Things of Beauty
By Nihilist Bear
“I prefer placing my energies into creating things of beauty” – William, “Fool For Love”
Song titles and artists for each quote are at the end. Written for the Open On Sunday Challenge of sex.
More or less rated NC-17. Be safe. Spike/Everyone.
My Spike is far closer to William than he will ever, ever admit, and has thought of having, or had, sex with everyone he’s ever come in contact with.
Need proof? Fine…
“I grab my pen caressin' empty pages”
She’s the focus of a thousand dreams he’s embarrassed to admit he has.
Dreams of her removing her gloves, loosening her hair, turning her back to him so he can unbutton the gleaming jet buttons of her bodice.
Or - some rainy day she’s forgotten her umbrella. He sees her in Hyde Park, brings her home to warm herself. He’s standing by the doorway to the spare room, watches as she peels damp clothes from pale skin.
Or - in his bed, wearing only her chemise, smiling sweetly as he climbs beside her.
He tosses aside the third sheet of ink-splattered paper, tries again.
“And I hate myself, just enough to love him, but I hate him just enough to get off.”
Big hands, tearing off his clothes, fisting in his hair, yanking his mouth towards him for a kiss so hard it cuts his mouth, makes him bleed.
Angelus likes to make it bleed, and he likes whatever Angelus likes.
It’s not love, he tells himself, but he knows, knows deep in his useless guts, that it really is. For him, anyway.
His legs are up, spread, over Angelus’ shoulders and Angelus slams in, rips and tears his way inside. He screams, wails, bucks towards him.
It hurts, but he likes it, because this is all he’ll ever get of him.
“The thought of you is so confusing”
Rustling skirts, high-pitched nursery rhymes, porcelain dolls with their faces covered, a little pain and pleasure he can’t describe. This is the fabric of fucking Drusilla.
Being inside her is a subliminal experience, because he’s not always sure she’s actually beneath him, not sure that the woman who makes him moan in ecstasy and scream in perversity, is actually his.
He’s pretty sure Angelus is the one she dreams about.
But Angelus is gone, and as she writhes beneath him, or atop him, or in any of the hundred positions she knows, he can pretend there’s no one but him in her heart.
“Fifty Third and Third, You're the one they never pick”
He pictures her in at a club, strobe flashing as she twists that fucking ass against his cock, as she pushes against him, as she lifts her skirt, nothing underneath, and lets him inside, lets him take her in front of everyone. They all know. She doesn’t care.
He dodges, throws a punch that knocks her backwards. She gets her feet beneath her, propels herself up and slams a fist into his solar plexus. He laughs, screams his joy to the sky as he presses in.
She’ll never dance for him in a club, but she’s dancing for him now.
“I did a stupid thing last night”
He stares at her as she moves on the dance floor, sinuous, with white girl rhythm and white girl moves, and still incredibly fucking hot.
He goes home after their encounter, checks to see if Dru’s well enough to fuck. He’s got to pound her image out of his mind and into someone else’s body.
She’s well, and he imagines the blonde beneath him as he rides Dru hard, replaces her mad rambling with California phrases, feeling guilty as hell.
After, he erases her from his mind. He’s here to kill her, not fuck her, no matter how much he wants to.
“I'm a man - Well I'm your mother”
Cocoa with little marshmallows.
He pours out his heart over Dru, as he lets her musky perfume fill his senses. He imagines she’s fantastic in bed; the older ones usually are, even if they’ve been married for a thousand years.
Wonders what she’d do if he kissed her, slipped his hand under her blouse, palmed her ass. Wonders if she can move like her daughter.
Just as he’s getting ready to find out, Angel shows up, distracts him, and next thing he knows he’s pinned to a counter top by one angry bitch of a Slayer.
That gets him kind of hot, too.
“Must be the season of the witch”
Red hair, soft skin, girlscent with nothing masking it. Total, abject fear.
It’s fucking exhilarating.
He mutters against her ear, wonders if getting Drusilla back is worth passing up this fiery girl. Wonders if she’d love him more than Drusilla ever has.
Wonders if anyone’s been between those thighs. Wonder what she’d taste like. Wonders if all the power under her skin flavours her blood.
