All About Spike - Print Version
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Three Vampires, Two Slayers, Twenty Love Poems, and a Song of Despair
By Tara R.

Rating: NC-17

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 One: Talking

New York, 1977 (Pablo Neruda)

“I always wondered if Neruda was a vampire.”

The ceiling fan rotated sluggishly. It was so hot, so muggy, that the dusty plastic fan had to slice its way through the thick air. A fly thrashed between the dusty curtains and the window. Its buzzing was driving Spike mad.

“He’s dead.” Drusilla said flatly, “All wormy in the ground.” She licked each of her fingers slowly, then left Spike’s lap, sitting up on her knees. Her creamy satin nightgown fell back over her hips, catching on Spike’s arm where his hand nestled between her thighs. She moved away from him, and his arm dropped back to the musty cotton sheets.

She crawled across the bed, towards the window, staring at a beam of sunlight slicing through a gap in the curtains. Spike watched her concentrate on the beam of light: the play of dust; the twist of his cigarette smoke. It was too hot to sleep. She reached her fingers out slowly.

“Don’t play with the light, love. It burns, remember?” He knew she was well aware of the danger, but also knew that sometimes she didn’t care.

She twisted her body, looking at him with the intense focus she had just been granting the beam of light. He loved the sight of her there, almost all silhouette, bottom resting on ankles, hips flaring juicily. “Again.” She said simply.

He picked up the worn paperback book resting on its spine beside his hip, and started again. Something pertinent, he thought, with an inward smile.

A black yearning sun is braided into the strands

Of your black mane, when you stretch your arms,

You play with the sun as with a little brook

And it leaves two dark pools in your eyes...

He stopped as she crawled back towards him, a grin on her face. She settled her body on top of his, laying her cheek against his bare chest. “I play with the sun too, don’t I.” She said confidingly.

“You do,” he replied, stroking her black hair. “A little too much sometimes.”

Thank fuck the sun was starting to set, Spike thought. Maybe we’ll be able to get cool, go for a walk somewhere with breezes, then maybe go dancing. Somewhere filled with the smell of hot beating human flesh. Instead of staying in this crummy hotel room with only that fucking fly to eat.

“But I prefer to talk to the stars. They’re my friends.” She said perkily, and rolled so that her back was to his chest. “Can you see them?”

He looked up at the cobwebbed, cracked ceiling. “No.” he stated baldly. Sometimes he liked to go along, but it was too hot for that. Damn, it was too hot for anything. Even fucking. It was a sorry state of affairs, he thought, when he didn’t even feel like a screw. Drusilla hummed and swayed her head a little, and he wondered if she was having a vision. And that if she was having a vision it wouldn’t be irritatingly obscure and pointless.

Dru started to talk quietly to… something, so Spike picked up the poetry book again. He had meant it. Sometimes he did wonder if Pablo Neruda was a vampire. His poetry had that urgency, that consuming urgency that Spike felt every time he wanted to feed. Or the other thing. Vampires were truly above humans, he thought. More alive that those that were really alive, they felt everything more brightly, more intensely, more greedily and more overwhelmingly than anything that breathed. And Pablo Neruda knew what that felt like. He read aloud, hoping to bring Dru out of her stupor.

We have lost even this twilight.” He read.

“Daddy.” She moaned: sublime. Spike paused, then continued reading.

No one saw us this evening hand in hand

while the blue night dropped on the world

I have seen from my window

the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun

Burned like a cloth between my hands…

So this poem reminded her of Angelus too. They had been in LA, found out that he’d been seen there during the fifties, but had gone north. Something about a double murder, a hotel. It had given Spike a flare of hope, until they had been told that the murdered men had been shot and hung. Not drained. So they had come north too. Figured that at some point Angelus would make his way to the Big Apple. To good old New York New York. Fucking hot New York, thought Spike, shifting in the sweaty sheets. Drusilla was crying gently now.

…Always, always you recede through the evenings

towards where the twilight goes erasing statues.

And then when he arrived, they could get some answers to their questions. Where did you go? Where did Darla go? Were you together somewhere? And a smaller, more childlike voice, that Spike tried to suppress as often as possible; Why did you leave us?

They had spent the rest of the fifties in New Orleans. He had hoped to meet Angelus there. Would have liked to share the cooling and heating of jazz with his sire, the magnolia blossoms and rich, wine-like blood of the locals. He had loved New Orleans. It reminded him of Chicago and Absinthe and Speakeasies in the Twenties. Something else he would have liked to experience with Angelus.

This poem, this sad, sad poem, reminded him of Angelus so much it made his jaw clench. He resisted.

