All About Spike

By Annie Sewell-Jennings

DISCLAIMER: The characters of Spike, Drusilla, and Buffy all belong to that master, Joss Whedon, and Mutant Enemy Productions. And that frightening frog.
SUMMARY: After Spike manages to escape with Drusilla, he finds out that there is no substitute for certain things.
CATEGORY: VAR. Spike/Drusilla, and in an odd way, Spike/Buffy.
SPOILERS: Sometime between "Becoming" and "Lovers' Walk".
ARCHIVE: Please archive.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Mel is sick. Physically and mentally. I'm not big on Buffy and Spike as a couple, but there's enough heat between them that it's plausible. And if it isn't plausible, well, then it certainly is hot. Anyway, the point of this story is that Mel is home sick and she's a great friend, so I wrote her some smut to make her happy. I hope that this will suffice. ;)

"But this is not allowed
You're uninvited
An unfortunate slight"
--Alanis Morissette


Thick, coppery, like drinking liquid pennies. Pouring out like hot, searing wine. It flowed like a river, crimson and unending, pouring down his mouth in a river of interminable heat. It sizzled in his throat, sang in his veins, and the aftertaste was enough to make his eyelids flutter from bliss. Unadulterated bliss. Vermilion orgasm.

For a moment, the taste of the blood was enough to erase his memory, and if he glanced up during the pinnacle of the sensation, then he could see her. Molten gold, lapis eyes, and spirit. God, to think of tasting spirit. Greedily, he drank again, trying to drown out reality and letting himself succumb to the heady flavor of memory mixed with mortality. "Spike," she murmured, and the golden one was gone, up in a flash of diamond and dust. Her pure, rich voice was replaced with the childlike fragility of Drusilla, and her fine, gold silk was gone in favor of Dru's masses of dark, mocha velvet. "Wait before you kill." Her pout was nasty; everything about Dru was biting. "I'm famished."

Grunting, Spike thrust the body at his companion, not wanting to look at her; not wanting to see her. He'd fought for her, stolen her away from Angel, but in the end, what was there? A slender, vile thing without a heart, soul, or personality. There was no spirit to Drusilla. There was no vibrancy, no energy, no magic. She hunted, she killed, she drank, she babbled, and she fucked. She was useless otherwise, and Spike had thought that he could love her. That he could protect her, that he could thrive in her insanity and lose himself in her delusions.

That she could be some kind of replacement.

A substitute.

For the Slayer.

A coil of chestnut and mahogany fell over the motel manager's thick, engorged neck, and her plump, crimson lips were swollen from the act. Lazily, languidly, her eyes looked up at him, seeking challenge and encouragement. All Spike could do was look down at her and pretend she was something, and she narrowed her eyes in resentment and drank fervently. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't what he'd betrayed Angel over.

He didn't stab his old friend in the back for Drusilla.

He did it for Buffy.

Jaw clenching with anger, he looked at the prize he'd won and felt like vomiting. She had screamed, she had clawed, and she had tried to kill him when she found out. Found out that he'd tried to stop Angel, that he'd taken her away from the end of the world, and that he'd allied with Buffy. Drusilla loathed Buffy with a passion; despised her very existence. She had railed at him, attacked him, and there were bite marks and scratches lacing his face and arms. Whenever a wound threatened to heal up, Dru would take it upon herself to reopen it. One moment, she would be sugar and caramel, and then she would explode in a flurry of hell, snarling and biting at him for his betrayal.

But eventually she came to view him as Spike, not a captor or abductor, and she began to play his emotions again. She stroked his strings like Perlman to a Stradivarius, murmuring affirmations and devotions into his ear in that bell-like, crystalline voice of hers. To listen to Drusilla was to gaze upon spun glass, but to touch her was suicide. It was her mysticism that had ensnared Spike originally, that mystery and enigma that he thought defined Dru. He thought that he loved that, loved the shadow darkness of her hair that contrasted with the fragility of her eyes.

And he thought that he loved her ferocity, her feral side. The violence of Drusilla, the brutality that rotted inside of her delicately built stature was deceptive and tricky. He'd fallen for every single sleight of hand, and in the end, she had played him beautifully.

//Like a Stradivarius,// he dazedly thought, not noticing the repetitiveness of his musings. All he heard was the rapturous moan as Drusilla lifted her head from the dead man's throat, her lips painted maroon from the feeding, like swollen cranberries. The Slayer had a coral mouth, glossy and shimmering. Like it would be magic to kiss her, and enchantment to taste the delicacy of her lips. To touch his own mouth to the unconscious, guileless mouth of the Slayer and then feel the core of her strength underneath it all.

