around. Yes, yes, he’d had that shop dummy with a wig on and photos of her. And perhaps pinching her knickers had been a bit creepy. And sniffing them. That blue jumper, too. And the sex game with Harm.
OK, OK, he’d been a creepy stalker. But, hey, vampire. And no soul either, not then. And when she found out about it, she’d locked him out good and proper, abracadabra, just like that. No “Try not to mock him. Be gentle with him.” No, not for the vampire in love there wasn’t. Just lots of laughter and the odd physical threat.
So now he had a soul and that was, what, supposed to make him kind to every little jerk he came across? He didn’t see that working on all the soul-having, beating-heart types around him, exactly.
When he tried to explain to her just what precisely was so wrong about it all, she’d writhed in delighted giggles. When he asked her for some help, she was too breathless even to speak. In the end he just stormed out of the house. Temper tantrum? Yes, but a justified tantrum.
When he came back the next day he had a plan of action, of sorts. One. Buffy and he would never, ever talk about it. Ever. Two. Buffy would not tell anyone else about it. Ever. Except the three people she’d already told, dammit, who smirked at him every time he looked in their direction.
And three, yes, he would talk to the kid, explain kindly that he was already taken, encourage him to get over his crush.
But, God help him, if the little wanker called him “Obi-Wan” even once more, all bets were off. Soul or no soul, he would bite him for the good of humanity.
Buffy just couldn’t stop laughing when he told her the problem. Not that she was prepared to recognise that it was a problem - any more than Builder Boy or Witch Girl would have been.
In a way, she was right - it was a poetic justice. He could look at the pathetic little sod and see himself, how he’d carried on about Buffy that year Glory was around. Yes, yes, he’d had that shop dummy with a wig on and photos of her. And perhaps pinching her knickers had been a bit creepy. And sniffing them. That blue jumper, too. And the sex game with Harm.
OK, OK, he’d been a creepy stalker. But, hey, vampire. And no soul either, not then. And when she found out about it, she’d locked him out good and proper, abracadabra, just like that. No “Try not to mock him. Be gentle with him.” No, not for the vampire in love there wasn’t. Just lots of laughter and the odd physical threat.
So now he had a soul and that was, what, supposed to make him kind to every little jerk he came across? He didn’t see that working on all the soul-having, beating-heart types around him, exactly.
When he tried to explain to her just what precisely was so wrong about it all, she’d writhed in delighted giggles. When he asked her for some help, she was too breathless even to speak. In the end he just stormed out of the house. Temper tantrum? Yes, but a justified tantrum.
When he came back the next day he had a plan of action, of sorts. One. Buffy and he would never, ever talk about it. Ever. Two. Buffy would not tell anyone else about it. Ever. Except the three people she’d already told, dammit, who smirked at him every time he looked in their direction.
And three, yes, he would talk to the kid, explain kindly that he was already taken, encourage him to get over his crush.
But, God help him, if the little wanker called him “Obi-Wan” even once more, all bets were off. Soul or no soul, he would bite him for the good of humanity.