By Tara R.
Summary:Glimpses of a life: Spike
Notes: Spike/ various others, including M/M implied situations... gee that boy gets around.
Usual disclaimer stuff: Wish it belonged to me, but it don't, except most of the words in that particular order, and even then I've used loads of poetry. Nope, the rest belongs to that creative Wunderkind Joss Whedon and co... Also, owe half the title to Pablo Neruda. Oh, and if you wanna know who the poetry is by, look at the section heading!
With thanks to Codename Joaquinista, beta-reader extraordinaire, and Spicywings, for her great advice!
Part Two: Fighting
He likes punk because he likes its ravenous ecstasy. It eats away at you from the outside, in a way that no other music ever has. Jazz was too mellow, like slipping between satin sheets, or maybe long deep kisses, with just a hint of teeth. Rock: too grating – Rock is fighting, not fucking – yes there’s a difference, though it’s slight. Debussy was softness and sunlight – no vampire should savour that (even the Claire de Lune). Folk was flowers and drugs and that sideways dimension between stoned and awake and dead. Nah, Punk is where it’s at. Punk is fucking and making love and eating and feeding and sucking and licking and kicking someone’s head in. Yeah, Punk’s where it’s at.
Jackie is a punk
Judy is a runt
They both went down to Berlin,
joined the Ice Capades
And oh, I don't know why
Oh, I don't know why
Perhaps they'll die,
Perhaps they'll die,
Punk is how he remembers fruit. Slippery slices of mango, watermelon, strawberry, peach, nectarine, small crunchy cherries and seedless grapes. Sliding down fingers, teeth biting into the soft flesh, soft and bleeding.
The heat had been making him hungry all day; tasty New Yorkers sweating deliciously, their scent hanging heavy on the air. After hours in that stuffy hotel room, it was heaven to get out onto the stinking, grimy New York streets, walking through back alleyways lined with mountains of trash, air conditioners dripping on either side of him as people at home battled with the weather.
This was only the second time he’d managed to get out and explore New York on his own, and they’d been here for how many months? Four at least. Dru was wandering Central Park on her own tonight; she had said she wanted to talk to the Faeries and that they wouldn’t come out if Spike was there. So he’d shrugged and wandered off to find a little mayhem and cause a little carnage. Just a regular Friday night.
He caught the subway at Lexington Avenue, wandering through the deserted carriages, hoping for a stray, vulnerable morsel to wander right into his path. He sang to himself.
“Well do you wanna dance under the moonlight?
Squeeze me baby all through the night
Oh baby, do you wanna dance?”
Maybe he could find something a little freaky to take home to Dru, something that would amuse her. Freaky was always easy to find in big cities. Last week it was a deformed pigeon with one leg that he’d seen hopping around Times Square eating dust and dirt and metal. Thinking about that night, though, he reconsidered. Dru had loved the bird, but Spike had not loved picking up the pigeon entrails and feathers for two days afterwards. Her version of interior design, he supposed.
Spike ran his hands through his hair, turning toward the windows of the carriage to get a better look. Oh. He could never get used to that. God this was boring, he thought, kicking an empty soda can out of his path. I’m tired of looking at fucking posters saying “Help Clean Up Central Park”. Maybe I should ride the train just as far as Bleeker and get off there, go to CBGB, see who was playing. And more importantly, see if anyone there was worth eating.
Then behind him he heard the door between cars swing open. He smiled, taking a deep breath in. Finally, a little action.
Mmm… something smells… delicious, he decided. But before he could turn around, he felt a sharp crack as something hit his back, throwing him the length of the car.
“Fucking hell!” He shouted, sliding along the dusty floor, hitting the far end of the carriage. Looking back he saw a young woman in a black leather duster looking at him in contempt. He’d seen that look before. He grinned, pulling himself to his feet.
“Well, well,” he said slowly. “Looks like Dru was right. There is something tasty on this train after all. Delicious in fact...” he cocked an eyebrow. “ C’mon then, girlie, you just gonna stand there?”
“Do you do you do you do you wanna dance
Do you do you do you do you wanna dance
Do you do you do you do you wanna dance?”
Somewhere near Rome, 1892 (Moving fast)
In the darkened room all that could be heard was gasping. The train ploughed through the late March night, on its way to Rome for the religious festivities at Easter.
