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Title: Chaos Bringers
Author: Voleuse
Fandom: BtVS/Ats, Ethan/Spike
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: It's the only way to be.
Notes: Futurefic, non-spoilery.
The original post.


i. I wanna destroy the passerby

It only takes a simple charm and an obscene remark to a skinhead's girlfriend to start the brawl Ethan craves.

Not, of course, that he wants to fight himself, but it's a lovely thing to watch the violence break out, spread like butterflies through the bar and, occasionally, through a window.

He'd say it's better than sex, but he can't tell, as he manages to shag the aforementioned girlfriend in the midst of the brawl. An unexpected bonus, one might say, as there's really no predicting when a woman might, in a craze of violence-inspired lust, drag him behind the bar and bend herself over the counter.

It's polite of her, really--they both get to watch the fight, then.

She's not his type, really, all bleach and fishnet stockings and vulgarity, but it's less conspicuous than watching the fray perched on his barstool, dick in hand.

She comes twice.

ii. cause I wanna be anarchy

Ethan's busy blowing the girl off, metaphorically, so he misses the entrance of a new player.

She's on her way out the back door when he realizes the meaty thwaps and thunks of the fight have slowed, and by the time he turns his attention back to the bar, they've been silenced altogether.

He surveys the litter of unconscious bodies, gaze halting on the undisputed victor, a grinning razor of a man, smoking as nonchalantly as one can, having just beaten fifteen men into submission.

He's familiar, and then Ethan recognizes him. "Spike, right?" He smiles.

Spike looks at him blankly. "Do I know you?"

Ethan buttons his trousers gracefully and steps out from behind the bar. Gestures to the bartender, who had scowled stoically throughout the brawl and the fucking, to bring them drinks. "You probably know of me." He sketches a bow. "Ethan Rayne."

Spike shakes his head.

iii. I give a wrong time

It takes a while for Ethan to remind Spike of his doings in Sunnydale--though he's sure Spike was present during those events, for the most part, they never actually met in person.

Looking at him now, Ethan regrets that a bit. He would have enjoyed a romp with this one.

He might still.

After a few shots of whiskey, Spike seems to vaguely recall the Fyarl demon incident, but he shakes off the Halloween debacle with a frown. Refuses to talk about it.

Ethan decides discretion is the better part of seduction. "What brings you to London, then?" Apropos of nothing, but it's to his convenience.

Spike finishes his glass, slams it onto the counter, and gestures obscenely at the bartender's frown. "Don't know."

"The Council--"

"Don't care." Quickly.

That pleases Ethan tremendously, and he says as much. Suggests another drink.

Spike shrugs, and Ethan orders another round.

iv. in the city

A bottle and a half through the night, Spike starts slurring out his memories of London. First, sentimentally, the oldest ones, about his family and school. Then, as the night waxes wild and moon-bright, later tales, of blood and sex and Drusilla.

Those ones, Ethan enjoys. He can picture the splendor of them, fucking next to the empty shells of their victims. It's like poetry to him, and he feels himself growing hard again.

After the last of the bar's patrons have stumbled out, warily eyeing Spike before ducking out the door, Ethan slides his hand into Spike's lap and rubs, lazily, in circles.

Spike grins at the bottom of his drink. "You sure about that, mate?"

"Of course," Ethan purrs. His clothes itch against him.

Spike tosses a few bills onto the counter and stands, dislodging Ethan's hand. "Come on, then," he says, and strides out of the bar.

v. I use the enemy

They make it as far as the alley between the bar and the next building.

Ethan's revels in Spike's shuddering body, pauses his stroking to lick at his hand, then shoves it into the front of Spike's jeans again.

He's never been a subtle lover. He considers it one of his charms.

Spike comes, and Ethan pouts for a moment, then decides he doesn't give a damn about his current outfit. He can always get its like, one way or another.

Then, with a burst of cynical laughter, Spike yanks at the fastenings of Ethan's pants, and eases a firm hand inside.

Ethan spouts profanities, honoring his own, selfish, deities, and bites into the shoulder of Spike's coat. The taste of leather is familiar and pleasant, signifying some of Ethan's better fucks.

He comes, smothering a long groan, then suggests that they find a taxi. Spike agrees with a shrug.

vi. it's the only way to be

Spike's hands are fisted in Ethan's hair, and his hips pump jaggedly at Ethan's bobbing head.