Angel stole all of his women from him. First Drusilla, and then Buffy, through violence and then benevolence. And all Spike did was sit benignly by and watch as he lost everything. What made everything even more difficult to endure was the knowledge that he'd lost Buffy before he'd even realized he wanted her.

He knew that he wanted Buffy from the moment that Drusilla forgave him. From the moment that she touched her lips to his and laced her tongue along his mouth, he knew that the fire had gone out and that he wanted the glitter and gloss, the energy and liveliness, of Buffy Summers. The golden girl. The embodiment of purity, goodness, and divinity. Sunlight incarnate.

But he kissed Drusilla, fucked her hard that night, and fed her in the morning.

All the while, he felt nothing.

"I'm done, love," Dru sang, a beguiling smile touching the edges of her lips. The lifeless body of the motel clerk fell to the floor with a resounding thud, and a smear of red marred her flawless lips. Her insanity, her mindlessness, her simplistic ideas and thoughts could drive him mad half of the time, longing for some kind of logic. Half-witted, intuitive, devious Drusilla, while tormented Angel managed to keep Buffy as his own.

Fuck it all, his life had gone to hell.

But when he turned to face Drusilla, he kept his smile dark, kept it interested, and he curled the corner of his mouth to gaze upon her with the sexuality that she had become accustomed to. "I'll take care of it later, love," he purred, and Dru's eyelids turned heavy and full. Spike knew her well, knew her too well. After the feed, she would become famished for something else. Drunken with blood, her mind would flee her. Dru's greatest moments of clarity came when she was hungry, and afterward, she was as simple as a kitten with tiger's claws.

"I'll take care of it now," she whispered, and her lips, wet and warm from her feeding, caressed the slope of his jaw. Resisting the grimace, Spike tilted his head back and let her mouth wander over his skin, feeling the lips nip and caress his earlobes as her fingers twined through his hair. Bitterly, he closed his eyes, and a tendril of her hair fell across his cheek. Briefly, blissfully, he imagined it was the Slayer's hair, as soft and as flawless as sunlight and lightning all combined into one, and the kisses that were coming down on his face with greater force suddenly ignited. The million kisses, the slide of a tongue along his hairline...

A growl emitted from Drusilla, and it only progressed his simmering arousal. Lazily, her palms drifted over his chest, hums and chuckles rippling from her throat like disjointed melodies, and if he closed his eyes, he could hear the Slayer's laughter. Could feel the suppleness and strength of her fine-boned but capable hands. Could pretend that that was Buffy's tongue lacing and dancing with his, pretend that he was experiencing Buffy's kiss.

She chuckled in his self-imposed blindness, and he felt her hands guiding him in the direction of the bed. As she moved him toward the mattress, nimble fingers undid the buttons of his shirt, palms roughly playing over his nipples. "Blind man's bluff," Dru murmured, her voice like the poisonous purr of a tiger, and he helplessly gave himself over to her. It was the only way he could stomach another night of her. If he could replace Drusilla's crimson mouth with Buffy's carnation lips, then he could manage her kiss. If he could feel Buffy's young, rose-petal breasts rather than Dru's porcelain ones, then he could manage touching her.

A hard push toppled Spike onto the mattress, and he pictured the Slayer, beads of perspiration from the battle clinging to her dainty nose standing above him. Hands on hips, one fist clutching the stake as though it were a dangerous rosary, hair falling in her face in a flurry of copper and gold. "I could get the blindfold, daddy," Dru purred, and Spike's harsh, demanding words cut her off.

"Don't speak. Not a word."

Buffy never spoke like Drusilla did. Dru's voice was like eccentric wind chimes, light and tinkling but without any real, comprehensible pattern. The Slayer spoke with control, clarity, and a smartness that was thickly underlined with sensuality and passion. If Dru didn't speak, then maybe Spike could tolerate the moans. Perhaps he could manifest Buffy instead of Drusilla.

Slowly, resolvedly, Spike shut his eyelids and succumbed to the fantasy. Succumbed to the darkness, where reality had a way of mingling and melding with the intangible and the fantastical. When dreams become inseparable from actuality, and he could lie there in this state of heat and picture gold instead of soot.