There was almost no detectable movement from the bunk as the three figures pressed together, their bodies able to move only slightly.
Trapped between Angelus and Spike, the girl half-struggled and half-writhed. Spike had both her wrists gripped in one of his hands, holding them tightly behind her back. The other hand he slipped inside her torn bodice. She gasped at the feel of his cold hands brushing over her nipple, pinching and twisting cruelly.
She kicked out with her foot, catching his shin, and he hissed in pain, tightening his fist around her wrists cruelly. His lips suckled at her neck in the same place that Angelus had already marked her with a small love bite.
Angelus was kissing her, biting at her lips, which were bleeding a little, sipping at her blood. She was biting back, resisting and succumbing, making Angelus grin against her lips as he sucked her tongue into his mouth. One hand was wrapped around her neck, a threat, the other hooked under her skirts resting between her thighs. It worked slightly, pressing inwards at the same time as his hips pressed her backwards into Spike’s body.
As she kicked out again, Angelus lifted his leg, hooking it over her, pressing her further into the mattress, trapped. He rubbed his shin against Spike’s. His hand moved rubbed harder between her legs and she gasped against Angelus’ lips, working her hips a little in time with his fingers.
Spike felt her hands flex and twist against his stomach as she came, moaning and gasping quietly, the noises masked by the scream of the train’s whistle as it plunged into a tunnel.
She sighed and relaxed against them both, sinking deeper into the bed. Spike cautiously let go of her wrists, watching Angelus over her shoulder. He was licking slowly, almost gently at the girls lips, catching the blood seeping from the tiny cuts he had made. She lay passive, eyes closed.
Angelus pulled away slightly, his own lips now covered in the girls blood, and gripped Spike’s neck, pulling him down for a long kiss. Their lips clashed and opened, tongues twining in a kiss so deep and slow that they were hardly moving. Spike’s hand continued to massage the girl’s breast almost convulsively as his Sire kissed him. Blood, saliva, sweat, tears.
Angelus reached down, pulling the girls skirts fully up around her waist, lifting her leg and pulling it over his hip. With one hand he flicked open the front of his crumpled trousers, the other reaching round and holding her buttocks open for Spike.
Spike resting his throbbing erection against the girls round, exposed cheeks. Angelus dipped a hand in between her legs and coated his fingers in her wetness before reaching around and grasping Spike’s cock. He covered it in the girls wetness, pumping slightly, teasing Spike as his breath became shorter and his eyes drifted partially closed.
Sire and Childe plunged into the girls body at the same time. The darkness of the cabin rocked in time with the rough thrusting of the two men, covers rustling, bed frame squeaking rhythmically, short panting breaths echoing around the room.
She was sweating again, Spike’s hand pressed into the small of her back, wet and hot as he steadied himself, plunging into the tight orifice, throwing his head back in pleasure as she squeezed him tight.
Angelus reached out, raking his blunt fingernails down Spike’s side as he thrust rapidly into the girl. Spike reached for his Sire’s hand, twining their fingers together.
Angelus’ hand contracted, and Spike looked up, into the eyes of his Sire. As he watched, Angelus vamped, bending his head to her breast and biting down with slow sensuality. The girl cried out, clutching Angelus’ head, but not pulling him away. Her hips bucked, and Spike gasped as she instinctively constricted her muscles around his cock. He licked her neck lightly, revelling in the tang of her sweat, before plunging his fangs deep into her.
Tough at first but then with that slight popping give. And then slippery and soft, melting on the tongue, rich and juicy, trickling into the back of his throat along with the smell of leather and polished wood and linen sheets and sweat.
She moaned headily. Her juicy flesh pulsed around his mouth, her blood, rich and intoxicating, gushing into him, and he drank ravenously. Angelus’ hands moved over her back frantically, nails raking her, cutting her, his body bucking as he came deep inside her, drinking from her breast.
As Spike felt her heartbeat start to slow, he thrust one last time, coming deeply, ecstatically inside her as he felt her blood spill out of his mouth and over his chin.
New York, 1977 (The Ramones)
I saw her walking down the street
He jumped down, he knocked her off her feet
And then I knew it was the end of her.
He's gonna kill that girl
He's gonna kill that girl tonight.
End of Part Two
Continued in Part Three: Fucking