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Pretty Messes

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Summary: "We're messes, love. Pretty messes. They cut us open and spilled us on the floor." Spike and Bellatrix have a meeting of minds, and bodies, in London during late 1977.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Harry Potter > Spike-Centered > Pairing: OtherTwistedSlinkyFR2112,640023022 Aug 122 Aug 12Yes

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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Any mention of, well, anything in the 1970s is not to be considered factual.

Warning: Language, violence, and sex—somewhat graphic, but not wash-your-eye-balls afterward graphic, but yeah, Smutty Smutterson took over.

Author's notes: Written for twistedshorts August Fic-A-Day. I don't know what Spike did directly after killing Nikki, but, in this story, he ditched NY for England. As for the setting—I wasn't born yet, so do forgive any errors. For Bella, this is during the reign of Lord Voldemort, during the First Wizarding War. I'm guessing Bella was always a bit nutty, but Azkaban just unleashed it all.


London, England


Two villains met on one dark night. They recognized each other immediately for what they were, monsters. Lovely monsters, but monsters nonetheless—it was like something out of a poem, really. Which put a decidedly snarky grin on Spike's face.

Even in the pale yellow glow bleeding through the pub window and onto the sidewalk, her eyes were dark, murderous, and filled with just a touch of madness. Not so far off her rocker that she couldn't hide it, but give her a prod in the right direction, and just watch the birdie claw your eyes out. The thought reminded him of his Dru; she reminded him of his Dru. And if ever there was a moment when he wanted to rip a throat open, it was then.

The stranger tilted her head, the cascade of dark curls piled atop her crown falling loose to kiss her neck. Lips curled upward, as if she could read his very thoughts and found them…delightful. Lace-covered fingers disappeared beneath the black on black over-robe she wore and slid behind her back, holding something there, just out of sight. The gown she wore, its layered skirts bunched up in front enough to show a hint of striped stockings and pointy ankle boots, swayed as she took a step back.

Not to run away. He could tell by the look on her face, that teasing expression, that she was merely playing with him. Luring him.

The dress could have blended in with the London music crowd easily—though one couldn't tell it by looking at the Percy he was dressed as at the moment, he himself, not a night ago, had been body-to-body in a punk-pigpen made of safety pins and eye-liner, and not a one of those damned souls would 'a found a girl like this one the least bit out of place—but there was something about the cockiness of her gesture, the arrogance of that lifted chin, the object she was holding so close…Spike let his eyes roam the street. Ah, this old place—he recognized the area from previous encounters. Ones best left forgotten. Nevertheless, he didn't move to leave.

She was a witch, then. One of the wand-waving ones who were so numerous in these parts. He'd almost forgotten them during the decade he'd just spent drinking Yanks. Rumor said the wizard bunch had gotten all high-and-mighty of late, following some Dark Lord who had no place in his bloody Magic Kingdom for any but his own. Spike didn't care for the type, himself. Always had a bit of a problem with authority, even of the evil variety…Maybe Dru was right, maybe it wasn't a good idea to run to London, after all, but he'd liked the game of it, scaring that do-gooder Council of sorry sods by showing up so close to their precious homesteads. Because, surely, they'd heard by now, about what he did to their girl in New York. And he'd certainly shown his face since arriving in England in hopes of catching the eye of the right stuffed-shirt.

Killing a slayer was quite the achievement. But, it just wasn't any fun if her friends didn't know who did the deed.

The woman took another step back, boots clacking on stone—she'd lined herself up with the shadowed entrance of an alleyway and was waiting for him to move.

Spike pinched the cigarette hanging lazily from his lips, sucking in a deep pull that left the tip aglow before he tossed it down, stomping the butt out with the top of his designer shoe. God, he hated this damned outfit—and he was wearing it all for Drusilla, all so she could go to some damned well-to-do party because she had a hankerin' for something richer than the groupies they'd been dining on. But, for fuck's sake, the main reason he'd come here—aside from the gloating, of course—had been so he could see the damned musicians, and then she'd went and made him dress a bloody part as some tie-wearing wanker? What, all so she could run off and have a tryst with a slimey piece of—

Spike's nostrils flared, but he forced the thought down, the memory down, of his girl making time with someone else. She did it just to hurt him—as much as he loved that about her, tonight was simply not the night. Pinstriped prat suit or no pinstriped prat suit, he was aimed to let a bit of his aggression out, maybe even a few frustrations of another sort if he had the time.

