All About Spike

Killing Will
By Te

February 2001

Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd make sure they'd stop making silly mistakes around Slayers.

Spoilers: Follows FfL canon. Mostly. My timing's probably shot to hell.

Summary: Snapshots of a slower death.

Ratings Note: NC-17 for blood, sex, and caning.

Author's Note: I've been brooding on A/S for a while now... something in Jessica's Who Sired Spike manifesto just set me off, I suppose. *g*

Acknowledgments: To Kita, who has been the most persistent about asking, and was kind enough to audience. *g*

Feedback: This is a surprise?

This new life, I'm practically soaring. My God, I've never felt such freedom, or perhaps I did, once, but the fevers came and took father and left me rather sickly and weak. I admit that I hoped the change would make me over into something as hulking as my grandsire, but I know that's foolish now. It's not a change, it's a declaration to stay the same forever.

Or, I'm bloody well trapped in this scrawny carcass, eh?


Drusilla is a goddess. My Goddess. I can claim that possession, though Darla would surely laugh, and Angelus...

It's when I smile at the thought of Angelus' reaction that I know this is all going perfectly. I don't think it's the demon, whatever the lore says. All that oral tradition smacks of foreigners, barbarians. No, I feel no demon but what was in my own heart all along. Freedom, and. A taste.

For everything.


Angelus likes nothing better than to toff it all around the mortals. Ponce it. No, wait. Fairy?

I don't know. I just know that even as I do my best to escape the society I was bred for, Angelus craves it. Bloody weak is what it is. I don't think it's very intelligent to be so obvious about what it is you didn't have a mortal, but then, I'm in no place to talk, now am I?

Drusilla, my sweet Dru. The turn of her ankle, the raven dark sweep of her hair. The. Her breasts are firm, upturning and sweet to my senses. And no whore could be more talented with her sex. I want to dance her naked around my mother, but then, I've already killed her.


Darla and Drusilla teamed to punish me. I hesitated at using my full strength on them, but now I doubt it would have done any good if I had. Darla caned me, and Drusilla cleaned the blood from my wounds.

When there were done I was spent, sated. Wrung out as a damp rag, and when I finally opened my eyes, Angelus was right in front of me, smirking as he does.



We hunted as a family, this our last night in Vienna. Blocked the exits and turned a grand party of some minor duke into a charnel house. The stink of it was everywhere, metal enough to ring in my skull, chime and twist and sting there. Maddening. Incredible.

I lay with Dru on the still-soft corpses of dowagers, all in a row so neat. She howled with it and scratched me bloody.

The next day I dressed her hair with pink-washed pearls, and did a terrible job that Drusilla professed to love just the same.


I sat in a public -- in a pub all night, amid the stench of. Piss and bitter ale. The voices were rich and heavy and loud with drink and good cheer. Two men who'd walked in arm in arm wound up brawling by the time the aging bawd kicked her shoes off, heedless of her hose. I broke up the fight by smashing their heads in.

I devoured the bawd, her wet, stinking hose staining my shins as I held her up in the air.

She tasted like sex.


Bloody. Bloody hell. Bloody hell!

I don't think I'm mad enough for that one, yet. The only moderately annoying part of my day is Angelus, really, and he spends most of his time with Darla.

He spends most of his time so far up her skirts you'd think he was trying to move in. Suits him. Big baby in short queues and a better class of hose than most of the lordlings here. Milan. Wherever. It's all the same. All we see is the perfumed and marble-dressed parts of the world. Darla's just as obsessed about that as Angel, if not more.

Drusilla is... well, she's deranged. I've given up on waiting for her to pull out of it.

There's an ache inside where I thought I'd never feel, something between rage and. Love.

Something bright, oh yes, crushed by Angelus. Bloody. Hell.


I think I've made one too many comment about Angel's face and Darla's arse. All right, I bloody well know it. He's got me chained in a corner so I can watch what he does with his 'girl.' My Queen, beaten and chased around and around this draughty old castle -- wherever Drusilla is, her heart was not for pain this night.