Ethan wonders, somewhat aimlessly, how many blowjobs the taxicab driver has hosted that night.

His outfit is decidedly ruined, he thinks, and he wonders if he should think of an appropriate punishment for Spike. For now, however, he'll settle for the strangled curses Spike mutters above him, remnant shreds of a prudish nature.

He grins around Spike's cock, hums deep in his throat, provoking another incoherent exclamation. The cab slows to a halt, doubtless having reached their destination, but Ethan responds to the driver's nervous cough with the wave of a hand.

He continues until he thinks Spike is at the brink, then he stops. Pays the driver.

Spike trails him into the building, spilling heartfelt curses, and Ethan wonders whether the taxi will leave immediately, or whether the driver will finish masturbating first.

vii. I thought it was the UK

Mid-thrust, Spike stops and asks Ethan whose apartment they're currently desecrating. "Not yours, surely."

"It is now." Understandably, Ethan feels a little peeved, and he pushes his body back at Spike with a hiss. "Does it matter?"

"Not really," Spike replies, returning to his former pace. "Just wondered who had to eat breakfast at this table tomorrow morning."

Ethan contemplates an semi-vulgar innuendo about breakfast foods, but fuck, he can't be bothered at the moment. He digs his fingernails into the nancy-looking tablecloth and decides he needs to redecorate.

That's the problem with appropriating someone else's living quarters, he muses, reaching down to pull at his own cock. Their furniture is never really to your taste. Plus, the bodies.

He comes messily on the linoleum, a few minutes before Spike does.

"Now," he says, wincing as Spike pulls out of him, "shall we try getting to the bedroom, this time?"

viii. I wanna be anarchy

Daylight arrives eventually, and after hours of sleep, Ethan wakes. Crawls out from under the drape of Spike's body and stretches with a snarl. Mutters a few words, ensuring Spike's unconsciousness, then trudges to the next room. Takes a long, luxurious piss, then an even longer, more luxurious shower.

Still nude, he returns to the bedroom and rummages through the top drawer of his dresser, finally emerging with a few candles, a bundle of herbs, and a bottle of sea salt.

He etches out a circle and strikes a match to light the candles, then recites something in Latin, and in another, darker language, wrapping his body and Spike's in the weaving. He sets fire to the herbs, smudging the air with smoke.

When he finishes his prayers, he cleans up the mess, tosses his clothes from the night before in the wastebasket, and wakes Spike.

They shag until sunset.

ix. know what I mean?

They find another bar to cheerfully afflict, more upscale than the one from last night.

Ethan's a little disappointed when a fight breaks out without his direct interference. A university student, obviously in over his head, had made a derogatory remark about Spike's sexuality, and Spike gleefully kissed the man before tossing him across the room.

It's all the leather, Ethan thinks from the safety of his booth. It makes homophobic boys think about sex, and they have adverse reactions.

A curvy brunette slides onto the bench across from him, showing as much cleavage as possible while doing so. He's almost impressed.

Ethan smiles innocently. "Dreadful, isn't it?" He gestures at the floor, where Spike fights alone, and gladly. "I didn't know they allowed things like this."

The girl giggles. "I like it." Slides a foot into Ethan's lap.

"Good." He presses against her, slowly. "I was hoping you might."

x. And I wanna be an anarchist
Get pissed

After Spike's finished brawling, Ethan introduces him to their new friend.

She doesn't say hello, as she's already kneeling and sucking Ethan's cock. Instead, she wriggles her hips and spreads her knees, and making it quite clear that she's not wearing knickers, and she wants them to know it.

Spike seems to think it's an appropriate greeting, because he playfully smacks her bottom before dropping to his knees behind her and shoving his trousers down his hips, delving her with his fingers before plunging his cock inside.

Her body ripples at the invasion, and Ethan moans as she does something new with her tongue.

"This," Spike grunts, "was a brilliant idea."

Ethan nods and strokes the girl's hair, stares at Spike's cock as it dips in and out of her.

"What should we do tomorrow?"

Ethan grins, then gasps as he comes in the girl's mouth. "I'll think of something."


A/N: Summary and headings taken from "Anarchy in the UK," by the Sex Pistols. I am, on occasion, obvious.

Really, though. What else could I do with Spike and Ethan?