Have you ever looked at the man? I mean actually looked at the man? I do. Constantly. I look at him every chance I get. He's beautiful. Just absolutely beautiful. That's not a word I usually associate with men. Men are handsome or good looking or hunky. They aren't beautiful. But Spike is. Angelus, damn him, got his name because he had the face of an angel. Well, I want to remind you that Spike hadn't been born yet. If he had, Angel-baby would have had to hunt up another name. Angelus is a handsome man, I'll grant you that, but Spike's beauty completely eclipses Angel's.
You could compare Spike to Michaelangelo's 'David' and Spike wouldn't suffer from the comparison. He could have posed as one of the Seraphim for any of the Renaissance masters. Seeing him in battle reminds me of paintings of the archangels, heaven's chosen warriors. Can't you visualize him dispatching the eldest sons of Egypt? Oh yes, I can definitely see him as the Angel of Death. I'm sure a lot of people have seen him that way. Maybe I'll paint him that way one day. My Gabriel. My Michael. What a masterpiece that would be. Glowing with power, wrapped in light against a dark, despairing background. Humans and demons alike wailing at his feet. Terrible to behold. Beautiful beyond the ability of Man to comprehend. A dark and bloody angel. I can see him holding a flaming sword, barring humanity from Eden. Though I have to say that he has allowed me egress there. He alone holds the keys to my Paradise. He is my own dark angel jealously guarding our Eden here where the wide river joins the Gulf.
I'll never be able to paint him the way I see him. An angel dark and glorious. Perfect of body, perfect of countenance. Face alight with power and glory. Blue eyes blazing amid tousled curls. Yes, Spike's beauty really is angelic. Otherworldly.
You have to get him to hold still to realize it though. He's always scrunching up his face some way, a smirk, or a leer, or a snarl, or something. He can do the goofiest things with his face. You have to catch him at rest, like now. He's reading. His book held loosely in one hand, the other resting on his thigh, one leg curled up on the bed, the other dangling off the side. Just sitting there reading. He's so beautiful that I can barely breathe.
I wish I could draw him just like he is now. I'm not good enough to do it though. I try but I never quite manage to capture him. I always feel like something's missing. I just can't get it right. I'd rip up all of my drawings of him but he won't let me. He hides them away somewhere. I can capture the childer and the house and the flowers in the courtyard but I can't capture him, damn it! It's frustrating. The most beautiful thing I own and I can't fucking capture him on paper.
Jesus God! He just smiled at me. Just a little hey-baby-I'm-glad-you-here-with-me smile. When he does that I swear my heart stops beating and my lungs stop pumping. I die a little bit each time he smiles at me. One day he'll smile at me and there won't be anything left and it'll finally kill me. My life drained away not by his fangs but by his tiny smiles.
I need to concentrate on this drawing. I've got his body blocked in and the shape of his head all done. It's a pretty good foundation. I'll start with his face. Nice brow but a touch too high, cheekbones too strong for the rest of his features, jaw too narrow, chin too pointed, nose just a touch too broad for his lips. How parts that aren't so great in and of themselves can come together to make such a perfect whole is beyond me. God was having a very good day when he designed William Arthur August Roxton. A damn good day.
Yes, that's his name. And I know it. I know all about him. It's one of those Hellmouthy sort of things. Long story. Suffice to say that I know everything there is to know about one William the Bloody. I know all his favorite foods (pretty much anything sweet or spicy or both) and what side of the bed he likes to sleep on (the right side) and how he likes his tea (extra sugar and cream, thank you, please) and why he messes with his hair so much (he thinks those wonderful curls make him look too soft, too adorable). I know all his triumph and heartbreaks, too. That's why we don't talk about Buffy. We do not mention the Slayer in this house except in matters of business. She ripped his heart to shreds and stomped them into the ground. She damn near destroyed him. And he won't let me kill her. So we don't talk about her any more. It promotes harmony.
No pun intended.
