You know what? I hate the bloody holidays. The decorations are tacky, the music is annoying, and I so want to shove those fucking bells up the Salvation Army volunteers' arses. I don't have any fucking money, and if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. Unless you cared to donate five or six pints of blood. But then it's still a maybe.
It's Christmas Eve, getting steadily closer to midnight, which would then make it Christmas Day. Eve is usually followed by day, logically speaking. My not-friends were all doing some dumb thing or another together. I wasn't invited. Not that I wanted to be. I'm a vampire. We don't do Christmas or family or friends or gift exchanges or any of that such nonsense.
Actually, that's a lie. I remember when our little family of killers would share a virgin at the supper table on Christmas Eve, then eat the carolers foolish enough to come to our door. When the twenty-fourth turned into the twenty-fifth, we'd exchange trinkets normally stolen from our victims. Sooner or later, we'd go to bed, sometimes together, sometimes apart, but always content.
In the morning, Dru would rush down to the tree Angelus insisted on having to see if Father Christmas left her anything. And there would always be something there. From trussed up humans with big bows in their hair, to a new doll or a new pet. I never figured out how Angelus did it -- it had to be him, good ole Saint Nick don't exist -- but every year since he turned me there would be something under the tree come Christmas morning. Something addressed to me, in perfect flowing script, and I'd get this stupid pang in my chest every time...
You know what else I hate about the holidays? They happen in the winter. And in the winter, all the lovely ladies and gents are bundled up like stupid Eskimos. How's a git suppose to ogle properly when you can't see anything but a shapeless lump of color? Damn it, I want to ogle! That's all I want to do, just drink my whiskey and ogle.
Ogle? What kind of dumb word is that? I think someone spiked my whiskey.
Cor, I'm horny.
Funny thing about vampires, we can be shit-faced as hell and still be able to fuck anything. Of course, this is both a good and a bad thing, depending on your perspective. Not too many people, living or not, want to fuck a drunk vampire.
And I have a cock so hard it could pound holes in cement.
I want to fuck. A nice, simple, hit-the-fuckee-so-hard-it'll-take-years-for-the-bruises-to-heal fuck. Yet here I am, wallowing in my whiskey, while girls and boys avoid my drunken arse like I'm the bloody plague. No one wants to take pity on the vampire with the aching cock. Bugger all.
I really should stop drinking before I pass out and the barkeep throws me out on my ear, and I burn when the sun comes up. Mind you, not that anyone would miss me. The Slayer would say it served me right, Giles would shake his head and call me a bloody idiot vampire, that boy would cheer and Anya would get laid. Even 1120 year old ex-demon's get more sex than me.
Oh, and Willow. She might miss me. But that's only because it's in her nature to care for all things soft and cuddly. And currently I fall into that soddin' category. Spike, the soft, cuddly, fixed puppy, who's all bark and can't bite, that's me. Unlife couldn't get any worse.
My Sire just walked in the door.
I'm going to go find that Murphy bloke and shove his bloody law where the sun don't shine.
"What do you want?" I grumble to him. See, I'm not all in the mood for Brooding Batman Ballerina Vampire. I also don't like the nonce.
"I'm here to take you home," he replies.
"I'm not ready to go home," I tell him.
"Spike, we're leaving," he says. He puts his hand on the back of my collar and half-drags me off the stool.
Prick.
Wait, what was he doing here? Aside from dragging my skinny butt out the door and towards his convertible, that is. The trotting git lives in LA, not here. Ut-oh.
"Is the world ending again?"
He gives me a strange look. "No."
Okay, I'm lost. "Then why the bloody hell are you here?"
"I'm here to take you home." The way he said it was like he was talking to a simpleton.
Jerk.
"No, you toff, what brings you to Sunnydale?" I ask him, trying to dig my feet into the pavement as the poof pushes me in front of him.
"Cordelia."
Fuck it. This is like pulling teeth. I don't need to know why he's here. He is, I don't like it, and now I'm being forced into his car. I sigh and flop my head back against the headrest, then grab my crotch to adjust my not-so-little problem. I'm drunk, I'm horny, and I'm in a car with someone I can't stand.
Joy.
He gets in the car, his very big body fitting snugly behind the wheel. Damn, that man is fucking huge. And he's wearing leather. Wonder why I didn't notice that when the ponce came in the bar? He always looked great in leather-
Ugh. I'm having bad thoughts. I lean forward and flip on the radio.