Smoke unfurled from his mouth, casting a cloud over his face for a moment. "Haven't you heard, love? Witches should stick to their broomsticks if they want to have a bit of fun." He smirked at her narrowed gaze. "Street's no place for you."

Her back straightened, a snooty whine in her voice. "Did I give you permission to address me, vampire?"

Spike raised a brow. High-and-mighty. Yeah—seemed he'd heard right. "Can't properly address you if I don't even know your name."

"Ignorance is no excuse—you should be able to recognize your betters on sight."

She side-stepped, disappearing into the blackened alley way. The bait dangled. Spike gave it only a moment's consideration before taking a nibble. He slipped after her. A flash of red threw him off balance, tossing him to the ground. One moment he was free, the next, he had ropes around his arms.

"Bitch," he hissed, trying to work his elbows lose. And, as if she'd been summoned, she was on top of him, straddling his chest—if he'd been the breathing sort, that might have even hurt a touch.

She looked down her nose at him, as if the show were better from up there. The tip of her wand ran across his cheek.

"I'm not feeling all that chipper tonight," she sighed—there it was, that touch of madness he'd noted. "I've tried to lighten my mood. Went out and about and made quite the ruckus…Did everything that my lord would have asked of me and more…And you know what? I still don't feel any better." She lifted the wand, a puff of flames blew from the tip, right over his face. "But I haven't tried torturing a vampire yet. What do you say? Would you mind servicing me?"

"Not at all." Spike growled and gave a curt twist of his head, his game face distorting his features. "Feeling a bit glum myself, pet. Could use the sound of a few screams to lighten the mood."

With a thrust of his pelvis, he tossed her over his head, and then wrenched at the ropes, ripping them apart. A second later, he was at his feet, and she was stumbling to her own. Without hesitation, he grabbed her by the throat and tossed her against the brick wall of the closest building, ever aware that her wand was still in her hand, pressed against his chest now.

They both paused, as if considering the stand-off.

Her cheek gave a little tick. He winked back.

"Fancy taking this elsewhere?"

Then she smiled in full. A manic expression. "I thought you'd never ask."

Spike, as a rule, didn't like being magically transported, but it saved time, and effort, so he'd ignore the disorienting flaws of it for now. The first thing he noticed was that he was in a house in which he hadn't been invited. The second thing he noticed was the strong stench of wasted blood, which explained the first bit. The owners were dead.

One glance past the hallway showed him a crumpled form that had almost made it to the still-locked front door. Smeared red handprints streaked the wall closest to him. He reached out, stained his fingers in it.

"The muggle in the kitchen is still warm—I just finished with him, if you want a bite to eat first."

Spike blinked at the girl's offer. "W'at's your name, pet?"

"Bellatrix Lestrange," she said, and the way it came out of her mouth, Spike figured he was supposed to know it. "And," she cooed, "if anyone's the pet here, it's you, leech. Or didn't you hear me the first time—I'm your better."

A part of his beast wanted to rip her open, but mostly he was just intrigued. "And you always give your pets leftovers? I prefer something a bit fresher…"

"If you want a treat, you'll have to earn it."

The blood soaked door led to a blood soaked bed, and Spike stripped it bare before doing the same to himself. He didn't wait for her permission to tug at her dress. That the skirts separated from the corset was a pleasant surprise. The long stripes of the stockings enchanted him as well—he'd want to see what they looked like close up.

"I've done all he asked… And more… I've slaughtered for him, maimed for him…"

She whispered the words against his shoulder. Her lace-gloved fingers crawled up his chest, rolling over his nipples before finding his neck. She squeezed as hard as she could, giggling as she choked him. Spike didn't mind. Quite a grip on her—he'd like to see what else she could do with it. But, he'd let the girl have her fun first.

Spike licked his lips, feeling the freshly stolen blood in his veins trapped there, with her touch—didn't matter, as most of it was currently pooling in a far more southern location. He lifted one hand, running it along the lip of her black corset, letting it graze the pale curves of the breasts trying to push their way out. His nail made a delicious sound as dropped down, over the bone ribbing and to the panties tied in place beneath it. An experimental prod confirmed there was a peep hole cut into their center, as if she'd planned for just this occasion after a light appetizer of murder and mayhem.

Spike felt her heat before he reached it. Then he soaked in it, enjoying himself.