Any way, back to my drawing. I think I'll work on his mouth. Perfect little cupids bow upper lip, full, pouty under lip. The sort of under lip you want to suck on. Not a large mouth, narrow. Nearly the Victorian ideal of perfection but not quite. I love his mouth. I love the things he can do with that mouth. Let me assure you in case you were wondering, kissing Spike is a religious experience. Every woman, oh okay and gay guy, should have the chance to kiss Spike just once in their lives. Of course, then they'd be spoiled for everyone else. So, I suppose in the interest of keeping the rest of the world content with their pitiful lives, I have to keep Spike's kisses to myself. I love being a martyr for the cause of world happiness.
He just licked his lower lip. Moistened it with his tongue. Just a flash of pink. Merciful heaven! I nearly choked.
Oh… my… God. You have no idea how talented that tongue is. My eyes cross just thinking about it. That man! Can we say oral fixation? I don't think there is an inch of my body or any orifice thereof that his tongue has not explored. And do you want to know what I like best?
Oh pull your mind out of the gutter!
I like it when he licks my palm. Yeah, I know it's bizarre. But technically speaking, my lover is a corpse; you don't get much more bizarre than that. I live in a house full of vampires, my housekeeper is a voodoo priestess, and my honey (who just happens to be dead) and I kill bad guys nightly for fun. Palm licking is fairly tame on the list of bizarre things I have in my life.
Anyhow, I like it best when we're out somewhere and he takes my hand and kisses me in my palm. Then, invariably, he starts to lick me. Just little circles with the tip of that agile pink tongue. My brain completely shuts down. Once in a great while, not often, mores the pity, he'll nick me with a fang. Just one little spot so that a bit of blood pools there cupped in my hand. He calls it his "coup de sang". He'll look at me over the edge of my fingers, eyes full of mischief and desire and then he'll slowly, oh so fucking slowly, stick his tongue out and lap the blood from my hand. He takes my blood into his mouth and closes his eyes in a look of complete ecstasy. Tasting me. Savoring me. Jesus God in heaven! He does that over and over till I'm ready to just scream. Till that tiny wound stops bleeding. And when most of my blood is gone, he'll turn my hand so my palm is facing him and he just swipes his whole tongue over my hand from wrist to finger tip like some big lion. I come every time he does it. Right there in public. He gets that canary-eating grin then. He knows he's good. The little shit.
Speaking of
sex in public, Spike likes it. He's the most complete exhibitionist. Thank
God we live in the French Quarter. Old New Orleans. Nudity is not as uncommon
here as in most cities. He's still trying to find some way to embarrass me
completely. So far he hasn't managed it though he's come close a time or two.
Truth be told, the public thing doesn't bother me too much. It's sort of fun
to see what we can get away with. And during Mardi Gras, that's just about
everything, let me tell you! I had a much too sheltered youth and I'm over
compensating for it now. I did lay down some ground rules early on. I don't
do it in front of small children. And anywhere in St. Louis Cathedral is off
limits; I don't care how much he wants to have sex there. Doing it in church
is just… icky.
I much prefer our bed. Our big, soft, antique four-poster that he is currently
sitting on looking better than any man has a right to. Hmm, I could finish
my drawing or I could go over there and… Okay, I promised myself I'd
finish this drawing. Damn, he's distracting.
There. I've finished drawing his mouth. Turned out well. Good enough to make me think of kissing him some more. Oh now he's grinning at me. "Yes, I'm thinking of how sexy you are, you flaming egotist!" Good, he's going back to his book with that big ol' grin still on his face. If he kept looking at me like that, this drawing would not get finished. Lets see. Block in the basic shape of the eyes, eyebrows, nose.
Any way, eyebrows. I love his scar. The one on his left eyebrow. It actually slinks across his temple, too. You have to look really close to see that. I love to lick his scar. That was the first of my numerous fantasies that I have acted upon. I still have a few to explore. I'll get them all done one day, maybe; I keep coming up with new ones. Of course, living with Spike is one big fantasy as far as I'm concerned. I keep expecting to wake up and be back in my mundane, ordinary life again. I've been his woman for six years and I still can't believe it. That incredibly sexy, considerate, romantic, loving, witty, intelligent man has given his devotion and love to me. Me! I must have done something very, very good in some past life to deserve this. I am constantly amazed at how absolutely wonderful my life as been for the last six years. I'm so lucky. It can't last. Nothing this good can possibly last.
