Title: He Doesn't 1/1
Author: Danielle
E-mail: PrincessCashew@hotmail.com
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: The Crush and anything before that
Summary: Dru's come back to Spike, but what if he hasn't come back to her
Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters. They belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN, and whoever has rights to these people in court. Do not sue me, I'm poor anyway.
Distribution: Whoever wants it can have it, just e-mail me first so I can come and visit.
His eyes are pulsating and yellow and the demon's right there, right underneath the surface, but he won't come out to play. Whatever happened to my William? I can feel him there, he's still inside, and he's screaming to me, and it's beautiful. All the stars are aligned and the moon knows what it has to do. But he doesn't understand.
I want him to cut me and let all the bright fairies flow down the front of my dress. Masses of green and blue iridescence. Like flowers drowning in seas of carnage. Maybe he'd listen to them. I can't help but do that. They don't stop anymore, so loud and thundering in my brains. They echo in the lobes and pulse beneath the thick walls and he is the only one who can cause their release. But he doesn't hear them.
He's lost, tangled in the threads. They pull on him, ripping him, changing and changing, but they're always there, thorns in his jacket and burrs in his hair. Skin splitting and heart exposed, shivering with expected rejection. He quakes with it, the passion. Always so much passion. But he doesn't feel it.
He told me that I was being lied to, that it couldn't be true, years ago. But the dollies could never lie while they sipped their tea and Miss Edith's tears were black onyx down her cheeks. She knew too what was coming. But he doesn't know.
I could taste her all over him, in Brazil. Her scent in every crevice and the hawk showed me no safe place to tread. So I obeyed. It's worse now. Her imprint is here and there on his skin, invisible, but sensed, marring the perfection I'd come to memorize. But he doesn't care.
I see it, and it's also hummed into my marrow, that the monster calls to me, fangs itching to probe into familiar flesh, feel the cool liquid spill down towards his throat. Although, something's whistling as well, saying that the man does everything to push me away, fingers desiring to write great works, trace the warm curve of a
woman's back. But he doesn't think that he can choose.
It's too late. He already has. My lips tugged by gravity to his own. Pitched forward. They part, and I desire it. I do. But he doesn’t.
So? Feedback to Me