Penetrating. Invading. It was more natural to a vampire than anything else. They were creatures who survived by it, only, usually they used their fangs to dig deep into a person.

A moan slipped past her lips, and she let her grip slacken enough for him to speak. "Good boy," the gesture seemed to say. "Good pet."

"Did everything you could to impress 'em, and he didn't take notice?"

Bellatrix pouted, her anger almost comical, especially while her hips were grinding down onto his hand. "I am his most loyal servant, vampire. All that matters is our loyalty to the cause…And yet there are those who I fear would betray our Lord—who would do anything to save themselves." She sucked in a breath when he added another finger, her eyes fluttering a moment. He wondered, with all she was saying, if she planned to kill him afterward—he'd have to prep for that… "I can spot these fools amongst our number—I can see their manipulative ways… But the Dark Lord… He…"

"They're a bunch of pricks, but they end up with all the glory. Yeah, I know a few sods like that. Meanwhile you do all the work and get stuck with the bill." Spike tossed her down onto the mattress, pushing his way between her spread knees. "Burns me, too. I got this girl myself…My sire. Whatever she asks, I do…"

"Because you're loyal," Bellatrix said, reaching up to grab his cock.

Spike would never admit it, but he purred a bit. It had been a while since he'd been inside a human, much less while in a house that smelled like it was going to reek of blood for the next decade—Christ, but he'd been right about the grip. The ache at his neck was worth it. He closed his eyes, feeling her lace-covered thumb smearing his slickness over the swell of the head as she pumped...Fuck if he wasn't as hard as a schoolboy already.

"I am. Loyal. And, I do my best to impress her—hard to do, since she's the looniest bird I ever met. I mean, a statue out of intestines? Really? But I love 'er, you know?"

"Fuck me," Bellatrix demanded, pulling her hand away. "Do it now, you filthy blood sucker."

Spike opened his eyes again, lining himself up. Her stockings tickled the sides of his hips when he pushed in with a quick thrust. He reached under her thighs and pulled her legs up higher so that he was all but levering the two of them on the edge of the bed.

"I killed a slayer for her, my second, not a few months ago—but was it enough?"

"It's never enough," she agreed and lifted her ass to meet him as he pressed into her, finding a rhythm to match her need. "But we can't stop trying…"

He leaned over her, catching her mouth with his in a bruising kiss before picking up his speed. The angle was right; she began to suck in short, needy breaths, bucking for more.

"Harder," she gritted. "Harder, my pet…"

He chuckled, an almost angry sound. Another perk to death—didn't take a lot of breath to fuck like a dog. "Look at us…we're messes. Pretty messes. They split us open and spilled us on the floor. We're the ones left to clean ourselves up afterward."

Her muscles tightened, squeezing him. His balls responded in like, enjoying her approval. He slammed into her a few more times, enjoying the sound of his groin slapping against the sleek fabric. She groaned, a grimace on her face as she came hard, too good to cry out for him. Spike couldn't help himself—he spilled straight into her, whether she wanted him to or not.

He knew what girls with madness in their eyes were like, though, if you did things out of turn. He pressed his fingers to her clit, working up a bit of friction to keep her jerking in the aftershocks.

"Do I get a treat now?" he asked, amused at her open, panting mouth.

She made a low, hungry voice in her throat, but shook her head. "My lord will see it."

"I'll put it where he won't."

"He'll see it there, too."

Spike squeezed the nub, and she whimpered. "Ah," he said, and grinned. "Suppose he does. Suppose to gets a bit peeved with his good girl Bellatrix being with a dirty creature of the night. What's the bloke likely to do? Punish you? Hurt you?"

Her eyes widened. Spike recognized the look. Want. Need. Desire. None of it for him. Loyalty: it was a fickle thing.

"Bite me," she breathed.

Spike smirked and fell down to his knees. He'd known the words would get him a light meal. After all, the girl was so much like his Dru, but even more like him. She'd wear his mark just the way he was going to wear the bruises around his neck for his lady. Because, hell, impressing the ones they were loyal to was worthless. You could never do enough, never be enough. Getting them pissed enough to devote themselves to your pain, your punishment…that was the real trick.

It was what he craved. It was what she craved. He'd recognized that monster inside her the moment they'd locked eyes.

"Guess we both like being messes a bit too much, don't we, love?"

The End

You have reached the end of "Pretty Messes". This story is complete.

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