Venice, 1888 (Lord Byron)

“I always wondered if Byron was a vampire.” Angelus commented huskily. “Or maybe he was in love with one.”

“Thought us vampires were too manly to write poetry,” Spike said cheekily, squeezing the sponge over his body.

They were sharing a claw-footed bath, Spike spooned against Angelus in the steamy room. It was February and icy outside: the canals at midnight, as they hunted, frozen over, solid. Angelus had insisted they come during the carnival months; he said it was easier to hunt in the chaos and debauchery. So far, however, Spike noted that they had hardly left the bedroom.

“Listen to this.” His sire ordered.

There was in him a vital sign of all:

As if the worst had fall'n which could befall,

He stood a stranger in this breathing world,

An erring spirit from another hurl'd;

A thing of dark imaginings, that shap'd

By choice the perils he by chance escap'd…

“Hmm,” said Spike, not really paying attention. “Very… vampiric.” From another room in the pensione he could hear Dru singing nursery rhymes to her dolls.

He turned onto his belly, slopping steaming water over the edge of the tub, and kneeled between his Sire’s bent legs. He dipped the large sponge into the water again. It became dark and heavy in his hands; he liked the feel of its weight. Lifting it out of the water, he squeezed it over Angelus’ chest.

“Do you not like poetry?” Angelus asked, putting the book down on its front and lying back, allowing Spike to bathe him. Spike blushed at the question, thinking of the last humiliation of his life. No he bloody well didn’t like poetry.

He shrugged. “It’s alright. Bit poncy.” Spike grinned and licked his tongue against his front teeth. He dropped the sponge into the water, over Angelus’ belly, and reached for the book that had been cast aside. He had vague memories of studying Byron at Oxford. But then wondered if that was someone else’s memory. Sometimes he seemed so much that man that it seemed nothing had changed. And then at other times that man, that William, seemed like a complete stranger. He shuffled the pages, mimed pushing a pair of glasses up his nose, gave a slight ‘ahem’, and read aloud, putting on a over-the-top upper-crust accent. It was all eerily familiar.

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd

Much to be lov'd and hated, sought and fear'd.

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot,

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot. Huh, sounds like you.” He said with a half-laugh. Angelus smiled almost secretively. Their eyes met. Something told Spike there was more to this than just poetry. “Did you know him?”

Angelus laughed, pulling him forward and kissing his forehead fiercely. “Some things, my boy, are better left none of your business.”

Spike fell forward and relaxed against him, his head tucked under his Sire’s chin.

“Is it a big secret? Can I ask Darla? Did you kill him? Did you screw him? Why can’t I know?”

Angelus cuffed him gently on the ear. “Enough.” He said lightly, but it was a warning, nonetheless. It made Spike want to know even more. It must be good if it was a secret. A door slammed outside their room and he heard Darla tread down the hall and into Dru’s room. It seemed she had taken exception to the incessant singing.

“It’s late. Even Darla is trying to sleep.” Angelus commented, settling his hand on the back of Spike’s neck, his hold loose but possessive. Spike shivered at the feel of his Sire’s strength, his control. Angelus felt the tremors and sat up, taking Spike with him. “And this water is cooling. Dry yourself off and get into bed.”

They both got out of the bath, and Spike shivered at the rush of cold air. The worst part about such warmth and comfort was the way it felt when it was gone. Which was inevitable. All things had to end. He watched as his sire slung a towel around his hips and walked into their adjoining bedroom. And he remembered: the poem ended:

He had (if 't were not nature's boon) an art

Of fixing memory on another's heart.

It was not love perchance, nor hate, nor aught

That words can image to express the thought;

But they who saw him did not see in vain,

And once beheld, would ask of him again.

New York, 1977 (Pablo Neruda)

“Sing me another one, pretty Spike.” Dru turned to him and stroked his face, bringing him out of the past.

“Sorry pet. Are you feeling better? Did you have a vision?”

“No, the stars were whispering but it was all sour, so I stopped listening.” She ran her fingers across his chest and he shivered through the heat. The fly hammered against the glass. The ceiling fan droned. The sun slowly sank.

“The witching hour is coming, Spike.” Drusilla stretched on him, writhing against his growing erection. He growled, grabbing her upper arms and rolling over until he had her pinned to the bed. She giggled.

Spike rested his head against her breast bone. It was just too hot. The window was nailed shut, presumably to stop people from dodging the rent, so they couldn’t get even a hint of breeze. The fly buzzed incessantly. The poetry sang in his head. The fly buzzed incessantly. On and on.