Okay, this is not getting my drawing done. Nose. He has a good nose even if it is just a hair too broad. Nicely chiseled nostrils, gentlest of curves from bridge to tip, slightly hawkish, a strong, manly nose. I've licked it too. His nose is ticklish. If I hold my finger just where his nose intersects his eyebrows without actually touching him it drives him crazy. He says it feels like something is crawling under his skin trying to bore into his brain. I'd like to crawl under his skin. I want to be that close to him.
That sounded less gross as an abstract thought.
His eyes. Shame I'm doing this in charcoal. His eyes are so blue. So perfect. His eyes are his most perfect feature. They are without flaw. Perfectly shaped, set just deep enough, fringed with great lashes. They convey so much. Spike has the most expressive face and his eyes are the center of that expression. Between his eyes and his mouth, I always know what he's thinking. Did I mention that his eyes are the most remarkable blue? Even if the rest of his face was covered, I'd still recognize his eyes. I can stare into them for hours. I know all their moods. Twinkling with mischief, icy with anger, steely with resolve, warm with affection, soft with concern, bright with tears (I hate that one), dark with desire (Mm, I love that one). Right now they're far away, distant, concentrating on what he's reading. Or maybe not. He's looking at me. Part quizzical and part solemn, it's one of his softer expressions. Makes me want to go over there and tell him everything okay. Kiss away his concerns.
Focus here. Finish drawing and I can kiss him for the rest of the day. Oh yeah, that is definitely a plan.
Cheekbones. Probably his most recognizable feature. Easily done. They're so defined. There at models in New York who'd pay good money to have cheekbones like his. I like to place kisses right in the hollow of those cheeks.
Let me get the line of his neck and the curve of his shoulder now. I love to suck on his neck. I try my damnedest to give him hickeys. They fade before we ever really get out of bed. Damn vampire healing. I want to leave some sort of mark on him but they always fade too quickly. There's nothing left to show that he's mine.
The only mark of mine on him is a tiny scar on his breast. You have to know its there to even find it. That tiny scar means he's safe. I made it with a silver dagger so I could push a magical jewel deep into his chest. Sunlight and wooden stakes can't hurt him now. No one will take him away from me again. I blew up half of Wolfram and Hart to assure that. It was worth it. I'd have happily sacrificed every one of them for him.
His shirt's
unbuttoned so I can see a fair amount of his chest. Spike likes soft, flowing
shirts. No starch ever. He likes the feel of silk and soft cotton knit. Black
t-shirts with loose jewel-tone button-ups undone over them when we go out.
Just the button ups at home. A sort of rebel poet look. How he looks is very
important to him. He'd deny it vehemently but he cares so deeply about how
the world perceives him. He's so vulnerable that way. He gets hurt so easily.
Oh not physically. Spike is as tough as they come that way. He's stood up
to tortures that you and I can't even imagine. He can take the greatest physical
pain and just laugh at it. Does not phase him one little bit. He'll spit in
your eye and ask if that's the best you've got. Courageous to a fault. Brave
beyond what's sensible.
But the other kind of pain, emotional pain, he's too vulnerable to that. My
jewel can't protect him from that. Words hurt him so easily. Wounds that go
deeper than any of the ones Glory inflicted on him. Cecily, Angelus, Buffy,
they've given him scars that I can't begin to erase. Drusilla, too. But I've
made my peace with Dru and so has Spike. But she's only one of many. So many
people have hurt him with spiteful words. Hateful words. Belittling words.
I want to kill them all. Everyone who has ever hurt him. I want to kill them
slowly. I want to make them hurt as much as he has. I want to tear their hearts
out because that's what they've done to him. It's amazing that he has any
capacity to love left. But he does. He loves so deeply, so completely. He
has this huge need to love and be loved. I think sometimes that's what keeps
him alive. I think Spike can live without blood easier than he can live without
love. He says I'm the first one who's ever loved him back. Makes me cry to
even think about it.
I really do want to kill them. Buffy, Angelus, Cecily. Kill them dead. Especially Buffy. Dru and I, we have plans for the Slayer. She'd better pray Spike outlives her. Buffy doesn't realize it but Spike's love is the only thing keeping her alive. He's the only thing holding us back, keeping her from a horrible, lingering death. I have spent many a happy hour plotting that heartless bitch's demise. Hey, everyone needs a hobby.
