All About Spike

Everything He Needs
By Zyre

There's nothing transcendent about sex. Poets never get it right - it's dirty and smelly and hard and primal, and more often than not it's painful. It's ugly and disgusting, it's base and everything that Buffy could never be, not really. And it's everything Spike needs.

It's bloody fitting though, he thinks as he stumbles towards Angel's place. The one thing he wants is the one furthest from his grasp.

He pauses at the doorway, second guessing again, and then he barges in. It would be so easy to crush things on his way; to break windows and smash lamps and snap pencils. He's already shown how good he is at wrecking beauty, after all. It's rather refreshing to admit that nothing is sacred, least of all a slayer.

Angel appears at the top of the stairs, glaring down at the intruder, and Spike thinks he actually looks dangerous. There's a twist. He swaggers a little and starts up the stairs towards his sire, stopping about halfway up and just staring. A part of him wishes that Angel would swoop down and kill him without a word. It's not a very big part, though - he's nothing if not a masochist, but a damn sexy one and he likes it that way.

The other vampire starts down the stairs, and when he's two up from Spike, his expression goes from condescending to horrified to more pissed off than Spike has ever seen him with a soul. He realizes that Angel can smell Buffy on him, her sex and her fear and her sweat, and his lip curls at the thought that the old man is probably jealous.

Angel is on him in an instant, leaping forward, and Spike growls when Angel's fist connects with his jaw. He stumbles backwards but manages to keep his footing, turning his eyes back to Angel's an instant later.

"Gonna kill me, mate?" he asks, challenging the other vampire, and Angel's eyes narrow.

"Going to make me, boy?"

Spike's eyes narrow at that, and he clenches his teeth. "Fuck you, Angel, you bloody sodding ponce." He grabs Angel around the neck and pulls him down, surprise definitely being to his advantage, and he covers Angel's nose with the hem of his shirt.

"Smell that, Angel? That's Buffy. Buffy naked and hot and begging me to fuck her more and harder -"

And he's hit it, that place inside where Angel keeps his rage. He can't say anything more, because Angel's hand is around his neck and he's pressed up against the wall. He hardly realizes that he's lost the upper hand, and couldn't care less, because that's exactly where he wanted to be.

He cranes his neck back as much as he can, giving Angel more to hold on to, and smiles. Angel tightens his grip painfully, his face twisted with anger and disgust, but Spike thinks he can see a glimmer of satisfaction when the tendons in his neck pop.

"Take it off, man," he urges, his voice soft and raspy as his vocal cords are crushed by Angel's grip. "Finish it."

Angel smiles a little and shakes his head, and Spike is struck with Deja Vu. Angelus smiled a little like that. He's got other plans, and Spike isn't sure if he's glad or pissed off about that. He's not suicidal - Buffy'd never fly with that - but he needs to know what it feels like. All of this.

He coughs a little and goes limp in Angel's grip, and he knows that Angel won't kill him - not yet, anyway. He always was one to play.

Angel grips him more firmly and then tosses him against the stairs. Spike winces when he hits the steps and their sharp edges dig into his chest and stomach and legs, and he starts to roll over when he feels the bottom of Angel's boot pressing against the small of his back. He could easily trip the other vampire over and get away, but why? He'd much rather feel this.

Angel's fingers tangle almost lovingly through Spike's hair, and his head is yanked back violently, Angel's lips hovering lightly against his ear. "You are a fucking idiot, Spike." His words are accompanied by the sound of a zipper, and a small shiver runs through him.

Spike is lifted up by his hair, and the pain seems to be shooting down into every part of his body and pooling in his groin. He's a sick fuck to the end, and that seems grimly amusing to him. He laughs, each jerking chuckle forcing new zings of pain down through him, and he hears Angel growl.

//Bad Spike, no laughing, no enjoying daddy's game, it's not yours//

Angel yanks down Spike's pants and a moment later pushes violently in him. Spike cries out and realizes in the haze of his mind that Angel is getting off on this more than he is. Fucking bastard always one-ups him, even in this. Always better, stronger, faster, harder. He growls and arches back towards Angel, giving back as much as he can given the way he's being held.

"No," Angel growls, and the other hand is around his throat again, squeezing painfully. He must know that it'll do nothing to quell Spike's arousal, but it does remind him what he's here for.

He's not the strongest.

He couldn't even make Buffy love him, how could he fight this? How could he make this something that's his?

Angel has been holding still for a moment, and Spike only realizes this when the other man begins to move inside of him violently. The pain is excruciating and intoxicating. The rhythm is erratic, and Angel is tugging his hair more painfully with every thrust. This is nothing like anything with Angel has ever been, nothing like anything with Angelus. It's hard and angry and sad and almost gentle in a way, as though Angel were fucking something more precious than this fucked up reminder of his past.

Just the way Spike likes to give it.


He closes his eyes and concentrates on the pain. He focuses on the bruises on his throat, the sharp, biting, erratic pain coming from his pulled hair, the torn and bloody skin on his backside. He traces each nerve on the inside of his eyelid, each one a bright, white, twisting shock of pain and release and everything that he could never be for anyone.

He doesn't even realize that he's coming until he already has. He only dimly feels Angel's tears on his shirt. All of his attention is on each of those tiny white nerves leading him one place.

His soul.

Angel pulls himself out of Spike still hard, and Spike knows his cock must be slick with blood, the way it slides out of him so easily. He releases Spike's hair. "Get the fuck out of here." It's a command, not a request, and Spike sits slowly, nodding. His pants are torn, but it doesn't matter. He can get more. He got what he came for, he knows where he needs to go to get what he wants. What he needs.

What Buffy needs.

As he stands and fastens his pants he notices the darkness on Angel's face, the mass of conflicting emotions flickering across it like a broken neon sign. A part of him wants to ask about it, but he can't, not after what happened.

"Thanks," he whispers, and then starts down the stairs, his blood trickling down the inside of his thigh, but he doesn't notice.

He's got something to find.

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