Here we are as in olden days
happy golden days of yours
faithful friends who are dear to us
gather near to us once more
I turn off the radio. Figures he would have some station on that played Christmas music. The soulful wanker.
I turn my head and look out the open window. This didn't look like the way to where I was currently hiding my head in shame at the state of my unlife. Angel stops the car, and I notice we're somewhere near the Bronze. I turn to look at him with a frown, but the poof is already out of the car and heading for the building.
I get out and follow him, because I'm curious. I thought he said he was taking me home. Not that I really wanted to go home, where I'd be alone without any alcohol on Christmas Eve. That was my whole purpose of going out to begin with.
I get to the bottom of the stairs in time to see him push open a door and walk inside. I go in after him and find myself in a clean, semi-furnished flat. There's a made bed in an alcove to the far right of the room, a single leather chair with a free-standing lamp and a small table beside it sort of in the center of the room. To the left is a privacy screen and a pinkish folding table with two folding chairs. On top of the table is a small Christmas tree with three paper ornaments hanging from its branches.
"Where are we?" I finally ask him. He had taken off his leather jacket and was in the midst of rolling up his second sleeve on the crushed velvet wine-colored shirt he wore. I always liked that shirt.
"My place," he answers. He gestures towards the kitchen. "Shower's that way. I suggest you use it."
Was he inferring that I stank?
"You smell like a brewery."
Guess so.
"What if I don't want to?" I say to him. He just arches a brow at me and I can easily read the 'if you don't go, I'll bloody well throw you in there myself' look in his eyes.
I sigh and go take a shower.
Wanker.
If I wasn't feeling so melancholy because of the alcohol, I'd probably put up more of a protest. But I'm really not in the mood to fight with the git. I'm really not in the mood to anything other than drink and fuck. Of course, now my drink is gone, and it looks like the only sex I'm going to get is with my hand. At least I'm in the shower.
I wrap my soapy hand around my throbbing cock and start tossing off. Cor, I would give anything to be pounding into a nice, hot cunt. Or a nice, tight hole. I'm not too particular as to where I stick it, so long as I'm getting my rocks off. I'm sick of using my hand all the time. At least with that twat, Harm, I was shagging someone.
I let go with an unsatisfactory grunt as I shoot my wad down the drain. This bites. I wish someone would stake my arse already, because this is getting pathetic. I am getting pathetic.
I get out of the shower and find the fucker took my clothes. My shorts are sitting on the sink, but everything else is gone. What a pillock! Those are my clothes and he shouldn't be touching them.
Stupid sod.
I exit the bathroom to find him sitting in the only chair in the place, reading a book, his shirt unbuttoned completely, exposing his pale torso and the chain hanging around his neck. I stifle a snort. Someone's been drinking a tad bit too much.
My clothes are hanging up over the screen. I quickly find out why and turn on him. "Why are my clothes wet?!" I exclaim.
"Smelled," he replies, not looking up from his book.
I am going to kill him.
Grinding my teeth together, I stomp over to the table with the tree on it. The three paper ornaments catch my eye again, and I take a closer look. All three are yellow and decorated with silver glitter. One is in the shape of a bell, another in the shape of an circle, and the third is a star. Each have a name written in childish script with red marker on them. Heather, Julie and Kelly.
In my slightly intoxicated state, I forgot that I was mad at him, and ask, "What's with the kiddie ornaments?"
"Gift," he says.
"Are you going to be monosyllabic all night, you sod?" I growl at him.
He raises his eyes to me. "Monosyllabic?"
I clench my fists. "You are a fucking prick."
"And?"
I half-growl, half-scream. "Who do you think you are? You drag me out of the bar where I was quite content to be, don't take me home, tell me I smell, make me take a shower, steal my bleedin' clothes and wash them, and talk to me like I'm some stupid moron!"
He just looks at me and smirks.
"God, I hate you!" I yell. I'm still drunk, else I wouldn't be yelling at the wanker mostly naked in his own place. That's just stupid. Not that I couldn't take the git...
He stands up. Actually, it's closer to unfurling his fucking huge body from the chair. I ball my hands up into tighter fists. Bring it on, Angel-puss. You're going down tonight, just you wait and see.
He walks right up to me and stops a dozen centimeters or so away, so I have to look up to keep his eyes. Why does the toff have to be so big? I feel like a bloody imp.
He stares at me until my skin itches from being tensed up. I am going to deck him for making me all uncomfortable.