He knows she wants him a little, under the fear and panic and worry about the boy. And he’s tempted to act on it, he really is.
But he can’t. Yet. He’ll see if the spell works first.
“You can touch, you can play, if you say I'm always yours”
She’s so simple, so basic, and fuck, she’s pretty good for a girl turned less than a year ago. Long legs around his back, long hair hiding her face, and he can pretend she’s someone else so easily.
She lives for him, for his body, he’s the one she wants, his name falls off her lips as he makes her scream for him, his hands are what she begs for.
Legs over his shoulders now, and she’ll do anything he asks, anything to have him. And when she doesn’t, she lets him make her.
It’s too fucking weird for words.
“She's so scared, so very frightened”
Harmony’s best friend works for Angel. The parallels one finds in this life are intoxicating, really.
So’s the terror pouring off her as she stands with the Irish bloke. Like aged whiskey, fear several years in the making
She’s nothing but hips and breasts. Bits to hold as he grabs her, turns her over a car, rips away those grey pants and slams into her, bruising her on the metal while she screams and begs him to stop.
She knows he’s thinking it. The fear coming off her jumps so high only that goddamn ring stops him from taking her.
“When I think about you I touch myself”
He knows the look Giles tosses him every time he has to piss, and doesn’t he wish there was somewhere else to put him, yeah?
It’s the look Angelus had that first day. Speculative, assessing… lustful.
And he imagines what it might be like, beneath this man, listening to British curses as he’s reamed by him, over and over.
It gets him hard, and he looks at Giles with a smirk, shifts his hips, pushes them up a little. Grins as Giles curses and storms out of the bathroom.
It’s a nice feeling, this little bit of evil that’s left to him.
“Who's that guy, just hanging at your pad?”
Being tied to a chair is kind of sexy.
Oh, Xander doesn’t realize that, or maybe he does. Maybe that’s why the boy lingers over bonds he could break if he just flexed his wrists a little.
The boy pours arousal off of himself in waves, no matter what he does. Eighteen, hormones, et cetera.
But he’s pretty sure that some of those hormones are directed at him, and he dreams about breaking free of the chair, waking Xander up roughly and fucking him through the mattress as he screams for more. Because Xander would.
They always, always have.
“Sweet like candy to my soul, sweet you rock and sweet you roll”
Tara’s hiding something from them. The rest don’t realize it, but she is.
Would she tell him… for a kiss? A gentle hand on her hair, a slow finger down the side of her face, tiny licks on all her exposed skin?
Or would it take more? Fingers unbuttoning her dress, his tongue licking her flesh, his mouth on her pussy, gentle and sweet?
Or more still? Romantic music and candlelight as he places her on his bed, strips what’s left of her clothes, slides inside and brings her off as she whispers his name?
He spends the best days dreaming about it.
“Swing low, sweet cherry, make it awful”
She’s always around him since Buffy died, the scent of tears and anguish on her.
He dreams about her sometimes, running away with her, going somewhere that the sun hides most of the time.
Dreams about teaching her to please him, showing her how to use those littlegirl hands and cherry lips to make him moan.
Dreams about her moaning and whispering his name, tiny hands curling in his hair. Dreams of taking her every way he can, showing her how good it can be.
He hates those dreams more than the ones where he saves Buffy and wakes up to her being dead.
“I want a girl who’s too sad to give a fuck”
Anya likes the passion of a quickie on a table top.
She doesn’t like it when he tries to slow down. Claws his tee-shirt, digs her heels into his waist, hard, whenever he tries to slow down, tries to make it good for her.
Because the sudden rush is good for her, it’s what she craves, and he’s used to doing whatever it takes to get off, used to being used.
And it’s like before, nothing sweet here, and he doesn’t want the sweet anyway, because this isn’t about sweetness, this is about purging Buffy from his body.
He very nearly does.
“You come up and see me and I’ll beat you black and blue”
He can smell it on her, the years in prison where she wasn’t getting what she needed, no matter how many bitches went down on her, because she wanted to get fucked.
He could fuck her. Likes those curvy hips and full breasts, something to dig into, sink his fingers inside, likes the way she’d sound as she came for him.
She’d like the rough play, like being chained or spanked, like being ridden and used, and he could do it. Really. He could give her that, smile as she bruised beneath whatever he applied to her.
