DISCLAIMER: as I am neither Joss Whedon nor David Greenwalt, I own none of the characters contained herein.
RATING: R-ish, I think.
PAIRING: S/A
DISTRIBUTION: Titti and P'al Kwai may have it if they like, seeing as they were kind enough to feed my ego by asking for it; anyone else, I WILL say yes!!!
FEEDBACK: is wanted and needed...
DEDICATIONS: to everyone at SpikeNAngelFic, and the Spike Coddling list... thanks, guys!!!
NOTES: Okay, this started right after Spike got the ever-lovin' shit kicked out of him by Glory. In my world, that happened around the same time as 'Epiphany'. Five or six days after the events in 'Repairs'...
POV: Spike for this part, as the last one was Angel's...
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I'm even more out of my fucking mind than Dru is. I know it, too, because for some unknown reason, I'm actually trusting the souled version of my fucking Sire! I don't know why, but I do trust him, and quite frankly, that's bloody well worrisome.
I mean, there I was, all beat up to shit, and I could have sworn it was because I'd been trying to protect Slayer's li'l sis from the bitch-God, but... When she-- the Slayer, I mean-- came to me, and talked, and then kissed me? It left me bloody cold.
Of course, I'm a *vampire*. Cold is my normal state. Still, I'd gone to all the trouble of having my own mechanized Slayer made-- and make no mistake, that bit was *fun*-- but when the real thing kissed me? Nothing. It just felt like a big, ugly let-down.
So she left me there. Didn't even offer me a spot of Slayer-blood, which
would have been the polite thing, after all, considering what I'd been
through for her. Guess I was expecting too much of her, though. She never
*did* see me as anything other than a demon. Hell, to Buffy, I was still
just an evil bastard trying to survive as best I could. Have to admit,
just knowing she still sees me as 'evil' gives me warm, fuzzy feelings,
but not for her. That's not the bloody point, though.
See, she left, and I won't lie, I was hurting like hell. My entire body felt like it had been rolled in broken glass and sharp bits of wood. It was like yet another bloody, fucking nightmare, but I tried to hold still, just until I could move again. I didn't even want blood at that point; I just... wanted to die. And then he was there. Him. My Sire.
Oh, not Angelus-- the one who'd made me-- because that would have been too much to hope for, but Angel. He was there, and walking into my crypt-- my *home*-- and don't think I wasn't pissed off that he knew what I'd been reduced to. Me. Spike. William-the-fucking-Bloody, with nowhere to stay but a dark, dank, dirty crypt, complete with moldering bones and rats. But that wasn't the worst part.
No, the worst fucking part of the whole sodding mess was that he was
coming at me, and he was undressing, and... suddenly, I was terrified.
I remembered the things he'd done to me after his little love-fest with
Slutty, and damned if I wasn't convinced that the bastard he'd been then
was *back*.
I remember every single moment of the time when I was stuck in that
wheelchair. I remember his big, hard hands tossing me to the floor, I remember
the sounds of tearing denim, and the rasping hiss of his zipper. I recall
every moment, every drop of blood, and all the pain without pleasure, and
maybe it was because I was so dazed from the beating I took, but I was
pretty fucking sure it was about to happen again. It didn't, though.
He must have seen what I was thinking, I guess, because there was all of a sudden such a *look* on his face. He just sat there beside me for a moment, with that mother-load of guilt shining from him, and I knew. Whatever it was that had brought him there, he wasn't the Angelus I'd seen last. He wasn't my Sire, though, either. No, he was still the souled fuck I hated; I was sure of it. Didn't stop me from saying "Sire," when he opened his neck for me.
Just watching the thick, rich blood dripping down his skin had me hard, regardless of who he was, and the smell of it? Well, let's just say that what with the state I was in, I'd have called him Mary-fucking-Poppins, if that was what he'd wanted. Then his hand was in my hair, and he was holding my lips to that bloody gash, and fuck if I didn't dig right in, all fangs and tongue, and I was wrong. I'd have called him God; that was what he was to me in that moment.