"I hate you, too," he says before I can hit him. Damn, and I so wanted to, too. I could use a nice fight with him to-
He's kissing me.
Holy fucking shit, he's kissing me. Holy fucking shittier, I'm kissing him back! What am I, stupid? This is Angel. My Sire. The tormentor of my unending existence. The man I hate more than anything except for maybe his bitch, the Slayer.
Cor, he kisses good.
What am I thinking? Ick! Stop! Hands, don't you even think about going...
Damn, he's solid muscle. And big. And he's got a hard-on under his leather pants, which is pressing into me. And my jimmy has come to attention again. Not good, not good, not good, not good...
Oh fuck, that feels good.
Alcohol. I'm blaming this on the alcohol. No way in soddin' hell would I be doing this with him sober. No way would I be nibbling down the front of his exposed chest around the chain with the small medallion on it. Or licking his nips. Or getting even more exited by the soft hiss he just made when I lightly bit one of the stiff tits.
He yanks me up by the back of my hair to kiss me again. He's so damn good with his tongue. I can practically feel it on my cock, his mouth sucking me, his fingers sliding in and out of my arse. Bloody hell, if I keep thinking like this, I'm going to come in my shorts.
Oh. I just lost my shorts.
And now I'm on the bed, and he's the one licking and nibbling and kissing his way down my body. Oh bloody fucking holy shit to hell. I'm making noises. Noises because I really, really like what the poof is doing. I'm groaning and growling like a bitch in heat.
"Oh fuck." His mouth is around me. He's sucking me. Licking me like I'm a popsicle. Playing with my nuts. Sucking them into his mouth. Oooooh hell, not fair. So not fucking fair.
Wait, don't stop.
I force my eyes open to see him stripping out of his clothes. My eyes get bigger when I see his prick. I forgot that his hugeness was all encompassing. How the bleedin' fuck did that fit anywhere?
He's on the bed again, and I'm on top of him, though how the hell that happened, I don't know. I just suddenly am on top, and his hard cock is rubbing against me and mine is rubbing against him, and his tongue is driving me batty as we kiss, and I know I'm going to regret this come tomorrow when I sober up.
I don't even know why he initiated this...whatever. Coupling, rutting, shagging, fucking. Who the fuck cares what its called? As long as it keeps going until I come, I don't care. I'm just glad I tossed off in the shower, else we would have been done already, and I would have missed out on all these great physical feelings that are running amok in me.
Where in the world did the Vaseline come from?
"Ooooh," I groan into his neck when his lubed fingers slide into me. It's been so long, too bloody long. I forgot how good it can feel.
I rub my hips forward in time with his thrusting fingers, my cock getting the friction I so want against his skin. His mouth is sucking on my neck and shoulder, and he's making this low growl that's making my bollocks tingle.
Cor, this is so wrong. So bloody fucking wrong.
Oh fuck me.
He turns us over so he's on top, and he kisses me. I'm getting dizzy. Shouldn't be able to happen, but it is. Too much whiskey, too much pleasure, too much thinking, who knows what's causing it. All I know is that he's slathering his cock with Vaseline and I can't tear my eyes from the sight of his large hand gripping his huge prick, stroking it with the clear, slick stuff.
I want my Sire. I want him to fuck me. I want to feel that great, big cock slamming in and out of me.
Right, I'm not out of my ever-loving mind. I know am going to regret this.
He wipes his hand on the bedspread, then pulls my legs up onto his shoulders. He wants to face me. He's going to take me like a woman. This is humiliat-
Ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouch, ouuuooooohhhhhh. He's inside me, fully, and I feel like I'm going to bust my gut. Good, bad, don't know, please move.
But he's not moving. He's staring at me with those dark, unfathomable eyes. Unfathomable because they're like inky pools of brown that I'm drowning in and feel like I'll never surface again. He strips you bare with those eyes, making you feel like you don't have a single secret that he doesn't know. I hate it.
"Angel," I say roughly. Is that my voice? It's so...lusty. I'm fucking pathetic.
Now I'm getting fucked.
He starts moving, sliding his hips back, then pushing his cock back in. It burns and hurts and feels so bloody good. My hands grab at the bedspread on either side of me as he speeds up, his eyes still boring into mine. I want him to close them or look away or me to close mine or look away, but I can't. I'm mesmerized. I'm at his mercy. I'm exposed and vulnerable and being fucked up the arse while on my back like a woman.
And, damn it, I want him to keep doing it.
