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The Perpetuity of Need.
Amy B.

It’s not the same.

Intellectually, he knows that, of course. There’s nothing of her softness, her grace, the fluidity of being and self that courses beneath her skin in the broad muscled planes of her lover. And yet…

The other man smells so damn much like her. If he’s careful, if he's quick, he can catch the soldier right as he leaves her bed, off on a nighttime hunt he’d die to conceal. Push the lucky, foolish bastard up against the tree that’s served as a waystation these many nights, rend open his pants, swallow his cock. Take him whole and taste her—even if it’s only secondhand, even if it’s not enough, it’s better than he dreamed, and he works his companion mercilessly, not slowing or pulling away until the last desperate moment.

Warm jets of semen splash against his shoulder as he sinks his fangs into the supple upper thigh; it’s worth it, at times like this, to work through the pain, lessened as it is by the surrender of the man beneath him. He pulls on rich blood, savors the scent and the flavor and the come of lovers both ephemeral and real, and, groaning, allows himself his own release.

They readjust their clothing, turn from each other, return back to where they belong—Riley to Buffy’s bed, Spike to his dreams of it.

Sleep is easier to find, now that both have had their taste of what the other side can offer.


The slam of wood against stone wasn’t a surprise; neither was the terrifying vision of the stake as it rushed towards his heart. The agony, however, was a wonder—he hadn’t thought to live so long after such a sight.

A moment’s thought, a white-hot pain that shone brilliant clarity into the farthest reaches of his mind, and he knew. Plastic wood grain; no death here. Shouldn’t be surprised the rigid bastard had a toy box, what with having the kinks he did.

Spike had known, of course, that he would be made to pay for letting on about the soldier’s secret life—at least, the one of which Spike himself wasn’t a part. There was no need for all tales to make their way out of school, no need to let on that the once-sole reason he haunted the old oak in the Revello yard had found a secret twin. A lust equally improper, equally intoxicating… a lust that, unlike the one that burned in him for Buffy, was matched and fulfilled.

Night after night, the ritual of that first happenstance had played out again—one the ravager, one the coquette, both grunting and pouring, in streams against the other, a release that seemed to defy any other form of exorcism.

Spike hadn’t examined the motives that led him to follow Riley on the one night their tree hadn’t been the soldier’s destination. He’d held to the shadows, watched and learned, seethed from the bone-deep sense of betrayal so fundamental that it defied his attempts at nomenclature.

Lost on his own, he’d retrieved the Slayer, relished the sight and scent of her sleep-warm form as he led her from her bed and into the cruel world she tried so hard to leave behind. A world crueler for what he knew to be awaiting them at their destination. Better to let her name what they found, however; to let her find the words he could not. And found a word she had.


It had seemed fitting enough, in the instant he’d first heard it. Seemed to account for the strained coalescence of needs that brought fang and vein together in a dance towards dust. There, in that place, amidst the filth and mewling weaklings, the word had been so fitting, had nearly driven him to joy with its utter perfection.

Such pleasures were doomed to be transitory; this was no different, though it died by degrees. The initial high lasted only until he’d seen the disdain in her eyes, the fury in her that burned to punish him for shattering her safe little world. The remainder, including the gleeful little stabs of pleasure particular to vengeance, lingered until he looked into the eyes of a stake-wielding soldier and saw the same fury reflected there, until he felt the sharp pain of a penetration that had no release—neither to ecstasy, nor to death.

Drunk on wine, weak from blood loss, writhing against the ceaseless ministrations of a warm and determined hand, Spike found himself adrift. He heard Riley gasp, felt his own balls tighten, and forced himself to accept just that much more pain, to sink his fangs deep into the tender flesh of the proffered arm. As warm and cold fluids mixed, adding their unique perfumes to the scents of blood already in the air, the mutuality struck him, and he couldn’t help but wonder…

If that other had been whoring, just what the hell was this?


He was surprised by the relative stillness of his emotions when he heard that the tin soldier was back in town. No shock there, not really; Spike knew that between the lures he and Buffy presented, Riley would be drawn back time and again, regardless of his conscious wishes. That was just the way of some passions, to become a strange and ceaseless orbit of need.

The stillness came to a halt, however, when he met the other man’s condescending stare; bemused, he left Buffy’s side and stepped up with some scorching disdain of his own. Riley might have the ego that came from being handsome, being strong, being a Big Man on a small campus, but Spike was a legend, a terror. Known; storied; sired of the Aurelius line, and one of its most fearsome. There were those to whom he’d bow, to whom obeisance was due; a live-action G.I. Joe whom he’d once fucked and sucked nightly, however, would never feature on that list.

He watched the proper set of the other man’s features, saw the image he was attempting to create for himself. Spike had to admit that he was amused by the upstanding citizen act performed before him, by the idea of Riley with a wife, living out an oddly domestic version of a demonic Mission: Impossible. He wondered idly just how much the wife knew, wondered if Captain Courageous still needed his special itches scratched, found the possibilities of how such satisfactions would be accomplished in the wilds to be intriguing, to say the least.

More than once since he’d learned of their presence through the always-prescient demon grapevine, Spike had thought about tracking down Mr. and Mrs., demonstrating the ways of the predator and the power of the primal, defying their technology and showing them the folly of their worship of microchips. Thought about bending the commando over, stripping the ridiculous garb from him and proceeding to show Riley’s pretty young wife just how many different ways there were to make her husband scream, just how different the pitch of his pleas and moans when he was taking one finger, two, a tongue, a cock. Imagined making Riley beg, ensuring that he remembered, forbidding him to forget, and leaving a mark for the sake of certainty.

The seconds-long flash of longing that passed through the soldier’s eyes as Spike slid his pants up over slim hips, however, told Spike everything he needed to know. Anything else he could do would be superfluous—Riley would have to be dead before Spike was forgotten.