Her hands migrated to his chest, fingernails lightly raking down his abdomen and stopping to draw languid circles around his navel. Softly, delicately, Buffy's fingertip dipped into the indentation, and she leaned down to kiss him abruptly, her tongue flickering inside of his mouth like wildfire. Urgency became essential, and her hands went to his belt, undoing his pants and slipping off his boxers with his trousers. "Ah, love," Spike moaned, and Buffy moaned when his hands sightlessly reached out for her figure and landed on her neck. Slender, long, with the soft point where her pulse lay. It beat like a frantic hummingbird, desperate for flight. "Yes..."

Fingernails danced over his erection, starting at the tip. Gasping, Spike threw his head back and gripped her shoulders, and then whispers of her palms started from the base to the tip, ghostlike hands and fingers causing him phantasms of pleasure. Each shivering, vague touch was enough to make his hips buck and his cries grow louder. The tease was what made him hot, it was what made him want her. Always flirting with sexuality, from casual glances to low, sultry half-smiles that a girl of seventeen simply shouldn't possess. "Yes, God, yes..." Spike gasped, and Buffy took his desperate, confused hands in her free one to guide his fingers to her breast.

Slowly, he caressed the shape of her breast through her shirt, and then her fingers left his cock to undo her shirt. Spike moaned as she lifted her shirt over her head, revealing two healthy, sunlight-colored breasts with hard, young nipples the color of roses. Another cry escaped her mouth when he leaned forward to tease the nipple with his tongue. "Like that, eh?" he murmured, and she moaned again. He felt her warm, damp thighs settle over his cock, and he could feel her desire. Could feel her want. Fantasy embodied this woman's hands, this woman's kiss, and this woman's hips. Thrusting, pumping, she writhed atop him in the abandonment that marked her youth.

His hand reached down, fluttering over her flat stomach until he was lower, lower. There, underneath these layers of skin and heat, was what he sought. A wild, unbridled sound screamed from Buffy's lips, and he saw her face flushed roseate with arousal, her cornsilk hair wild around her face like a blonde hurricane. He increased the tempo, circling her clitoris with his thumb with greater pressure, and then he darted one finger inside of her. She screamed, actually screamed, her hands wrapping in his hair as she thrust her hips in demand.

Finally, the Slayer lowered herself onto him, and they rocked together in a wildness that was only existent between him and her. The arousal was thickening, increasing, and he could feel himself capitulating toward climax. His eyelids fluttered, and gold shifted to mahogany over and over as reality and fantasy collided until he couldn't remember who was who. All that he knew was that while he was fucking one of them, he was making love to the other.

And he knew that the lovemaking was the more satisfying of the two.

"Spike!" she cried, and he moaned, arching his back and letting himself go. The arousal came in a torrent more rich and velvety than any liquid, coursing through his body in waves of fiery desire and liquid rubies. Her scream joined his, the cry of ecstasy, and then she rolled off of him, curling into his body with the ease of a limber feline.

For moments, he lay there, trying to imagine what Buffy would feel like in his arms. She would be the one who would reach out in the middle of the night, arms seeking anyone who would take her in and show her what her worth was. He could imagine her head against his chest, feel the tickle of blonde satin on his cheek, until he heard her voice.

"You said the Slayer's name, you know," Drusilla murmured, and the viciousness, the malicious tone of her voice was enough to make him feel ill. Jesus fucking Christ. "Buffy."

No point. He was lost. "Yeah," he muttered, and she scratched him. Her fingernails punctured the skin deeply, and Spike cursed as he covered his wound with his hand. "Fuck, Drusilla!"

"You've been naughty," she sang, though the playfulness was out of her voice. All that was left was the dreaded Drusilla vindictiveness, the most irrational part of her. "Very, very naughty."

Closing his eyes with resignation, he felt the scratches start again, her aim true as she reopened the wounds she'd given him from leaving Angel. Now, she clawed him with the righteousness of a woman scorned. All doubled because he had fantasized about the Slayer, and he was in fact the target. Pathetic.

Very fucking naughty, indeed.

As Drusilla ravaged him with her nails, her teeth, and her words, he let himself slip away into the fantasy one final time, where Buffy's hands gently caressed his back and her lips kissed every wound that Drusilla inflicted. With one brutal fist across his face, Dru was finished, her face snarling and demanding. It was almost enough to make Spike laugh. Jesus bloody Christ, what a wonderful eternity he'd picked for himself, fucking a woman he didn't even like anymore while dreaming about a woman whose destiny in life was to kill him.

"C'est la vie," Spike chuckled, touching his bloody lip with his palm. "That's life, love."

Brutally, Drusilla crushed her mouth onto his, lapping at her lover's blood as though she could devour his soul along with it.




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