Summary: What does a pissed off vamp do when he's dragged to the Hellmouth when he'd rather be swanning around Europe? Why, he gets inventive in order to have fun with the Slayer of course.

Rating: I'll go for R at this time. Though knowing me, a change is possible.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I have merely manipulated his creation to make myself and hopefully you happy. I gain nothing but satisfaction mentally.

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Chapter Seven

Darla was changing her plan.  As soon as the boy had entered the building, as soon as she felt his stare on her body, she knew that an opportunity had been too ripely offered to be refused. 

 He didn't even have to be pursued, his eyes settling on her and making quick work across the room to be once again in front of her.  His gaze was riveted on her legs and she grinned.  The short skirt got them every time.  Her lips formed a smile of satisfaction and the promising venture made her happy.  Things were looking up, and if she played her hand as lightly as possible, she could use this one to all sorts of gain.

 "Hey," Jesse greeted, trying for casual as he leaned against a pillar.  Bodies were sweating from dancing fun all around him, the music pounding a rhythm so hard and loud he could barely concentrate, and yet his heart thumping in fascinated terror played louder than it all.  His adopted cool slipped a fraction as amber flickered in her eyes and he stood spellbound waiting.  She didn't keep him long, her hand curling around his and dragging him behind her into the dark that surrounded the club.

 Her fingers were cold.  He remembered it from the night before, but now he knew the cause.  His heart seemed to jump a few beats before attempting to jam them back in between and making him almost faint with understanding.  And against it all, his dick twitched.  When had he ever cared about living?  It was a given when he woke that each day he would draw breath and just be.  This night had caused him to choose, and he wavered between desire and sense, his masculinity and need winning out.

 It was a compulsion, though.  This craving to be with her, to let her do to him whatever she was made for; turned for.  He felt like she was there for him and him alone—to make him into something special.  To teach him ways that had been denied to him by being sixteen and a loser.  By being friends with nerds and geeks.

 Darla turned to look at him, walking backwards while she still held his hand to guide.  She was grinning, her smile sly and knowing.  The tinkle of her voice was so girlish, so sexy and addictive. "I lost you last night.  Not letting you get away again." 

 In his head it was the death knell and he felt the zip of tragedy all the way to his toes.  His body was numb, his eyes scared but sure, and his hand began squeezing hers in acceptance.

 "No chance of that," he told her, his voice only a little shaky.  "I don't plan on going anywhere that you aren't."

 And then she kissed him, a brush of the lips so soft he thought he was dreaming and his frightening introduction to creatures of the night really had been in his hallucinations.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He was drunk.  Fall-off-your-barstool pissed as a parrot, and giggling like one too.  Spike kept tapping the bar, growling at any barkeep that refused to refill his glass for free.  Waiting for something to kick him in the arse and shove him back into the dark cave of his former life before he woke up and realised the monumental cock up he'd caused by simply opening his mouth.  It seemed bullshit always flowed with a rapid current.  Always with the bloody foot insertion.  After a century he'd thought he'd grown out of the habit.  He was proven wrong far too often.

 A sharp sting at the base of his neck told him she'd arrived and his head hit the bar with a beer nut shattering accuracy.  He groaned, the alcohol fuzzing his brain nowhere near enough for him to ignore that he was caught.  He'd bloody kissed her, let his lips touch hers and know the sweetness of her innocence. He was completely buggered and he knew it.  But that didn't have to mean he liked it.

 He was almost tempted to go outside, lead her out by the nose, and off some poor sod right in bloody front of her.  If that didn't get the trouble fixed, nothing could.  Several things prevented that course of action, though.  One, he'd bleeding well die admitting it out loud, but...he liked kissing her.  She didn't have too much experience, and that naivety alone made him drown in her.  She treated him as special.  Girls don't go kissing blokes just for the hell of it.  Not as a rule. Nor do the blokes kiss them back when they don't care.

 He cared.  And wasn't that the rub.  She'd ripped the evilness right out of his body and left him flapping around all soulfulwithoutasoul, trashing his existence and all the comfort of a lifestyle he'd known for a hundred years—and he cared.  It was almost too much for him to handle—driving him to drink rather than the next sunrise.  But it wasn't all.

 Angelus.  His presence around the girl spoke of badness that Spike wasn't so comfortable with.  He knew how the guy operated, and though he still hadn't worked out exactly what the drama queen was doing getting so close to a potential stake to the heart, his being around was enough to make Spike falter.  He couldn't let Buffy succumb to the sleazy charm of his elder.  He couldn't let Angelus win—whatever the prize was he sought.  The pompous arse had taken everything from Spike at one time or another.  He'd zeroed in on what was precious and he seized it with a malicious grin.  Every.  Fucking.  Time.  Well, no more.  The Slayer would need Spike by her side, at her back and anywhere else he deemed necessary to protect her.  He just couldn't help the panic that need instilled.

