Crushed
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Timeline: S5.
Post-Crush, Spike’s a man with a plan.
Rating: NC-17. Do
not read if unconsensual M/M slash offends.
Pairing: S/A
Disclaimer: Very
much not mine.
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He closes his eyes
to block out the mental images. It doesn’t work, of course, but it does cause
the car to swerve dangerously across the centre of the road. The road is quiet
enough for even this to avoid attention. He doesn’t want attention.
Hell, yes he does. He has an irresistible urge to kill, to
scream, to bring down fiery ruin and damnation upon the heads of ‘em all.
Ruin. Blood. Death.
If he could just
stop remembering…..He growls savagely, puts his foot on the accelerator and
hopes he kills a few pedestrians. Probably make his head explode, but right now
he’s prepared to risk it.
The
cold contempt. The only chance you had with me……
Blazing fury etches
his features; unconsciously he shifts to game face and back again. Clenches the
steering wheel until the plastic threatens to buckle. Up to
one-twenty now.
He hasn’t quite
acknowledged where he’s going, although he’s shown no hesitation since he threw
himself into the car, drove through the cemetery and hit the main road out of Sunnydale.
He hesitated only
for long enough to hit that godawful sign.
Come back soon. Fuck that.
He does know where
he’s going. Instinct drives him. Let’s
face it, he hasn’t left himself many
options, he thinks, anger flooding him again at the realisation.
He’s fucked up just
about everything he could have.
But he’s going to
fix it all now.
So lost. Even I can’t help you now.
When he thinks of
what he’s done….Anger is easier. Rage and cold fury are easier to deal with
than the thing in his stomach. The twisting, writhing snake
of utter mortification.
You can’t just shut me out….
Anger is a more vampiric reaction, so he focuses on that, meditates on the
viciousness of his wrath.
Yeah, that’s
easier. He lights a cigarette with one shaking hand while the other grasps the
wheel.
As he drives
recklessly through the night, he curses himself for many things. Turning
Drusilla away is top of the list. Not having bitten Buffy in her sleep, that’s
a stick to beat himself with. Ever having returned to
Sunny-fucking-hell is fairly high up there.
But once upon a
time he saved the world. He lets out a helpless roar of sheer frustration at
the memory. Because that’s
where it all went wrong. Saving the fucking world.
Where’s fucking Acaltha when
you need him?
Where’s the drink?
He finds the flask, slugs down a gulp of something that just doesn’t help
anymore. He isn’t drunk. Can’t get drunk. Or maybe he
is drunk, and the pain is stronger.
Maybe he’s been out
of his head for a very long time.
The only chance you had with me was when….
He can feel it in
his chest still. A revolting, sickening, nauseous feeling that would make
breathing difficult if that was even an issue.
But he knows it’s
all going to be better soon. He knows what to he’s going to do. It’s all
becoming clear as crystal.
Like lollipops at the circus.
He parks the car,
if you could really call it parking when the car skids to a halt surrounded by
clattering bins and boxes. He gets out, kicks some garbage about for good
measure. It doesn’t help. But he knows what will.
He remembers last
time he was here. Almost smiles. Back
in the good old days of death and destruction.
Poor Spike. So lost. Even I
can’t help you now.
It takes willpower
not to scream aloud. He knows physical torture would be a walk in the park
compared to what hangs over him now, threatening to annihilate whatever’s left
of him. Whatever’s left after Sunnydale and Slayer
and Soldiers.
But he knows what’s
going to fix it.
Abandoning the car,
he walks the short distance to the hotel. Resists the temptation to take the
main door, take the fight. He wants a fight. Fists and fangs and pain and blood
and something to bloody focus on
would do fine right about now. But it’s not the plan.
Lets himself in quietly, knows where he’s going, knows what the
plan is.
She won’t look at
him like that again, with pity in her eyes.
Fucking
pity.
He finds the room
he’s looking for, settles himself for a wait and finishes the flask in two
throat-scorching, eye-tearing gulps. Hardens his resolve.
This way is better.
And Angel hardly
knows what hits him. A whirl of bleached menace that jumps him as soon as he
enters the room and has him pinned on the bed before he can even get a blow in.
Face down, struggling against the weight of blond
vengeance that bounces upon his back, he’s quickly handcuffed to the sturdy bed
frame. All he can do is roar in injured outrage.
Spike admires his
work. Cracks Angel over the head with a conveniently placed
lamp.
“The way I see it,”
he begins, working through his thoughts aloud. “Is that everything is your
fault. If you hadn’t taken my ring, Captain Fuckwit and Co. could never have
castrated me. And then all would be well with the world, wouldn’t it?”