Just not today.
“Bored as hell, and I wanna get ill”
He wonders if Gunn has ever tried anything with a man. Probably not; he’s got straight-as-hell written all over him like so much tattoo ink.
But Gunn might. Does, actually, in his head.
Local pub, miles away the office. Gunn’s had too much to drink, kind of moves forward on his chair when he feels a hand on his thigh, spreads those legs as the hand creeps up and in.
And he’s so quiet as that hand unzips him, slides inside, brings him off. Takes a crisp handkerchief from his pocket, wipes himself clean.
They never speak of it again.
“I can’t feel a thing”
Strange guy, Doyle, and the name sounds vaguely familiar, but not on this face.
Doyle’s hot for vampires; he can sense it a mile away. Goes home to someone every night, comes to see him scrubbed so clean he still smells of ammonia.
Can smell the guy’s arousal over the utlra-clean scent, wonders what Doyle would do if he grabbed him, dragged him to the bed and fucked him senseless. Wiped that godawful ammonia off his skin.
Probably nothing. Guy’s made of stone and hatred, and he wonders who did what to him to make him so fucking angry.
“Heavenly widened roses seem to whisper to me when you smile”
He’d like her to be girly for him, weave daisy chains, wear them as she danced naked for him, eat ice cream on tousled sheets, giggle as he runs gentle fingers down her ticklish sides, kiss her for hours, like junior high children on the brink of themselves.
Like to see her eyes go from clear to glazed as he brought her higher, watch her arch herself towards him and blush for being so wanton, soothe away her embarrassment after he puts his mouth on her.
He’d like her, or anyone, to look at him like she looks at Wes.
“The sadness inside you was lost on exactly no one”
Wes is so broken. He’s lost everything, you see.
Spike gets that; he’s lost everything over and over.
He’d like to help Wes, make it better in the best way he knows how. Soft kisses, gentle touches, inquisitive hands, clothes tossed to the side carelessly.
Then fucking; hard, angry sex, dark, heavy, violent, to make the pain go away for a while, make Wes forget that he girl he loved was taken away, and there’s nothing but a shell that says things he can’t bear to hear.
He knows how to fix people. Just not how to keep them.
“If I seem to be confused, I didn't mean to be with you”
Cold fingers stretching him. Angel’s angry, but no longer goes for rape. Which makes him a little nostalgic, because gentle was never a part of them.
Inside now, grunting, cussing, muttering. Stream-of-conscious sex-talk… just one of the perks of sex with Angel.
Its furious and hard, like he remembers, all sex and blood and at the same time, not. He should be thinking about how this isn’t like before, but all he can think is, it finally came to this.
Never expected to be here again, but here he is, back at the beginning, almost. Full circle.
Where he was meant to be.
Song list and Time line
Cecily– My First Love, Eightball (Pre-series)
Angelus – Trigger Happy Jack, Poe (pre-series)
Drusilla – Take Myself Away, Robin Black and The IRS (pre-series)
Nikki - Fifty Third and Third, The Ramones (pre-series)
Buffy - Stupid Thing, Nickel (School Hard)
Willow - Season Of The Witch, Hole (Lover's Walk)
Joyce - Sex (I'm), Peaches (Lover's Walk)
Harmony - Barbie Girl, Aqua (Pre - The Harsh Light Of Day)
Cordelia- Beautiful Girl, INXS (In The Dark)
Giles - I Touch Myself, The Divinyls (Pre - Something Blue)
Xander - Bohemian Like You, Dandy Warhols (Post - Hush)
Tara - Crash Into Me, Dave Matthews (Pre - Family)
Dawn - Awful, Hole (Post - The Gift)
Anya - Lover I Don't Have To Love, Bright Eyes (Entropy)
Faith - No Feelings, The Sex Pistols (Dirty Girls)
Gunn - Boys N Tha Hood, NWA (AtS Season Five)
Lindsey - L.A., Christian Kane (Pre - You're Welcome)
Fred - Sweet Jane, Lou Reed (Pre - A Hole In The World)
Wes - Battered Broken, Jude (Post - Shells)
Angel - Joey, Concrete Blonde (AtS Late Season Five)
01 May 2004