TITLE: "Lost The Plot"
AUTHOR: zero
EMAIL: [email protected]
DISTRIBUTION: Yeah, sure, wherever. Please let me know if you're archiving
somewhere so I can stop by and inflate my own sense of self-importance.
SUMMARY: Congratulations...you're dinner.
RATING: PG-13 for language
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Buffy
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss. You belong to you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story can be found on the web at
http://www.zeroimpact.com/ along with any other fic I've written that
hasn't made me cringe in loathing and fear. This has not been beta'd or
spellchecked and therefore probably makes little sense. Also, the term
"lost the plot" is apparently British slang for "gone mad", but it also
applies here because... well, if I had a plot, it seems to have escaped.
I'll have to hunt it down and kill it.
DEDICATION: For Cassandra... because you're desperate, and I have nothing
better to do.
LOST THE PLOT
by zero ([email protected])
There's a kind of reliable solidarity about it: the knowledge that, no
matter how grand the scheme, no matter how carefully planned and
flawlessly executed, she'll win. It's a steady reassurance, one of the few
things on life that can be counted on consistently. It's knowing that no
matter what I do, I'll end up battered and bloodied, thoroughly trounced
by a blond whisp of a girl who, in another life, would've been nothing
more than a snack to me.
I'm not saying that getting my ass kicked is a good thing, mind you.
Actually, it's bloody horrible. But to know that in a world of change this
one thing remains the same...that's worth something.
But if I've learned anything in two hundred years, it's that all things
change, no matter how much you wish they wouldn't. She still wins, of
course. She still thwarts all sinister plots and makes sure the world
keeps on turning. She still kicks some serious undead ass. All that's
changed is that she doesn't kick *my* ass anymore.
It's kind of hard to do, you know, kicking somebody's ass when it's
planted firmly in a wheelchair. I don't know if it'd be disgust or pity,
but if I met her on the street now, I doubt she'd even take the time to
dust me. I'm no threat anymore. Not worth bothering with.
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible that she misses me. Those fast, wicked
fights, so evenly matched. Every weapon at my disposal pointed straight at
her, and her beating all of them away. The slide of my skin against hers,
locked in combat so smooth and graceful that it's almost sensual in its
brutality...
Of course she doesn't. Miss me? Right. She'd rather just see me gone,
whether I'm a threat or not. For conveniences' sake. But then who would
keep her on her toes?
It wouldn't be that wanker Angelus, I know that much. He's so *not*
creative in his approach. He's nothing more than a common thug, a bully.
Street-corner terrorist. Her only challenge where Angelus is concerned is
herself: putting aside love and doing her duty. I've wondered whether she
can do it at all; she's let him slip away so many times, he should've been
dead ten times over already. But she's strong. She'll pull through, no
matter what hand Fate deals her. The only question is how much victory
will cost her.
He's out there right now, y'know. Angelus, with the Slayer. They aren't
shagging like they used to, obviously; more likely they're bashing each
other's brains out with heavy objects. And that's alright, as long as the
Slayer is the basher and Angel is the bashee. But that's not the point.
The point is he's out there doing what I used to do, and when he comes
back here, he does *who* I used to do. The bastard's taken over my unlife.
And that's not really the part that gets me. The really disturbing bit is
that I want *his* life. The one he used to lead, I mean. But...minus all
the guilt and brooding and soul-having. I'm just plain tired of all this,
you know? It might be nice; no minions to waste time browbeating, just to
stand in the shadows, to observe quietly and only step in when you really
want to. To be able to touch her...
You know, Angelus was the "scourge of Europe" for a hundred years. And
just because she met him *after* he did it all, she doesn't take the
"psycho killer" thing into account; even after he became that demon again,
she still loves him, somewhere deep inside herself. But me...she met me
when I was still interested in the whole killing and maiming scene. And of
course *that* hasn't changed, because I still do eat people, and it's
still pretty fun. But under all that, I'm really not a bad guy.
