On the dance floor, her blonde hair- flickered in a waterfall- lit by the strobe lights. She uses her hands when she dances- caressing up her sides, smoothing over her breasts, swaying in tides, grinding her hips, side to side, licking her lips. It rages on, the beat and bounce all around and she keeps on dancing as if her life depended on it. There’s sweat on her brow, there’s sweat everywhere like the music has crept up inside her and is slowly screwing her senseless right there on the dance floor. Her arms above her head, gyrating, throbbing, pulsing, she crouches and the beat draws her back up again. She spins, she twirls and the burn gets worse and worse. The burn… this heat spreads out from her- from all the best parts of her, her legs, her arms, her face and her open mouth- open and panting- and of course the raw heat radiating from her very core.

He can smell it.

The ache.

The burn.

Blessed or cursed by a vampire’s keen sense of smell. He shakes it off, or tries to but the stir in his groin has already started and it’s all he can do to glance away for a second.

He can feel her.

The throb is crushing and she keeps on dancing, not even aware of his stare. She keeps dancing and those around her on the dance floor are beginning to notice her now too. Although they keep the pace, no one is dancing with this ferocity, no one is dancing out all the pent up frustration, the deep desire, the unfailing hunger of the slayer. She rages and the club itself is starting to react. There’s an electricity that’s tangible- sparking off the speakers, the windows, the metal staircase and the walkway above. Everywhere there’s a pulsating rhythm and at the epicentre is the twisting, tempest- Buffy.

He inhales deeply and smiles in the low light. In a series of freeze-framed shots, the strobe animating his movement in stunted gestures, he walks a little closer to the dance floor to drink more deeply. As he inhales he is consumed by her scent, her energy is like blood to him, sweet, sticky and oh so satisfying. That’s when he notices it- a little sample. Slayer blood. She's bleeding- a cut on her forehead isn’t quite healed from her last battle. The throb is even worse now and he’s as hard as granite- wanting to angle up behind her and grind with her rhythm- wanting to surround her in his coat, encircle her heaving body and sink into it like a hot knife into butter. He wants. He wants. He wants…. Every breath the same desire and he’s panting to take her, take her and drink her and cover her and fuck her until she’s a lifeless and distant memory.

How can he feel? How can he feel all this- this passion- this hunger- this ripping destructive heat when he’s cold. How can death crave this life-force so desperately? Maybe that’s the base of it- death craving life. Maybe it’s not him at all. He’s momentarily relieved that this could be a primal, basic thing- not passion- not… love. But his stare hones in on her open mouth and his mind is filled with a strobe show of his darkest fantasies.

Mouth on hers.

Her tongue across his lips.

Hands- body pinning her to a cold crypt floor.

The fight.

Draining her, fueling her.

The exhale of bliss as she gives into her need.

Penetrating.

Thrusting.

Blood… blood coursing through her veins, her neck strained and pulsing with life and he’s not even thinking of sucking her dry now. No. His thoughts of sucking are reduced to the raw sexual hunger he’s giving into- standing in the shadows of the Bronze.

The song is nearing its end- the build up is nearing its peak and he has to touch himself- just a little touch, a shift and maybe it’ll be less painful. His eyes close and all he can feel is her. When his eyes shoot open again- he is looking directly into her. She’s spotted him among the crowd and to his surprise, she keeps dancing, staring back into him. The music rises, the noise almost devoid of beat, nothing but fire and blood and she’s staring at him and there’s one last puff of exertion from her moistened lips and the song is over.

The spell is broken and she turns away, walking back to the couch where her little friends are waiting. Willow, Xander and Anya and Tara’s standing with a cup in her hand and a straw in her mouth and they all fall into easy conversation with her return.

How can she do that to him? How can she show him this world and make him feel?

Bitch.

He’ll show her…

“I’ll get my chance someday- that’s right cutie… someday when you least expect it, I’ll be there and I’ll slip it in.” He turns on a heel and walks away, his coat billowed out behind him, his stride confident as he disappears into the shadows.