On Parliament Hill. Part 5. 1976.

[calove.livejournal.com]

Another little slice of life on the Hill.

Title: On Parliament Hill
Author: Cass
Rating: R/NC-17

1967

The boy sat slumped on sun-parched ground still warm with the heat of the faded day. Around him, humid evening settled toward sultry night, set a strange, heavy calm like a pall over the hill, muted the distant sounds of city traffic to a distant, subdued hum. Groups of people, heat-lazy in the late summer evening sat or strolled, talked quietly and laughed softly. Lovers entwined arms, legs, lips, languid under the warm blanket of the encroaching darkness. Among them all, the boy was so clearly, achingly alone. Occasionally he pulled at the yellowed grass fractiously, dropped the torn blades and pulled again. He reached up to push the tangled mass of his hair back from his face. His features were delicate, boyish softness hardening towards manhood, the promise of beauty marred by the unhappy set of the full lips, the deep frown creasing his forehead. He wrapped his arms around his legs, hugged them close, rocked himself gently.

A boy with problems.

In the shelter of the trees, he watched the boy, waiting. The sky was slipping to summer-heavy darkness when he finally made his move, schooled the feral smile into softness, pulled back the hungry yellow in his blue, blue eyes.

Playtime.

The boy looked up at the sound of his voice, eyes suspicious, mouth set in a ready pout. The man smiled easily and held out the spliff that smoked gently between his fingers, cocked an eyebrow. The boy hesitated, want wrestling with worry writ clear on his face. But he took the offered smoke, lulled by the man’s soft brown curls and ready smile, drawn to his lean good looks. The boy drew deeply and closed his eyes, didn’t see the quick, rapacious smile as the stranger settled at his side.

Candy from a baby.

It took no time at all. The boy was pathetically eager to talk, to tell this understanding stranger how he felt, of the confusion of his life. He listened quietly, offered no opinion, no condemnations as the soft fingers of cannabis seeped through the boy’s mind, relaxing and soothing, opening the doors of his conscience, giving his fears voice. Suddenly nervous, the boy drew deeply on the remains of the spliff, let out the smoke on a slow sigh and an admission. The big thing. The thing he’d admitted to no-one before – not even himself. His eyes winced towards the man, fearing rejection, fearing disdain, met instead a knowing smile that made his heart leap. Lost in the blue of the stranger’s eyes, he held his breath and waited.

Ah, I know what you want…

The man leaned forward and kissed the boy gently, waiting until shock turned to tentative, nervous response before sliding the tip of his tongue between the boy’s soft lips. His hand trailed slowly and lazily up the boy’s thigh, fingertips just brushing the worn denim, teasing, feather-light. The boy groaned against his mouth as his trailing hand stroked, bucked as it cupped his groin. He could taste him – his excitement and arousal and fear. He pulled back, looked down into the boy’s passion-dark eyes, and smiled. He stood up, held out a hand, head cocked, eyebrow raised in query. The boy didn’t hesitate; he took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He started back for the shelter of the trees, away from the groups of late night star-gazers, all so rapt in themselves they barely noticed the lean, pale-skinned man and his follower. He grinned.

Come to mama.

In the trees he turned back to the boy and pulled him deeper into the shadows. Smiling, he pulled the boy to him, met the clumsy kiss with his own knowing mouth, let his hand move to the waistband of the boy’s jeans and slip slowly inside. The boy gasped, pushed himself against his cool, firm grip; skilled fingers that easily brought him to the brink of release. Smiling, he pulled back, pressed his tongue against his teeth with a smirk as the boy moaned at the loss of contact. Smiling, he gave the demon reign, watched the passion turn to horror, buried his fangs in the vulnerable neck, drank deeply of sweet, young blood, rich with the complex intoxication of arousal and terror.

Just the way she liked them.

She slipped from her watching place in the deep shadows, ran her hands across his back, pressed herself against him as he drank, mewling like a kitten, her teeth nibbling at his neck. He pulled back from the weakened boy, turned to smile at her, to kiss her blood-red lips with his gore-wet mouth, smooth the dark hair back from dream-distant eyes. He handed the boy to her, smiled as she growled her gratitude, features shifting, and lunged at the boy’s bared throat.

He wiped the blood from his mouth, licked the back of his hand clean and left the shelter of the woods to his dark queen and her prize, shrugged out of game face. The moon was full now, high in the black velvet sky, casting moonshadows through the still branches of the trees onto the hard-baked sward. He strode back up the hill, the need still raw in his gut, his walk big cat-graceful, eyes watchful, predatory.

At the top of the hill he stopped. The city stretched below him, lights twinkling. Millions of warm, life-rich bodies going about their pathetically small existences, so many of them looking for something, quietly desperate, high on God knows what. Easy pickings for him and his. The smile faded. It was all too bloody easy, too easy to win. Needed a bit of excitement in his life.

Time to find a bit of mayhem. Or cause it.

Time to move on.

South America, maybe – she was always so happy there, and a bit less… well, barking, to be honest… away from the old hometown. But then – there was the temptation of finding himself a nice little trouble spot and stirring up some fun.

His roving eye fixed on the slight form of a girl silhouetted against the sky, swaying gently, arms upraised at the moon, her long hair a silvered wave down the length of her slim back, scattered with faded daisies from the broken chain woven at her crown.

The smile was back – feral, rapacious.

Then again, there was something to be said for easy pickings…

Winter in Mexico, it was.

And then, springtime in Prague had a nice ring to it…



There is a Part 6, set in 2004, but as it is pretty much centred on Spike's feeling regarding Buffy, it's too shippy for this community. However, if anyone is interested, the mods say it's OK to post a link to my LJ version:

Part 6... 2004...