 She was at his shoulder before he could swallow another shot.  That annoyed him.  Spike felt desperate to be wasted, having much faith in his ability to make sense of his world when he was three sheets to the wind.  Her hand on his back as she fell into the barstool beside him and he was stone cold sober.  Well, that tore it.  He'd have to give her a piece of his mind.  He'd have to assert his position and put her in her pl—

 He couldn't think when she was kissing him.  Silky soft lips brushed his in a tenderness of affection he'd never really experienced before.  A small hand seemed to tangle with his, Spike spinning in his chair to better face her and allowing him to tug her closer.  And then the hesitant point of her tongue slipped passed his lips and Spike felt the heat explode through his body like scorching magma.

 She never got so close as to touch his body.  The need to have that contact was akin to maddening, Spike's body buzzing in desperation.  Though he could scent her unease and he held himself back as much as an experienced soulless demon could.  This soul thing was becoming ridiculous, knowing beyond doubt that this mess would never have been created if he hadn't been inspired to spin webs of deceit.

 Pushing him to his limits, Spike almost groaned when she stepped back, though the happy smile on her face left him stunned.

 "Hey," she greeted, and Spike focused uneasily on the luscious green of her eyes and the healthy warmth of her skin. 

 What the fuck was he doing?  Kissing the Slayer?  Wanting more than her young body should be giving?  He was out of his bleeding mind, make no mistake.  Which completely explained why his hand lifted and brushed a stray hair off her face.

 "Hey yourself," he agreed huskily, wanting to badly get back into either the kissing or the drinking, He'd be buggered if he knew at this stage which he wanted more.

 Buffy looked at their hands still clasped together and felt giddiness wash over her.  The music was pumping, life thrummed through the building, and she was with a really gorgeous vamp.  One that she was falling hard for.  It was a night made for fun and her friends were eager to see him again.  Wanting to hear his side of the story in regards to Angel and going down to The Master's mystical prison.  But first, she needed time for her—for them—and did her best to peel him from his stool and lead him out to the dance floor. 

He looked confused once they stood in the centre of the throng of sweating dancing teens, almost as if he hadn't noticed her making him walk away from the bar.  But once she'd wrapped her arms around his neck, placed her head against his non-vibrating chest, he melted into her and let the music envelop them.  She was an addictive and persuasive bint and Spike was finding once his hands were on her, he couldn't let her go.

 He couldn't have buggered things up more if he'd tried.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

He'd woken up in her bed, her naked body curled around strangled sheets with her back to him.  She was pristine but he was covered in bite marks and blood.  His stare focused on the ceiling, admiring the brave experiment of a darker canvas against the relief of paler walls.  It was nice.  Sort of calming.

 And then his lungs forced him to breathe.

 Jesse couldn't work out if he was disappointed, though that would be pretty selfish considering all that he'd gained throughout the night.  Or more accurately, what he'd lost.  Blood wasn't even the half of it—not if his own birthday suit and sticky cock was to tally up.  He was too exhausted to smile—too shattered to decide if he wanted to smile.  All he could tell right now was that he had left that loser club of geeky virgins and that he wasn't dead.

 Oh, and that vampires, and possibly other creatures that go bump in the night, were totally freakin' real.

 Darla moaned and rolled onto her back, giving him a luscious view of her breasts.  He felt crippled in hunger, realising too late that now he'd tasted her—that she'd taken blood from him—he needed much more to satisfy his urges.

 Her greeting wasn't all it could be.

 "Oh, it's you."  Her cold calculating eyes fell to the stir of his cock, licking her lips as she moved to straddle him.  He felt more afraid as she slipped his stiffness into her body than he had when she'd vamped and struck at his neck.  The bite had quenched some thirst he had to be drunk.  To renew that link that was created the first time she'd sipped from him.  Her eagerness to taste him wasn't as desperate as he wished, but when he was in the throes of ecstasy with his blood leaking away from his neck, he didn't much care, as long as she didn't stop.  As long as she fed his new addiction and allowed him sanity through provision.

 He'd never felt anything so moist and tight around his cock before.  Not even when he'd tried the age old apple pie routine.  Nothing could match this sensation and Jesse rejoiced in his courage.  Without it he may have been cast aside and never brought back here.  Never felt the joy of being screwed within an inch of his life while she snuck blood from naughtier places.

 All up, though, she was fearsome.  She growled at him for pumping too slow, her claws slashed at him for coming too fast.  And she bit him for just not knowing.

 She terrified him and made him shake.  But every little dig, every little cut told him his choice had been wise.  Told him he'd found life by risking becoming dead.

 And Darla just smiled.