Fine.
Whatever.
Let me finish his shoulders, his chest. He has an incredible body. All lean muscles. There is not an ounce of fat on his body. Well, except for that occasional bit between his ears. The bit that won't let me kill Buffy. The bit that tells him he isn't as good as Angelus. The bit that makes him do dumb things to try and impress people. The bit that never knows when enough is enough. The bit that won't let him shut the fuck up already! His mouth is more likely to get him killed than anything else about him. But it's all part of the whole Spike package. I get that. I understand. I have the same problem. We're over-compensating. Too shy, too self-effacing when we were younger, possessed of over blown inferiority complexes. So now I try to be perfect and he tries to be a total bad ass. We both pretend we don't care what anyone thinks. It's mostly a lie. We all live behind facades.
I'm only ever just me with him. He's the only one who knows the real me. I don't have to pretend with Spike. He doesn't have to pretend with me. Together, we can just be. Like I said, it's Paradise. It's Eden.
Well, it's Eden
if you don't mind that Eve is a forty-seven year old woman with a taste for
torture and pain and that Adam is an 154 year old undead vampire capable of
providing all the murder and mayhem Eve could want and then some. That Eden
is smack-dab in the middle of a city with a reputation as one of the most
decadent places on earth. That Adam is a demon. That his dominion over the
beasts of the fields includes Man. That Adam lives on the blood of human kind.
That Eve doesn't care that this is so. That she sees the advantages to being
mated to the top of the food chain.
Mated to the top predator in the city.
And don't fool yourself. Spike is a predator. That lean body I was telling
you about is superbly suited for killing. Watching Spike and our family on
the hunt is like watching a documentary on big cats. You get that same thrill,
that same morbid fascination you get from watching a pride of lions take down
a zebra. Except I'm there. I'm part of the pride, part of the pack. My family
are superlative hunters. Silent, swift, deadly. Once they mark out their prey,
that individual is doomed. No one gets away. Not ever. Lions and leopards
miss more than they kill, not Spike and the childer. They see it. They mark
it. They take it down. If Spike decides you should die then you're dead. It's
that simple. Might as well just stand there and let it happen. Of course,
they never do that, thank God. They run or they fight. It's much more enjoyable
that way. The fight, the chase, is half the fun. Not that it helps them.
They can't escape
Spike. He's as relentless as the Mississippi in flood. He's as implacable
as a lightening-filled thunderstorm. He's as unstoppable as a hurricane bearing
down on the coast. He's impending devastation, forthcoming destruction, and
imminent annihilation. He is nothing less than a force of nature.
There is nowhere you can hide from him. No safe haven. He will find and destroy
you. You want to rape and murder in the Big Easy? He'll find you. Think you're
bad? Think you're tough? To him you're just lunch.
It's good when we take the children out hunting. It's better when we hunt alone. I have no fear when I'm out with him. There isn't anything in this town that Spike can't take down single-handed. Spike stalking prey is the most incredible thing I have ever seen. He has reflexes you can't imagine. He's so fast. Sometimes I can't even follow his movements. The way he moves, so fluid, so easy, so cat-like. It's mesmerizing. Humans don't move that way. Jaguars and leopards move like that. Oh, it's sensual that's for damn sure.
I remember the first time I saw him kill someone. It was his first kill after we got rid of the chip. Idiot shouldn't have come after me with a knife, not with Spike nearby. I was standing so close when Spike took him that I could hear the man gasping for breath, see the terror in his eyes. I could hear Spike growling softly, making lionine sounds as he sucked the blood. I could hear the sucking sounds he made, too. When that body hit the ground at my feet and Spike said the man was dead, I didn't even think about it. I just had to kiss him. Had to touch him. Had to let him know how I felt. He still had his game face on. Still had blood on his lips. It was the first time I ever tasted blood other than my own. It was only the second time I had ever kissed him. Our first night together and I damn near rip his clothes off 'cause I'm so turned on by watching him feed.