Bloody hell, I'd missed him. Always. Missed his hands, and his mouth, and pretty much every *other* part of his big, lumbering, peasant-y self. Mostly, though, I'd missed those moments. Tasting him. Feeling him. Sensing all the things he'd never say out loud. Angelus was always a demon; there were just certain things he'd never say, but the blood didn't lie. It couldn't.
It was never my way to just take, or not from *him*, anyway. Dru, Darla, any human walking the street, sure. I'd take whatever they'd let me have. But my Sire... from the moment I woke in his arms to this immortality, something inside me screamed to give as good as I got. It's why I always tested him, tried him, made him crazy. Nothing's changed.
My right hand was much worse off than my left, more blood flowing, so that was the one I pressed to his lips. I didn't expect to react the way I did when he took my fingers into his mouth, though. All of a fucking sudden, it was like the years of separation had ceased to exist, and.. Bloody Hell! His fucking tongue was swirling around my skin, tracing the cuts and splits on my hand, and I didn't even notice it when my other hand slipped into his lap. Not at first, anyway.
His blood was racing through me, and I have to say it's powerful fucking stuff, much more so than can be accounted for by his age. 'Course, Watcher says he spent a few centuries in Hell, so maybe that explains it. Still, I could feel my body starting to heal from the inside out, and maybe that was why I was suddenly aware of the ponce getting hard in his slacks.
So what if he still had a soul? He was my Sire, right? Maybe not completely, but enough that it didn't matter. His body called me just as much as his blood did, and when he started talking about taking me back to LA, I didn't really want to argue.
I kept that carefully hidden, though. Wouldn't want him to start wondering what I was up to, now did I? And he *would* have wondered, but fact was... I just wanted out. I could see what was happening to me; see what I was becoming, the more time I spent in Sunnyhell, and frankly...? It made me want to heave. Angel was my only hope; my only way out.
Didn't hurt any that I could feel how much he still wanted me-- through his blood, and in my hand. I figured he wouldn't want to admit it at first, though. Shows what I know, hey? 'Cause that's when he did it.
"You will *stop* trying to say no to me, Will," he said, and I missed whatever came after that, because he'd called me *Will*! He hadn't called me that in longer than I wanted to think about, but he *did* it! And he didn't try to take it back, either. "Will," he said again; then "Will..." once more, and...
I was throbbing so hard I though I might burst in my jeans. Of course, so was he. My still-bleeding finger worked its way back into his mouth, even as I swallowed still more of his essence, and as I rubbed him harder through those nancy-boy slacks of his, I felt the knowledge in his blood.
He was right. I *was* going back to LA with him, and I *would* feed from him as much as was necessary, and probably even more. Of course, he'd be doing some feeding of his own before too long, whether he knew it or not. It had been far too many years since the last time I'd felt his fangs in my skin, outside of the times at the mansion-- but that had been about punishment, and not the *fun* kind, either.
Still, I refused to think about that. No, the only thing I was bloody well thinking was how I could make him touch me more, and soon. 'Not gonna happen', I felt him thinking, but I've never been one to let things lie. I knew I could make him change his mind. Besides, I figured if I let him think too much about it, he'd go getting all broody and change his mind. He does that sometimes; more now with the soul, and I wasn't gonna let that happen.
So finally, I couldn't drink any more, and I let my fangs slip from his skin. He was gonna have one hell of a scar for a while, especially if I used that same spot for the next little while. And I would. He was *my* Sire, after all, and since he was finally acting like it, I figured he'd take some pleasure in knowing I liked that little fact.
I moved slowly, mostly due to my fucking injuries, until I was sitting beside him on the edge of the sarcophagus, my hand still in his lap. "So, Peaches," I said, glancing at him from the corner of my eye, "LA, then?"
It was all I could do to keep from laughing when he nodded slowly, because I could tell he was already wondering about his sanity, but I flexed my fingers against that straining bulge in his pants instead, and oddly enough, that look just faded right away. "Yeah," he said eventually, "Whenever you think you can move."
Well, I slid my feet to the floor, and stood there for just a minute,
looking at him. "Might help you drive if you opened your eyes, you big
pouf," I told him.
It didn't take long to gather my few things, especially not with him helping, and quick as saying 'Bob's yer uncle', we were in his car, headed here. I used his cell phone on the way, to call Red. Told her where I was going, just in case she wanted to keep in touch.