With something between a growl and a roar he sat up and smashed his fist through the window, taking the curtain with it – it was the only thing that stopped his hand from catching fire. The glass tinkled to the ground below, a back alley. Someone shouted up, swearing. But at least the buzzing had stopped, Spike thought with a wry grin, picking tiny glass shards out of his knuckles. And maybe now they’d get a hint of breeze.

“That was very naughty, Daddy.” Drusilla said with an excited frown. She reached out and licked his knuckles, flecked with tiny cuts, oozing slightly. “Mmm, yummy.” She licked her lips slowly, and he watched her. “Can we go out to play soon? I can hear the pretty people’s pretty hearts. All pumping…”

“Soon as the sun sets, Dru.” He said, wiping his knuckles on the sheets and lying back down. It couldn’t be long now. Maybe half an hour: he could feel it. She lay with her head on his shoulder.

“Go on go on, another, again.”

It took him a second to realise what she wanted. Then he picked up the book, and turned away from the sad poems. Love poems. Love poems for his black goddess, that’s what was called for. He flicked to the front of the volume. These were much better.

Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,

you look like a world, lying in surrender.

My rough peasant’s body digs in you

And makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.

I was alone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,

And night swamped me with its crushing invasion.

To survive myself I forged you like a weapon,

Like an arrow in my bow, a stone in my sling.

But the hour of vengeance falls, and I love you.

Body of –

He stopped abruptly because Dru had sat up. She had her hand over her mouth and was swaying. He realised that she was having the vision now. Sometimes it happened that way: there would be an opening act, an intermission of almost startling lucidity, and then the true show would begin.

She was moaning now. “Its not me. Its not me. Its not me.” He slid forward slowly: no sudden movements.

“Shhh Dru, love, what are you talking about. What’s not you?”

“Noooo,” she wailed loudly, right in his ear. He flinched back. “Its not really me, it’s the other me, the one surrounded by darkness… my picture in the mirror...”

“Dru, you don’t have a reflection.” He explained patiently.

“Its dark where she is… and there are worms in the earth… big ugly worms and darkness and earth and teeth and Angel…” she babbled.

“Angelus? Do you see him?” he asked urgently, taking her by the upper arms. She had started to sob. “Dru, where is he? Is he near?” He breathed in, restraining himself from shaking her with all his might. “Dru!”

He let her go and she fell back on the bed. Tears ran down her cheeks. She hiccoughed, seemed to be coming out of it. He turned away, running a hand through his hair.

“The slayer.” She moaned faintly. He turned back at this.

“Slayer? There’s a Slayer here?”

“The Slayer. Kill the Slayer. Kill her Spike… Kill her for Princess?”

Spike grinned. At last, something interesting was happening. A Slayer. Opportunity #2. “Yeah…”

He looked over at Drusilla. Now that the vision had stopped, she was looking almost normal. He pushed her back onto the bed with the weight of his body almost crushing her, and kissed her, hard. She giggled girlishly into his mouth, and he bit her lower lip roughly. It started to bleed, and he sucked it into his mouth, tasting her.

The thought of killing another slayer was making him hard again, and he crushed Dru’s wrists in his grip, sliding his tongue into her mouth, pushing a knee between her legs. Fuck the heat, he thought. Literally. She writhed and gasped beneath him. The sheets tangled, and their bodies wept with sweat as the stars came out.

Sunnydale, 2002 (Pablo Neruda)

He was reading. He hadn’t read for years. He read when he missed her and could still smell her on his fingers and it made him crave her even more. He was reading:

I like for you to be still: it is as though you were absent,

Distant and full of sorrow as though you had died.

One word then, one smile, is enough.

And I am happy, happy that it’s not true.

Even if Neruda wasn't a vampire, he should have been, Spike decided ruefully. All that passion.

He was reading this when she arrived. She kicked the door in, and she was a weapon.

“Tell me you love me…”

End of Part One

Rating: NC-17

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

New York, 1977 (The Ramones)

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,

oh yeah

Perhaps they'll die,

oh yeah…

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

Back kick,

jab, jab, block


He jumped down, he knocked her off her feet

Face kick

Jab, block, block, stomach punch,



And then I knew it was the end of her.

Knee in the groin, again, again,

Push, punch, front kick

Mashed against glass

He's gonna kill that girl

Metal pole

Kick him in the nuts

Punch, punch, harder, harder

He's gonna kill that girl tonight.

End of Part Two

Rating: NC-17

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

New York, 1977 (The Sex Pistols)

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.

Moscow, 1895

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.

It's gone.

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)

Sunnydale, 2001

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

The End