It still effects
me that way. There is no greater turn on for me when it comes to sheer, unadulterated,
raw sexual power than watching Spike stalk and kill his prey. It's better
than when he plays with his food. It's even better than when he lets me play
with his food. A good, clean, hard kill sends me straight into ecstasy. Yes,
watching Spike feed gives me orgasms. I am one sick little mama. But I'm his
sick little mama and somehow that makes it all okay.
I must be sending off pheromones again because now he's leering at me. "Yes,
I'm perving on you again. I perv on you constantly, you know that. Go back
to your book and let me finish this. And put that eyebrow back were it belongs."
I love it when he does that eyebrow thing. It's so sexy. We've already been through the eyebrow licking fantasy thing, right?
Okay, body is done. Legs are done. He has nice legs though those knees are bony enough to really hurt if they hit the wrong spot in the middle of something. He's all sharp angles any way. Those hipbones alone have given me bruises more than once. I'm surprised I don't cut myself on him, his body's so sharp and hard. It should make me bleed. So sharp. Makes me want to wrap myself around him. Give him some of my softness. Protect those sharp angles from getting hurt.
Nearly done. Need to do his arms and hands. His arms. Strong, comforting arms. I love having him hold me. He cuddles well. I feel loved. I feel safe when he holds me. He's so much stronger than any human could be. He's even stronger than most vampires. He could crush me easily of course, but I'm never afraid of that. Spike has never hurt me. He has never raised his hand to me in anger. He doesn't beat his women. Unless they want him to. He has done it before of course. Dru likes pain (and luckily so does Wes). Buffy does, too, though she's more into the inflicting than the receiving. And you have to remember that he is a vampire. Vampire/human relationships are pretty much founded on violence. Very S&M usually. Ours isn't. He's had enough pain to last several life times and he's tired of women who want him to hurt them. That doesn't get him off anymore if it ever really did. Personally, I don't think it did. I think he hit them because that's what they wanted him to do. He'll do whatever his lover wants. Whatever will make them happy. I should know.
I'm not fond of pain myself, regardless of what Angelus might tell you. Spike bites me naturally. Hello, vampire. But that doesn't really hurt. Not the way you would think it would hurt. Not if it's done right. It's sexy as all hell, actually. It's an incredible feeling. We're connected when he feeds from me. When I feed from him. More so even than when we're having sex. Now, combine the sex and the biting and you've really got something. I love it. I have bite marks in interesting places. Little fang scars scattered all over me. I wear them proudly.
I'm most proud of my consort mark. Means I belong to him. Right there for the world to see. "Property of William the Bloody. Do not touch." Vampiric equivalent of a wedding ring. People seeing it think we're into the whole S&M thing. But we're not. And I'm getting damn tired of people hacking on Spike about it. The next well-meaning imbecile that says something is gonna get hurt. I think I'll rip their tongue out. I'm a grown woman and I do what I want. Now leave him the fuck alone.
Sorry. I have nothing against those that do enjoy pain. Just not something Spike and I are into. We want to see someone hurting, we'll find a rapist or a murderer and torture them for while. I didn't say there was no violence and sadism in our relationship. We just inflict it on third parties. Now, bondage is a totally different issue. Spike looks good tied up. I wonder where those black velvet ropes are?
"Yes, I'm perving again. Go back to your book. I'm almost finished. And no I won't tell you; it would just feed your ego. I saw that smirk."
Where was I? Oh yeah Spike and I. Holding. Loving. Being. Lack of sadism.
Spikes happier taking care of someone. Being needed for comfort. Spike would much rather have a woman he can make love to than one he just has sex with. Commitment does not frighten Spike in the least. He wants to be committed. He truly is a one-woman man.
I'm lucky enough to be that woman. He does not cheat on me. It's not for lack of opportunity. He is one incredibly attractive man after all. He has some beautiful childer who adore him. All he'd have to do is say the word. And the women of New Orleans have always been known for their beauty and charm. I don't think we have ever gone out without him getting propositioned at least once. He could have any woman in the city. And half the men.
Cheating on
me doesn't even cross his mind. Damn I'm one lucky white woman. All that beauty
and love reserved for me. I still can't believe it's true.
Why me? He could be with anyone. Regardless of the north London tough punk
image, he's perfectly capable of moving at any level of society that takes
his fancy. William Roxton was well born if not of the nobility; there was
still a 'sir' in front of his name. Didn't know that did you? He was a baronet.
