#thread: spike

[orumad]

@slayvicr​ // cont.

not a single wrinkle of passed time shows on spike’s face, no charred notion of the thundering orange explosion in which he’d been consumed. he’s still the same pale marble he was when he met her (what feels like - and technically was - entire lifetimes ago), the same quirking, smug smirk he’d worn then is there now, dancing giddy on his lips. the difference is the awed and revered gleam in his wide eyes, the parting of his lips. as if he hadn’t spent a month working up the gall to seek buffy out, as if he’s just as surprised to see her. in a way, he is. she looks different -- not older, but more peaceful. the world is a much different place than how he left it and spike is innately gratified to find that it’s one that agrees with her.

it’s an absolute mystery to spike, how angel can admire her from the shadowy outskirts of her life. to carry on the relentless brooding, the poofter, he thinks. spike, on the other hand, isn’t nearly as selfless. though it did require some thought (to the tune of: could i impose? certainly. will she accept me back? likely not. shall i try anyhow? bloody right), he was magnetized.

“could say the same to you --- ohio?” she’s really gone and plunged blonde-first into stupefied normalcy. an unnecessary breath catches in his throat, implies how heavily this moment has weighed on him, too. spike steps closer, minimizing the space, his head canted and lips flickering into a musing smile. “happy birthday, buffy.”

[orumad]

@noussommefcrtsx​ sent: “everyone looks better in pink!”

the prim exclamation is met with an unimpressed scowl, spike narrows his eyes at alice and the shirt pinched between her fingers like it’s a dead animal -- he wishes. “uh-uh, not me. see here, only pink i’ll be wearing is the gory bits i’ll be ripping out of some ---,” he stops, catches her eye and then shows his palm, which flicks a lighter to cherry his cigarette, “some adorable little doe in the forest, what-bloody-ever. point is, punk’s only half-dead.” it’s a sentiment accentuated by a freshly black lacquered index finger. gaze furrows thoughtfully through a snaking cloud of smoke. “-- got anything in red then?”

[orumad]

@liminalchaos​ // liked for a starter.

“i wonder whose tongue this is?”

[orumad]

@perfectdespair ; cont.

“-- meant you.” spike shrugs, wonders if he ought to reconsider given her misunderstanding. he thoughtfully swirls the drink in the flask before throwing some back, decides to double down. “always ends up givin’ me a headache, too.” mostly he’s just trying to rile her up. in their little band of merry menaces, darla and spike have always been the furthest apart. thrown together only by coincidence, or fate, not even remotely by free will, and he's always taken her to be a mite bit santicmonious. so he shows her a humorless smile. “dru’s a beast of another color.”

[orumad]

cont. / @youweremythtaken

"play nice now, kitten," spike chastises, quick to plant himself back firmly in her way. "no need going greedy now that old spike wants a piece of the pie. the east side of the cemetery's mine, won't have you walking 'round like you own the place." obviously she missed the memo where he'd sectioned out sunnydale to give himself some territory. how's he supposed to get any fight in when the slayer's killing anything worth a tussle in a ten mile radius? so, he'll ask again, slow, like she's a child. "what - are - you - hunting?"

[orumad]

❝ every thought i have turns the language blue. ❞ — from drusilla to spike

"tell me, love," spike urges, an open flat hand ghosting along the side of her head, chipped black nail polished fingers dipping into the inky curtain of her hair. "tell me what you're thinking." blue. the poetry of her madness has never been lost on him, in fact it usually made more sense than anything else he's ever known. his touch falls to her skin, blue-white in itself, cold, but solid. his fingers loop around her wrist and bring her hand to his lips. "do you want a walk? it's a full moon out." as if she isn't keenly aware, can imagine it's been singing to her all night.

[orumad]

push :   my  muse  pushing  your  muse  out  of  the  way  of  danger. — from buffy to spike

with his spine cracking off a gravestone, spike thinks dully that he'd probably rather've taken the vampire, supercharged though it may be. feels like there's cartoon bluebirds flying 'round his head a moment, but he riles himself, and just in time to land a kick to the back of the baddie, sending it hurtling into buffy's waiting stake. spike's raised brow and flat mouth materialize through the falling dust. "i had that one," he insists, wiping a clod of dirt off his sleeve. muttering, "lest you forget, slayer, you're not the only thing in the graveyard with a bit of brawn." he won't admit that he was a mite worried for a beat there, can't say why this particular vampire seemed to have some extra edge on him, but it's probably lucky the blonde popped up when she did, though spike's still feigning bitterness. almost chiding when he adds, "i told you i've got patrol tonight. go home to beddy bye."

[orumad]

cont. / @beepme she’s pouting. arms crossed, brows raised. “ i am very adventurous. ms. adventurous, actually. but this — “ the ‘this’ she is referring to being a hole in the ground in the middle of sunnydale's cemetery, “ — is not my idea of an adventure. more like a one way ticket into the hell mouth. and even though i’m sure it’d love to choke on me, i’m not the mood to be a late night snack. "

"it's not the time for laziness on the job, slayer. we've got... evil to vanquish. big nasties to kill." safe to say spike's fiending for a fight. normally he'd have already swan dived into the strange hole, but something tells him to bring a bit of backup. he's squat along the edge of it, fingers running over the rough patch where grass tears off into dirt clumps and then nothingness. "grow some stones. 'sides, can't very well leave it here, can you? some innocent bloody child or-- puppy might stumble in."