DANGEROUS GAME

Author: s.a.
Rating: R 
Pairing: Spike/Dawn. In a rather vague way.
Disclaimer: Man, even if they *were* mine I wouldn't do this to them. 
These
characters belong to Whedon and Co. No infringement is intended.
Improv: #40 (pet - cool - sweat - spray)
Spoilers: None. Just, yanno, know that Dawn and Spike exist.
Feedback: Yes! Yes! Yes! Right - not a Herbal Essences commercial. 
email -
sa@nodist.net 
Distribution: Improv Archive. My site, http://hole.nodist.net. Various
Dawnfic archives. Ask and ye shall recieve.
Author's Notes: This was a plot bunny. I finally killed it. Be proud of 
me.
Summary: A Turning changes things.

---

She let her hair swing softly in the crevice of her lower back. She'd never
cut it; the faint traces of innocence left in her were rare, and when she
had a mane of hair to hide behind it was that much easier to attract
beautiful young boys who thought they were the predators.

She found that having this slender body let her move her hips in a catlike
manner, something she had never been able to achieve when she was human.
There was a grace there that had been only slightly present before her
Turning, but the edge that sharpened her walk was new. As were the fangs.
And the ridges that mottled her forehead when she changed to feed.

She rounded a corner and spotted the boy she was going after tonight.
Somewhere along the way she had acquired a taste for the specific kill.
She'd choose a boy ­ always male, never female, only occasionally a man ­
and follow him for a few days, picking up his mannerisms and quirks. It was
an especially fun part of the game to follow them closely so the scent of
sweat-soaked fear rippled off them. They would look over their shoulder,
searching for some sign of the evil they felt tracking them ­ felt, but
never seen. The boys who boasted of death-defying tricks and fearless
courage were reduced to scared children, scampering home.

She reveled in it. 

Taking their lives was a sweetness she never tired of. She would enthrall
them, catch them with her eyes and let them fall in love with her. It was so
very easy, a fledgling's trick, but the power that radiated from the simple
act of unadorned worship kept her coming back for the thrill.

There were the frustrating ones that wouldn't submit to her charms; those
she killed quickly with a sigh, bemoaning all the trouble she had gone to in
order to bring them to her. Sometimes, though, those boys were the sweetest
of all. It wasn't the fear, or the paralyzing desperation. The beauty of
these kills was that in the end, she saw them thank her for death. It was an
odd sort of thing, she noticed, that all these boys were thankful for their
end. She didn't pretend to understand it; she simply craved it more and more. 

Her prey kept her out all night. She absorbed that freedom with zealous
passion, pushing the boundaries of her still-young existence by staying out
until the sun cleared the night sky, by pacing around her room, anxious for
the sun to dip low. She'd constantly be on the move, and she liked it that
way. The night was rife with possibilities, and she was determined to sample
every one. 

She went out in clothes taken from her mundane kills, the ditzy girls she
had no time for. Occasionally she'd nick something from a store, if it
really called to her. She lived in the dark side of the spectrum, decked out
in blacks and deep purples, blood red and night blue. She didn't care that
it was the most rampant cliché ­ she wore the colors that expressed who she
was, in a way she hadn't been able to accomplish when she was alive.

She liked the feeling of the cool night air on her equally cool skin. The
shirts she wore dipped low in the back, often held together by some scrap of
cloth or a simple tie. She'd get shirts that overemphasized her breasts. She
loved her femininity, loved showing it off and flaunting it in the faces of
the humans who fell over at the sight of her. It was fun, she told herself,
reveling in the thrill that ran up her spine when all eyes were on her. She
felt ... noticed. Which gave her a satisfaction unparalleled by the keenest
of kills. 

There were nights she didn't hunt at all. She'd charm the bartender at the
Bronze into slipping her a martini or vodka-with-a-twist, letting her eyes
roam over the bustling crowd. There was heat there, something she didn't
realize she ached for, and a pulse that would allow her the small foil of
losing her mind in the headiness of the humans and the pounding of the beat.

