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 Three: Fucking
On the dance-floor, Dru writhed against him. Dancing to the moody dark music, she looped her arms around his neck, swaying her hips against his groin, pressing into the hot human flesh that surrounded them.
She licked his neck, running her tongue along his jugular, biting down on his collarbone till he hurt. In retribution, he curled his hands around her upper arms tightly, pushing her away, pressing his forehead to hers as he dug his nails into her flesh. She threw her head back, smiling ecstatically.
The rhythm shook the club, and later the cocoon of their dirty motel room. They rocked the bed, peeling metal bed-frame knocking against the wall, bedsprings groaning. Beside them lay the cooling body of the young man they had lured back from the club and shared. There was blood on the sheets.
Thrown over a chair in the corner of the room was the coat. His coat now. Just knowing it was there made Spike harder. His fingers twitched on Dru’s spine with the memory of snapping neck. Delicious.
Dru ran her wet hands over his back, and he felt the warm blood smeared on her hands trickle down his side, dripping steadily onto the bed.
After a vision it was never enough for her to just eat. She surrounded herself in the kill, practically bathing in the blood, smearing it over her body, dabbling her fingers in their internal organs, virtually making love to the corpse. Even for someone who loved the kill as much as Spike, it was quite difficult to watch.
He sat up on his heels, digging under her back and pulling her up with him, until they were sitting up in front of the broken window. She let her head fall back, and her long dark hair spilled down her back, sticky in places with blood and sweat and sperm, but still beautiful. Spike slowed his thrusts to almost nothing, rocking their bodies gently, one arm around her waist, the other tangling in her hair, pulling her head back further. He bent his head, biting her neck gently with blunt teeth.
The curtains were pulled back to reveal the cityscape, and as they fucked Spike watched the moth-eaten world outside their window.
bird shit sculptures all over the grey stone windowsill
a dead body in an apartment directly opposite them. An old woman, lying undiscovered for a few days already, he guessed
orion in the sky above them, gored by the bull
a woman walking in the alley below, high heels, smelling of sex – a prostitute
rats digging around in the trashcans, spilling out over the pavement
in the same building, a few floors up, a man watching him and Dru and wanking off
Spike looked up and saw the dirty old guy step back, away from the window. He grinned to himself, pushing Dru back down into the mattress, firmly holding her down as he fucked her harder, harder.
He wiped the blood away from his split lip, but left the gaping wound in his side alone, for the moment at least.
“And he’s bleeding all over my new velvet chaise longue!” Darla cried shrilly. “Really, Angelus, this is the outside of enough!”
Spike had blanked out their irate voices after about four hours, content to sit here and count all the places it hurt instead.
“What were you thinking? Are you really that stupid? Honestly!” Darla cuffed him around the head. That made thirty-four places he hurt now.
His Sire glowered at him from his place leaning against the mantel. “Well, Will? Are you that stupid?” He asked, dangerously. Spike new better than to answer.
Drusilla came and sat next to him on Darla’s latest piece of frilly furniture. She stared at him intently, cocking her head to one side before poking gently at the gash across his neck, where he had almost been decapitated. He winced, but didn’t pull away, sitting passively as she explored his injuries. She followed the trickle of blood down inside his shirt. Then she lifted up his shirt and started prodding the wound there. It was almost a gaping hole. She licked it.
“Drusilla, will you stop that? You’re turning my stomach,” barked Darla. “Well, Spike? Did you honestly think that you could best her?”
“She was tiny!” He protested loudly, unable to remain silent any longer. “Anyway, I nearly won. It was that damn Watcher. I call it cheating! I had her up against this shop window—” he was starting to get animated, relating the exciting story. “…about to bite her when I felt this pain in my side. When I turned round, there he was! Short, balding, tubby, but holding this huge metal pike-type-thing, covered in my blood—” His voice faded as he realised that he was only making Darla and Angelus more angry. Still he could feel his mind humming with exhilaration from that brief angry encounter with the pale girl with slanting, exotic green eyes.
“So now she knows you’re here. And if she knows that you’re here, it follows that she knows that we are also here. Which means that we have to leave. Again.” Angelus pointed out, too calmly.
“Well I wasn’t intending to let her leave with that information, was I?” Spike sarcastically pointed out. “I mean, you run across the Slayer, it’s pretty much a fight or die situation. I figured I might as well get in a few good blows while I had the chance!”