He's educated; he put in his years at Oxford. He speaks five human languages
and eight demon ones. Definitely upper class. That was one reason Darla hated
him so much. It's why Angelus couldn't stand him. Jealousy. He had everything
they wanted and rejected it out of hand. Tossed it away. Those were chains
that he didn't want. And that they killed for repeatedly trying to possess.
So what does a supermodel gorgeous, rock star cool, educated, upper class, kick-ass bad boy Englishman want with me? Damned if I know. I'm not pretty. I'm not even young any more. He wasn't a kid when he was turned but sometimes he looks absurdly young and I look damn near old enough to be his mama. Why does he hang around? I truly don't know. I just thank God daily that he does. And pray that he doesn't change his mind.
This is so not getting this drawing done. Where was I? Oh. His hands. That may be my favorite Spike body part and believe me, I have a whole list of favorite Spike body parts. He has elegant hands, large in relation to the rest of him. Long fingers. Dexterous. Talented. The hands of an artist, a writer, a musician. They're smooth, not callused; he wasn't a laborer before he was turned. He was a poet. And he has a poet's hands. He certainly creates poetry still whenever he touches me.
It feels so good when he twines his fingers with mine. Can you imagine it? Holding hands with Spike? It's bliss.
Those long, strong fingers. And they are strong. He can crush bones with just his fingers. He can crush my heart just by cupping my cheek. Those hands protect me, guide me, pleasure me.
Those hands have killed thousands. And I don't care. They're stained with the blood of whole towns. I still don't care. They kill nightly. I don't care. They will continue to kill until they are turned to dust.
Listen to me.
I. Don't. Care.
He can pillage half the world and I won't care. He can bring on the next apocalypse and as long as I'm still standing beside him, as long as he still wants me when it all over, I won't care. It will make no difference to me.
Yes, he fights on the side of good now. Mostly. Yes, he only kills the bad guys now. Mostly. It doesn't matter. That's not why I love him. He could turn into a greater monster than a soulless Angelus ever thought of being and I'd still love him. He can suck the whole of humanity into hell for all I care. Just as long as he still wants me. Just as long as I can still be with him. The day he sends me away is the day I'll die. Make no mistake on that. He is my life. Nothing else matters. I'd sacrifice everything we have, all our childer, Angel, Dru, and their pets in LA, the Slayer and her little Scoobies, all without a second thought if I needed to do it to keep him safe and happy. I'd do it with my own hands.
Understand this, nothing matters but his happiness and well being. Nothing.
If I have to bleed half the world to assure that then so be it. The world will bleed.
You don't believe me? Ask Wolfram and Hart. They tried to take him from me. Ask them how much they paid for that transgression. Ask Angelus. He was there. He saw me take them down.
You want to know why I'd destroy the world for him?
Those hands pulled Angelus from my body before he could kill me. Weaponless, risking his own existence, those hands and that body stood between me and Death. Those gentle hands and that soothing voice put me back together after Angelus raped me. Tended my wounds, kept me sane, gave me a reason to live. Healed me. Showed me what love and care really mean. Continue to show me that daily.
You want to know why I love him?
He is the most caring, sensitive, loving individual I have ever known.
Do you know the most wonderful words he ever said to me? When he was heart broken over that bitch Buffy, when his whole world was imploding, when all he wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die, he looked at me, held out his hand and said, "You don't have to stay here. You can come with me. We'll go away together if you want to." Jesus, Spike! Ask a drowning man if he wants to breathe, why don't you? He's dying inside and he's worried about me. That's why I love him. That's why the whole wide wonderful world can fuck off and die for all I care. Just as long as he's here with me.
He is as beautiful inside as he is outside. That's why I love him.
God knows what signals I was just sending out because he's coming over here. He's got that concerned look on his face. The one that makes me melt.
Oh Christ, Spike!
Jesus, babe, I can't think when you do that. Oh my… Spike. Oh honey.
The things you do to me, boy. Oh. Oh don't… don't stop. Fuck, baby!
Shit.
I'll never finish the drawing now. Doesn't matter.
I can never capture Spike's beauty any way.
~Fin~