I'll bet you go to Sunnydale High School, don't you? You must've seen her,
then; in the halls, the library, talking to her friends in that little
courtyard. Buffy. Don't let the name fool you; she's just as much vicious
killer as I am, she just doesn't let herself enjoy it as much. Fights for
good rather than evil, and all that. Maybe you know her? No. It's just as
well.
She's short, and slim; I'd say "petite", but it seems too delicate a word
to describe her. And she's not delicate. I imagine Angel -- soul-having
Angel -- treated her that way, their first and only time together. I can
see it in my head, his body over hers, touching her, holding her as if one
wrong move would shatter her into a million pieces. But that's not what
she needs. She needs someone whose strength perfectly matches her own,
someone whose touch is intense rather than delicate, bold rather than
tentative. Someone to match her mercurial moods and know just what she
needs and when she needs it. She needs someone who can make hot, ferocious
love to her without ripping out her heart and stomping on it --
figuratively speaking, of course. Though with Angel lately, I suppose that
could be taken literally as well...
I've dreamed so many times of being that someone. Running my fingers
through her silky golden hair, pressing the length of my body to hers
without fear of a stake plunging through my heart. I've dreamed of it even
more than I've dreamed of standing up again and reclaiming what's mine.
I've dreamed of it more than I've dreamt of the sun. She *is* the sun.
Very Anne Rice, right? Well, fuck you. So I've got problems. It's not like
I can visit a psychiatrist; last time I tried that I ended up getting
hungry and though sucking the condescending bitch dry really made me feel
better, it didn't help the problem any. And I really don't have anyone to
talk to, which you may have guessed by now based on the fact that I'm
talking to *you*.
I don't usually play with my food. Mother used to say it was bad manners,
and when she married, her husband drove the point home with his fork. I've
still got the scars from the tines. And besides that, I find it all just a
bit distasteful. I never could stand it when I'm trying to eat and
somebody's staring at me, much less when it's the thing I'm eating that's
doing the staring. But it's okay tonight. It's okay. I just need somebody
to talk to, and it's just your bad luck that it ended up being you.
Of course, I could talk to Dru. Or Angel. Or any minion unfortunate enough
to be called into my rooms. But Dru would no doubt prattle on about Angel,
and Angel would nettle me about Dru, and a minion would just squirm
uncomfortably and not pay attention. You're paying attention, aren't you?
The same sort of attention a mouse pays a cat, all frozen and fearful. But
that's good enough.
So. The Slayer. She's real well-fit, that one; much better-looking than
any of her predecessors. And she's better at what she does, too. Her
disregard for the Watchers' rules and regulations is, no doubt, what's
kept her alive this long. The way she thinks on her feet is simply
astounding, and her creativity in a fight is unsurpassed. She uses the
strangest of objects to kill her enemies, but it works out for her every
time. There's luck involved, yes, but her survival is due mostly to
natural skill. It's not just the Slayer in her, it's the girl: clever and
resourceful. Even without that extra power, I think, she'd still come out
on top in any scuffle. I really wouldn't mind having her on top at all...
But I digress. My mind's all over the gaff tonight.
You must be wondering what's going to happen to you. Yes? I thought so.
You must think I'm different from the toadies who grabbed you off the
street, right? Like I'm more *sensitive*. Like maybe if you appeal to my
humanity, I'll help you get out of here.
Well, you can abandon that hope right now. I haven't got any humanity.
Yeah, I've got feelings for the Slayer. So what? You think I'm going to
roll over, bare my belly, bark like her fucking dog? You think I'm going
to stop killing and maiming and doing all of those funs things just
because thinkin' about her gives me a hard-on?
Yeah, I've been doing the five knuckle shuffle quite a bit lately. Yeah,
I'd like to bare my belly if that'd get me off with that blond little
bird. And yeah, I've been rambling on for quite some time about how
fuckin' sexy my mortal enemy is. But none of that changes anything.
I'm still hungry, little girl.
THE END
Ow, ow, my neck! That hurt!