She liked bass lines and dancing alone. Every now and then she'd pick some
poor unsuspecting guy or girl and dance with them for hours, grinding up to
them till they were breathless, or staying ever so close while still being
ever so far - never touching, only giving ghosts of contact amplified with
that odd quirking smile she learned from him. But most of the time, she'd
stroll in at eleven and stay till four, still moving seductively, a pale
serpentine shadow gyrating in the half-dark.

The bartenders knew when to leave, never questioning how she got out after
the doors were locked.

She'd slide in just before the first rays of the harsh California sun hit
the ground, and he'd look at her in that disapproving,
just-how-stupid-are-you manner that would make her eyes roll. But if he
wasn't lost in his own world, they'd curl up together in his oddly
comfortable bed. He'd pet her hair and trace patterns on her arms until she
began to doze off; she'd listen for his nonexistent heartbeat and breath on
his chest because she knew he liked it.

Then their night would start again. She never saw him hunt. The only time
she'd seen him kill was when he showed her what to do when she first rose;
other than that, he'd just come along with her and watch her technique.
"Don't spill," he'd say. "The idiot vampires around here leave trails of
perfectly good blood running down their necks, not even bothering to clean
up after themselves. Bloody stupid of them."

She listened, albeit with a practiced sigh and that defiant stance, but she
knew when to really hear him. It only took a few weeks before he let her out
on her own, though she suspected he still followed her at a distance sometimes.

When she fed, her hair slipped in front of her face. It's a long, shiny
curtain obscuring the demonic ridges that muss her pretty face. Sometimes,
when she's careless, the blood will spatter on her hair and she'll whine
until he hands her the shampoo and gruffly tells her to just get over it
already and wash her damn hair. She'll pout, and head down to the water main
he'd had diverted and wait for him to come.

He always does. 

He'll hold her hair back with careful grace and let his fingertips run over
her nonbeating temples. He will work the shampoo in carefully, reverently,
oddly worshipful of the creature she has become. He'll smooth out the
tangles and run his fingers through her hair, slowly working out all of the
suds with the soft spray of water. Then he'll lead her back to the bed and
brush her hair for hours, until the sunrise nears and she becomes dozy from
the nearness of dawn and the slow carding of the brush through her
slow-drying hair. 

She knows she has a power over him. She doesn't really understand how she
came upon it, but he is her Sire and she has power over him. The thought
makes her giggle; it makes her tremble in fear and power. What Childe has
power over their Sire? It's simply not done. He disbelieves the lore, to be
sure, but there are things ingrained in a vampire's blood, and this is one
of him. 

None of this information stops her from using this power freely and pushing
it to its farthest extent. She puts on that little girl smile and slinks up
his body, pooling that curtain of hair at his groin and just breathing.
Cool, unnecessary breath that makes his eyes flutter closed. She knows the
memories flicker through his brain, though it was never like this and she'd
always needed to breathe. Before.

And when he finally gives in to her ministrations, it's always with his eyes
closed and his lips pursed, as if he's trying to reclaim all his memories of
times gone by through her. Through her form, her lifeless body, her façade
of the human she once was. She would care, really, but she is far too caught
up in the jerking motion of his hips and the clamping force of his hands on
her waist and the oblivion that comes with being fucked into the ground
every. single. night.

When she comes home, fresh from feeding, her cheeks flushed with other
people's blood and her senses heightened from a particularly clean kill, she
controls the room. She swings her hips in the manner that attracts all the
attention, allowing the corners of her lips to turn upwards slightly when
those impossibly murky eyes fasten on her. She has his libido manacled to
her little finger, and when she slips out of her heels and slides one bare
foot near his thigh, bringing her clothed pussy close enough for his mouth
to water she knows that power in its full force.

Though it comes with a price.

Because when he kisses her in that reverent manner, when he lets his pale
fingers roam anxiously over her body, she hears the hitch in his voice. She
smells the sour scent of desperation falling in waves from him. She feels
the convulsive way he squeezes her breast, and she tastes the unwelcome
tears that streak his chin.

She sees him whisper "Buffy" soundlessly into the dark, but she never, ever
stops.  


+ s.a.

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