All About Spike - Print Version
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String Quartet
By Estepheia

PAIRING: Spike/Angel
RATING: hard R - slash
SPOILERS: none, set 1880, 1900, 1998, 2004
Author’s Notes: This is a set of 4 drabbles, each exactly 100 words long.
Written for Psychodragon


It doesn’t matter how often Drusilla calls him her handsome prince. Doesn’t matter that heads turn when he passes, that the streetwalkers he preys on tell him they’ll lift their skirts for less for one as pretty as him.

He knows. Doesn’t need a mirror. Compared to Angelus’ dark fire, his angelic beauty, William’s features are dull and homely.

But one night, he’s still flush with stolen blood, a heavy frame pins him against a damp brick wall and suddenly strong hands undo his trousers.

“My pretty boy,” Angelus mutters, brandy on his breath. “So pretty.”

That’s when Spike believes.


It doesn’t matter that Spike’s his pretty boy. His pupil, his creation.

Spike’s a soulless killer and always will be. He’ll kill hundreds, maybe thousands until one day someone – maybe another Slayer – will destroy him.

“Angel! What you’re doin’ out here? Thought you’d be with Darla.”

Too late to melt into the shadows. “Out for a stroll,” Angel lies.

His hand leaves his pocket empty, to grip Spike’s hair. Spike’s resistance is perfunctory. Soon he’s arching under Angel’s touch, biting his lips trying not to whimper but failing so prettily.

Angel thrusts harder, faster, even though it brings him closer to goodbye.


It doesn’t matter that his sodding spinal cord is severed, the rest of him is functional. He’s still a man.

They’re laughing and touching, right under his nose. Making him ache with want and seething jealousy.

“Wheeliam,” Angelus mocks, pointing at Spike’s crotch. “Is that for me?” His arm is slung possessively around Drusilla’s hip, his hand languidly stroking her flesh underneath the skirt.

Spike stays silent, furious but painfully hard.

“Maybe later,” Angelus dismisses him.

Later, Angelus holds him by his hair and pushes his cock between Spike’s lips, then leaves him unfulfilled with her taste in his mouth.


It doesn’t matter that they hate each other, that they argue every day, that they draw blood during sparring sessions.

Spike’s no longer soulless but still a killer, deep down. Angel knows, because he can feel his own malevolence clamor for destruction.

“Gimme that.” A hand snatches up the photo album, snaps it shut, and tosses it aside, then returns to gently stroke him to hardness. “You’ve brooded enough.”

Angel leans against him. “Only us now.”


In the end it doesn’t matter what the others think. Spike is his - for good or bad. Pupil, creation, penance. His lover.