----------------------------
[email protected]
http://www.zeroimpact.com
----------------------------
AUTHOR: zero
EMAIL: [email protected]
DISTRIBUTION: Yeah, sure, wherever. Please let me know if you're archiving
somewhere so I can stop by and inflate my own sense of self-importance.
SUMMARY: Congratulations...you're dinner.
RATING: PG-13 for language
CLASSIFICATION: Spike/Buffy
DISCLAIMER: They belong to Joss. You belong to you.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story can be found on the web at
http://www.zeroimpact.com/ along with any other fic I've written that
hasn't made me cringe in loathing and fear. This has not been beta'd or
spellchecked and therefore probably makes little sense. Also, the term
"lost the plot" is apparently British slang for "gone mad", but it also
applies here because... well, if I had a plot, it seems to have escaped.
I'll have to hunt it down and kill it.
DEDICATION: For Cassandra... because you're desperate, and I have nothing
better to do.
LOST THE PLOT
by zero ([email protected])
There's a kind of reliable solidarity about it: the knowledge that, no
matter how grand the scheme, no matter how carefully planned and
flawlessly executed, she'll win. It's a steady reassurance, one of the few
things on life that can be counted on consistently. It's knowing that no
matter what I do, I'll end up battered and bloodied, thoroughly trounced
by a blond whisp of a girl who, in another life, would've been nothing
more than a snack to me.
I'm not saying that getting my ass kicked is a good thing, mind you.
Actually, it's bloody horrible. But to know that in a world of change this
one thing remains the same...that's worth something.
But if I've learned anything in two hundred years, it's that all things
change, no matter how much you wish they wouldn't. She still wins, of
course. She still thwarts all sinister plots and makes sure the world
keeps on turning. She still kicks some serious undead ass. All that's
changed is that she doesn't kick *my* ass anymore.
It's kind of hard to do, you know, kicking somebody's ass when it's
planted firmly in a wheelchair. I don't know if it'd be disgust or pity,
but if I met her on the street now, I doubt she'd even take the time to
dust me. I'm no threat anymore. Not worth bothering with.
Sometimes I wonder if it's possible that she misses me. Those fast, wicked
fights, so evenly matched. Every weapon at my disposal pointed straight at
her, and her beating all of them away. The slide of my skin against hers,
locked in combat so smooth and graceful that it's almost sensual in its
brutality...
Of course she doesn't. Miss me? Right. She'd rather just see me gone,
whether I'm a threat or not. For conveniences' sake. But then who would
keep her on her toes?
It wouldn't be that wanker Angelus, I know that much. He's so *not*
creative in his approach. He's nothing more than a common thug, a bully.
Street-corner terrorist. Her only challenge where Angelus is concerned is
herself: putting aside love and doing her duty. I've wondered whether she
can do it at all; she's let him slip away so many times, he should've been
dead ten times over already. But she's strong. She'll pull through, no
matter what hand Fate deals her. The only question is how much victory
will cost her.
He's out there right now, y'know. Angelus, with the Slayer. They aren't
shagging like they used to, obviously; more likely they're bashing each
other's brains out with heavy objects. And that's alright, as long as the
Slayer is the basher and Angel is the bashee. But that's not the point.
The point is he's out there doing what I used to do, and when he comes
back here, he does *who* I used to do. The bastard's taken over my unlife.
And that's not really the part that gets me. The really disturbing bit is
that I want *his* life. The one he used to lead, I mean. But...minus all
the guilt and brooding and soul-having. I'm just plain tired of all this,
you know? It might be nice; no minions to waste time browbeating, just to
stand in the shadows, to observe quietly and only step in when you really
want to. To be able to touch her...
You know, Angelus was the "scourge of Europe" for a hundred years. And
just because she met him *after* he did it all, she doesn't take the
"psycho killer" thing into account; even after he became that demon again,
she still loves him, somewhere deep inside herself. But me...she met me
when I was still interested in the whole killing and maiming scene. And of
course *that* hasn't changed, because I still do eat people, and it's
still pretty fun. But under all that, I'm really not a bad guy.