It's why he's doing it.

I tried to stop him.

I'm sitting in a congealing pool of me own blood. I'm screaming inside like William.

My cock is hard as stone.


Later, Drusilla drinks freely from Angelus, to speed her healing. When I come to her for her own, she slaps me down to the floor.

Naughty child. Naughty, foolish boy to displease Daddy.

Angelus laughs so hard he has to lean against a wall to keep from falling. I practically crawl my way through a "hunt," and drain something too scabrous and encrusted with filth to be called human.

When I heal, when Darla and Angelus are off shagging in yet another convent or fuck-all, I beat Drusilla with my belt, and then with the cane, and then I drain her nearly dry.

She weeps with joy, and spreads her legs wide for me.

It's not right.

It felt incredible but it's not *right*.

I'm still a bloody tosser.


When Angelus returns, she's still sprawled in her own blood -- on Angelus' bed, of course. Tch. That silk will never be the same.

He's grinning as he takes me in hand, takes me by the throat and shakes me like a terrier. I could fight back, but. I want to know.

He teaches me.

With the brand, and the sacrament, and. His cock.

I'd seen ones other than my own, of course, but not many. I'd never tasted one.

He tastes like nothing against the pain, but I feel him all through me. His hands are huge and powerful, holding my head in place. He rapes my mouth, and then my arse. Holds me apart and splits me like a skull, like ripe fruit.

I don't feel ripe. I feel tight and hard and not ready. I scream, and I weep, but best of all I curse. Strings of it, ropy and thick as his essence. Nonsensical ravings of drunken sailors. Bloody as me.


It's daily for a while. Twice on Sunday, right? It's no joke. Angelus is enjoying myself, enjoying that I'll heal virginal every. Single. Bloody. Time. Not like Drusilla, who died ravaged.

Not like Darla, whose airs I've recognized in the better class of trollop, owned by the merchants or the lordlings out of favor. I know her. I know who she is. I scream that, too as he pounds into me. As he *fucks* me, bent over a splintering wooden crate, hands tied behind me back. The rope scratches me raw.

My shoulders scream out of socket.

And all I can think about is the blood running down my thighs, and if it tastes as good to him as it feels to me.

Bloody pouf can't get enough of my arse.


He beats me today instead of fucking me. I have an empty ache where the flesh seems permanently, slightly torn. I miss his cock.

I lose myself in the splatter of me own blood on Darla's cheek as Angelus rears back for another swing.

I lose myself in the hunger in my Queen's eyes as she writhes unconsciously, envious of Daddy's attentions.

Angelus allows her to lick me clean.

My orgasm is explosive.


He lets me alone now, or rather he doesn't beat, rape, or beat *and* rape me at the same time. He teaches me everything Drusilla hasn't. About letting the rage build until it's just a calm white flame. About using the flame to make art.

Me, I'm not so interested in the tears, but I learn by watching. His moves, the things he uses to win.

I'm free to do with Drusilla as I please, and I take her little brown arsehole and dream of spurting cocks and my ass and my mouth and I turn to killing boys for a bit.

And big, hulking Irishmen.


I know he's got me, I bloody well *watched* him do it, and I'm brassed beyond all bloody belief, but you know, I can't help but admire him for it a bit. I've always believed in giving an artist his due, after all, and he's big enough to not even pretend to refuse me when I go to him, begging his bloody fucking *favor*.

When he's through with me, he straps and buckles a carved wooden phallus to Darla, who mounts me with just as much, if not more brutality than Angelus.

Drusilla goes at Darla with it.


I'm in love.


There's no change, of course, in the way we relate to each other, Angelus and I. He teaches me when he feels like it, or when he feels like making me look a fool. He fucks me when he chooses.

I spill for him every time.

I curse his name while I do it.

Every inch of my skin knows his fist.

The better bits know his cock.

And the funny part is he thinks he owns me now.




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