The regret may kill me come tomorrow.
His lips pull back ferally, and he starts snarling. He's hitting me hard, the sounds of him slamming in and out of me loud and smacking, the chain hanging around his neck swinging wildly back and forth. He isn't touching my cock or rubbing against it in any way, but I feel myself going to come at any second. The head of his huge prick is smashing against my prostate again and again, sending jolts of pain and pleasure everywhere.
I feel my sac tighten and lift, and I snarl as white-heat runs up my cock and I orgasm. I shoot my load all over my stomach and chest, some even hitting the underside of my neck. His eyes are still locked with mine, and burning humiliation hits me like a sledgehammer.
Then his eyes turn gold for a brief instant as his face flickers, and he buries himself with a hard thrust into my arse. "William," he growls, and I'm stunned. I feel his cock pulsing inside of me as he comes, but I don't really register it.
He called me William.
My Sire called my William.
I blink when he breaks eye-contact with me, pulling out of me to roll onto his back on the bed beside me. I could feel his semen slowly start to run out of my hole, pulling me out of my stupor.
I'm covered in my own semen and his is running out of my arse.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!!
I have to get out of here. Now. I sit up, turn and am yanked right back down.
"Let go!" I exclaim, shoving at the arm around my waist, holding me down.
"No," he states, pulling me back against him.
"Damn it! Let me go!" I yell again. When did he get so bloody strong?
He tightens his arm around me. "No."
And then his fangs pierce the side of my neck, and I stop moving. Tears prickle my eyes. It's the alcohol. I don't cry anymore. I'm not a nancyboy.
"I hate you," I tell him.
His fangs leave my neck, and he whispers, "I know you do."
Pillock.
"Go to sleep, Spike," he tells me. Like I'm suppose to be able to sleep after what just happened.
I struggle against him one last time, and I feel his lips against my neck, his canines lightly piercing my skin. I stop. I'll wait until he's asleep or not suspecting me to move, then I'll go. Maybe I'll even stake him before I do.
I hate him. I hate this. I hate myself. I hate the fucking holidays.
I don't remember when I fell asleep. One minute I was planning my Sire's demise, now it's sometime in the morning and I'm alone. The bedsheet is up over me, and I'm still naked and in his place, so everything that happened wasn't just a nightmare. Besides, the air smells like sex.
"Hey you poof, you here?" I call. Nothing. I don't hear the shower running, and when I look over on the floor, his clothes are gone.
I close my eyes for a moment, fighting against the feelings churning inside of me. Rage, humiliation, hurt, sadness. I can't believe what I did. I can't believe what he did. I think I'm going to go find a stake and hurl myself on it.
I climb out of the bed and walk over to my clothes. Shorts first, which are on the floor, then tee-shirt and jeans and socks and boots. As I am putting my second boot on, I notice the little Christmas tree for the first time that morning. The three ornaments are gone, but there's an envelope propped up against it.
It's probably some stupid apology note from the big poof. Or a threat. Or I made the wanker lose his soul and it's a thank you note from Angelus, with a promise to return and kill me for going against him a year and a half ago.
I walk over to the table and my hand freezes just as I am about to pick it up. My name, my real name, is scrawled across the front of the envelope in perfect, flowing script.
I get a pang in my chest.
Someone please stake me.
Growling at my stupid pathetic self, I rip off the side of the envelope to open it. Something falls to the ground by my feet. I bend down and pick it up, and that fucking pang in my chest comes back.
It's his medallion. The chain that was around his neck last night. The one that swung back and forth as he thrust in and out...
A car drives by and I can hear music.
Christmas is the time to come together
a time to put all differences aside
and I reach out my hand
to the family of man
to share the joy I feel at Christmas time
Bloody hell.
I hate the holidays. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.
I put the chain around my neck.
I don't know if you believe in Christmas
or if you have presents underneath the Christmas tree
but if you believe in love
that will be more than enough
for you to come and celebrate with me
For I have held the precious gift that love brings
even though I never saw a Christmas star
I know there is a light
I have felt it many times
and I have it seen it shining from afar
Christmas is the time to come together
a time to put all differences aside
and I reach out my hand
to the family of man
to share the joy I feel at Christmas time
For the truth that binds us all together
I would like to say a simple prayer
that at this special time
you will have some peace of mind
and love to last throughout the coming year
And if you believe in love
that will be more than enough
for peace to last throughout the coming year
And peace on earth will last throughout the year
End