He waits for the
reply which is not forthcoming. Hits the vainly struggling figure again, then continues.
“But if you want to
go back to the beginning of the whole fucking mess that is my life, then that
was when I helped your bitch kill you.” He shakes his head sadly. “Downright
unnatural, that was.”
“So here’s the way
it’s going to be. First there’s going to be pain…” He breaks the lamp over the
brown head; the satisfaction of the shattering material makes his heart sing.
“Because,
boy, you’ve earned that, ya fucker. But then there’s
going to be happiness.”
Perfect really. Poetic justice. The only poetry the bitch is ever getting outa me again, he thinks bitterly, his mind beginning
to drown in images of blond hair.
“My Dru is not going to look at me like I’m some broken toy again,” he hisses, viciously laying
into the prone vampire.
It’s not a day for
torture, slow and elegant. Marcus wouldn’t work well in this situation. This is
brutal; fast and furious. Spike stops only when he feels his knuckles crack. He
examines his own torn skin with objective interest. Angel has ceased to tug on
his restraints.
Plan the Second.
He divests Angel of
the tattered remains of a shirt, then tears black trousers from waist to mid
thigh in one go. The rip of fabric feels familiar, feels right. Brings back memories.
He loosens his own
fly, releasing his erection. While he’s at it, he takes off his belt, snapping
it across Angel’s back a few times.
Yeah. Old times.
Images of blond hair
and blue eyes are forcibly replaced with his dark-haired Princess. She’s going
to welcome him back with a parade of mayhem and a torrent of blood.
He’s bringing her
back the prize to top all prizes.
They’ll be sweeping
up the bodies for months.
“Darla tried,
didn’t she?” he laughs mirthlessly. “So I heard, anyway. Didn’t
get the job done right, silly bitch. Guess she’s going to be owing me from now on. That’ll be quite the turn up for
the books.”
The cracks from the
makeshift whip drop lower, hitting Angel across the ass now, lower still,
striking between his legs.
Spike hears a low
groan and hopes it’s what he thinks it is.
“Just
me and handcuffs and a belt. That’s all they needed, isn’t it, pet?” he
asks, all silky invitation laced with poison. “That’s all you ever needed.”
He gives his own
cock a few quick strokes, ready now. Drives in fast,
sheathing himself completely in one swoop. Listens with satisfaction to
Angel’s moan; mainly pain, he knows.
“Yeah, that’s gotta hurt,” he chuckles. “Relax, mate, we’re getting
there.”
Pumps
away at steady pace, arms taking his full weight now. Thrusts
hard and fast, bouncing and rebounding off Angel’s hips. He begins to
loose it a little, the stress of this day, this difficult, difficult day, is
finally dissipating.
Angel’s breathing
grows laboured, pain now mingled with…something else.
Through Spike’s hazy lust, he manages a smile at the idea of the uber-poof breathing. Fucker generally ignores such
conventions.
He’s breathing now.
Still hasn’t spoken a word.
Spike is
overwhelmed by the need to make him talk. “Any last words?” he grits through
clenched teeth, hanging on now. Have to keep…..
No answer. He tries
again, punctuating with open-handed slaps.
“You’re going down,
you know that. So I’m takin’ final requests from Soul
Boy the Second.”
The only response
is the frantic bucking of Angels hips, which doesn’t help his situation a great
deal.
“I’ll send your
regards to the Slayer. Unless Angelus wants to do it
himself.” Spike smirks at the thought, adds an extra twist to the
rotation of his hips, drives a little deeper.
“Fuck you,” Angel
gasps.
It’s enough to draw
a belly laugh from Spike. “Yeah, mate, you can return the favour tomorrow.”
And Spike bites
down, hard, tearing through flesh and drinking deep; drawing a cry from the
other man that mingles with his own. God, it’s been too long. This he has missed. He pulls back enough
to get some leverage, then drags Angel’s head through
an uncomfortable angle to his own neck.
And Angel drinks
the blood of Aurelius as Spike fucks him into the mattress.
Spike looses all
sense of time after that. Finally finds himself lying
back on the bed, a hazy feeling of achievement suffusing him. He stretches full
length on the bed, pleasantly stated. He no longer feels as though he’s going
to have a heart attack and he’s now beginning to appreciate the bloody irony of
the idea.
He watches with
dispassionate interest as Angel jerks forward with a strangled gasp.
He never did get to
see this part of the show last time.
Angel begins to
scream, tearing at the bed covers with desperate hands as his body convulses
and half falls from the bed.
Ouch, thinks Spike cheerfully. It looks painful. He hopes
the big lummox will get a move on. After all - things to do,
places to go.
People
to see.