Drusilla hummed, then giggled. Then she said quietly, “But you wanted her, you wanted to taste her. You got hungry, little Spike. You sought her out…”
Spike rolled his eyes. Thanks Dru.
“You looked for her?” Darla said with deadly quiet. “You really are a fool. You got away once, you won’t again, and next time we might let her have you. It’s what you deserve after drawing her attention to us.”
“Look, I thought I was doing us a favour.” Spike said grudgingly. “You know: killing the slayer? A good thing.”
“Sure, if you can win.” Angelus barked. “You’re just turned fifteen. You’re still a pup. You’d never defeat the slayer.”
Spike bristled. “I told you I almost—”
“Almost?” Angelus interrupted. “Look at you. You’re a wreck. It’ll take you weeks to get over those wounds. Weeks in which we’ll probably be hunted down and maybe even killed.”
Spike glared at the carpeting, brushing Dru away angrily as she once again reached to play with his wounds. If he remembered correctly, Pushkin died in a duel.
“Fine. Next time I'll let her stake me. Do us all a favour.”
Angelus smiled. “That might be for the best. Now get out of my sight and do something with those wounds. You’re starting to smell.”
He turned away, picking up the newspaper and walking over to the fireplace. Reading calmly he did not even attempt to help as Spike struggled, limping and beaten, to the door.
Sunnydale, 1997 (Nickel)
She’s dancing. It’s a buffet in here tonight. Sweating, pulsing, blood pumping darkly. Delicious young, innocent humans. And there she is dancing. To fucking awful music.
I'm one step away from crashing to my knees.
One step away from spilling my guts to you.
I've seen four slayers, killed two of them. But until tonight I had never seen one dancing. Fighting, sure, talking, yes, dying, of course, laughing, once, but not with humour. They’re mostly just angry. Never have I seen one dance.
Her body sways and moves with the music, and I can imagine what she’s be like fucking. Hot and primal, nothing composed or thought-out. All instinct. Action and reaction. I can’t wait to kill her.
In the 19th Century Angelus used to go on and on… and on… about these Russian guys. Every time he ate, he’d give the person this whole speech about these fucking tossers thousands of miles away in the most freezing, god awful place we ever went. It drove me mad.
You see, there's this huge chunk of me missing.
And I can' feel it, I can't feel it,
I can't feel.
They were called Nihilists or something, and I think Angelus ate one once. Anyway, they would go on about how nothing was any good, everything was shit… blah blah blah, and so the act of destruction was the ultimate act of creation, regeneration.
I actually always thought that it was a load of wank, and that I was pretty happy with my lot, so I didn’t really care how they felt. But watching her dance, now I understand. To kill her would be to create her. She would almost be a work of art. And by killing her I create a blank canvas: a new slayer to seek out and… create.
It's the last time,
And maybe tomorrow night, will be the last time...
And I'm one step away from crashing to my knees.
I walk on the edges of the dance-floor, out of the light, watching her, creating her in my mind, imagining eating her, blood, guts, hair, skin, teeth, heart.
“Where's the phone? I need to call the police. There's some big guy out there trying to bite somebody.”
(One step away from spilling my guts to you)
One step away from spilling my guts to you.
(One step away from spilling my guts to you)
Do you like The Ramones? I need to call the police. You know I do.
Her skin hair hands toenails eyes teeth heart pulse knees tongue neck ankles every obscure small corner of her body shadowed and hidden I want to pick her up and pull her so close to me so close and hold her and kiss her and eat her and pull her inside me and devour her and possess her and taste her under me over me around me tongue in mouth hands in hair fingers wet eyes wet breath I want to drown in her and hold her so tightly that she melts into me hot—
It’s even selfless and biting and wonderful and I want it. I feel her teeth. And when we’re fucking I am surrounded by her heart.
It beats and pumps all around her body and I smell the blood in her sweat and in the places on her body where it is near the surface and taste it in her saliva and feel it under my hands cupping her breasts. Life vibrations. Blood vibrations. Blood. Slayer blood. Buffy blood. Buffy.
In the pores, every drop of salty sweat I tease with my tongue and mouth and inhale and bite and need rocking and moving and rocking and thrusting and moving and gasping and she gives me a heartbeat, pulsing together so that the blood moves in my veins and rushes through my brain intoxicating.
Blood, blood on her sheets, on her skin, in her hair, between her legs, in her eyes, in her mouth, I could sink so far into her like that—
I could somehow become her, be her, crush into her and grind until we are one person, this sticky beat throbbing us building and squeezing and