I'll bet you go to Sunnydale High School, don't you? You must've seen her,
then; in the halls, the library, talking to her friends in that little
courtyard. Buffy. Don't let the name fool you; she's just as much vicious
killer as I am, she just doesn't let herself enjoy it as much. Fights for
good rather than evil, and all that. Maybe you know her? No. It's just as
well.
She's short, and slim; I'd say "petite", but it seems too delicate a word
to describe her. And she's not delicate. I imagine Angel -- soul-having
Angel -- treated her that way, their first and only time together. I can
see it in my head, his body over hers, touching her, holding her as if one
wrong move would shatter her into a million pieces. But that's not what
she needs. She needs someone whose strength perfectly matches her own,
someone whose touch is intense rather than delicate, bold rather than
tentative. Someone to match her mercurial moods and know just what she
needs and when she needs it. She needs someone who can make hot, ferocious
love to her without ripping out her heart and stomping on it --
figuratively speaking, of course. Though with Angel lately, I suppose that
could be taken literally as well...
I've dreamed so many times of being that someone. Running my fingers
through her silky golden hair, pressing the length of my body to hers
without fear of a stake plunging through my heart. I've dreamed of it even
more than I've dreamed of standing up again and reclaiming what's mine.
I've dreamed of it more than I've dreamt of the sun. She *is* the sun.
Very Anne Rice, right? Well, fuck you. So I've got problems. It's not like
I can visit a psychiatrist; last time I tried that I ended up getting
hungry and though sucking the condescending bitch dry really made me feel
better, it didn't help the problem any. And I really don't have anyone to
talk to, which you may have guessed by now based on the fact that I'm
talking to *you*.
I don't usually play with my food. Mother used to say it was bad manners,
and when she married, her husband drove the point home with his fork. I've
still got the scars from the tines. And besides that, I find it all just a
bit distasteful. I never could stand it when I'm trying to eat and
somebody's staring at me, much less when it's the thing I'm eating that's
doing the staring. But it's okay tonight. It's okay. I just need somebody
to talk to, and it's just your bad luck that it ended up being you.
Of course, I could talk to Dru. Or Angel. Or any minion unfortunate enough
to be called into my rooms. But Dru would no doubt prattle on about Angel,
and Angel would nettle me about Dru, and a minion would just squirm
uncomfortably and not pay attention. You're paying attention, aren't you?
The same sort of attention a mouse pays a cat, all frozen and fearful. But
that's good enough.
So. The Slayer. She's real well-fit, that one; much better-looking than
any of her predecessors. And she's better at what she does, too. Her
disregard for the Watchers' rules and regulations is, no doubt, what's
kept her alive this long. The way she thinks on her feet is simply
astounding, and her creativity in a fight is unsurpassed. She uses the
strangest of objects to kill her enemies, but it works out for her every
time. There's luck involved, yes, but her survival is due mostly to
natural skill. It's not just the Slayer in her, it's the girl: clever and
resourceful. Even without that extra power, I think, she'd still come out
on top in any scuffle. I really wouldn't mind having her on top at all...
But I digress. My mind's all over the gaff tonight.
You must be wondering what's going to happen to you. Yes? I thought so.
You must think I'm different from the toadies who grabbed you off the
street, right? Like I'm more *sensitive*. Like maybe if you appeal to my
humanity, I'll help you get out of here.
Well, you can abandon that hope right now. I haven't got any humanity.
Yeah, I've got feelings for the Slayer. So what? You think I'm going to
roll over, bare my belly, bark like her fucking dog? You think I'm going
to stop killing and maiming and doing all of those funs things just
because thinkin' about her gives me a hard-on?
Yeah, I've been doing the five knuckle shuffle quite a bit lately. Yeah,
I'd like to bare my belly if that'd get me off with that blond little
bird. And yeah, I've been rambling on for quite some time about how
fuckin' sexy my mortal enemy is. But none of that changes anything.
I'm still hungry, little girl.
THE END
Ow, ow, my neck! That hurt!
----------------------------
[email protected]
http://www.zeroimpact.com
----------------------------