"What should I tell Buffy?" she wanted to know just before we said good-bye.
"Tell her whatever you want," I finally said, "Or, no... Just tell her
I said 'Bye.' Take care of yourself, Red." And that was that. Good-bye,
Sunnyhell.
At first, I thought Angel was being a big boo-hoo-y crybaby when we got here. I mean, he tried to give me my own room, and apologize for the things that happened with his psycho-evil self. I actually had to play up how hurt I was, but it got me into his room, didn't it? Got me into his bed, too. See, I'm much smarter than he gives me credit for.
He seems to think that I bloody well hate him, though, and I guess a part of me does. He made me, and he taught me how to be a demon. Taught me to make him proud, even. Then he got that fucking soul and just... disappeared. Even when he came back in China, he couldn't quite look at me, and *that's* what I hate him for. But that part of me is growing smaller every day.
I wake up beside him every night-- and fuck me if I'll ever tell him how much that means to me-- and I drink him, and somehow that seems to make him feel better, because he's been telling me all sorts of things about the times we've been apart. He may not realize it, but he's missed me, too. It's made me realize that... maybe he didn't leave because he was disgusted by what he'd turned me into. No, the poncy git left because he was afraid *I* would be disappointed in *him*! If he only knew.
See, the whole reason I was all over Dru in China was that he didn't want to pay any attention to me. And after-- when he left again?-- well, his other childe was as close as I could get to him. It was a harsh blow to my ego when he ran off; when Darla left, it was a relief.
Dru used to piss me off no end when she'd go on for days, weeks, years, even, about missing her 'Daddy'. I hated it that she could admit it out loud. I couldn't. *I* had to be the strong one.
But none of that matters now, because my Sire is sleeping beside me, and if that hardness pressing against my hip is any indication, he's having some pretty damned nice dreams. It's been almost a week, though, and I'm pretty much healed, so...
It's not difficult to maneuver him onto his back without waking him. Hell, he sleeps like the fucking dead, the pouf does. The thought almost makes me laugh. The *fucking* dead is right.
I slip smoothly down under the dark sheet, and I almost want to taste his skin the whole way, but that would probably wake him before I want to, and then we'd have to have yet another argument about how I'm still hurt. I won't stand for that this time. Or I will, because certain parts of me are standing quite well already. Still, this isn't about me, or not *yet*, anyway.
I'd almost forgotten how he feels in my mouth, but this is swiftly reminding me, because he's long, and thick, and hard as a fucking rock, and I'm betting he tastes like he always did, soul or no soul. It's been too long-- *much* too long-- since I've been able to do this by choice.
I slide just the point of my tongue around the hooded tip of him, my fingers pulling lightly back on his foreskin, and the small, milky drops oozing from his tiny slit are just perfect. Still, it isn't enough. Don't know if anything *could* be, after all this time. Gonna find out, though.
It's only a moment before my lips are wrapped firmly around him, but that's still too fucking long, and I open my throat as I slide my mouth to the base of him. I can smell that thick, musky, purely *Angel* aroma in his nest of thick, dark curls, and it's almost like coming home. And his fingers are suddenly in my hair, and I'm worried that he's gonna try to stop me, but he doesn't.
He just groans softly, shiny manicured nails scraping hard against my scalp, and damned if he's not letting me do this. Hell, he's even *helping*, what with the way he's rocking his hips against the bed.
My fingers dance lightly against his lightly-haired sac, and he groans again, deeper this time, and I love it that I can still make him sound like that. There's something so indefinably *right* in this moment-- in the tender, ever-more-frenzied coming together of me and my Sire-- that I can't even begin to hold back the small tears at the corners of my eyes as I take him deep into my throat again. I think he smells those tears, though, because he's suddenly pulled me away from his cock, and I can't help but cry out in protest.
His eyes meet mine, and he looks so... shattered is the only word I can think of. "You don't have to do this, Will," he tells me, and if I still had a heart, it would be breaking, because I *thought* he understood! He doesn't, though, because, "This isn't why I brought you here," he says.
He thinks I had his cock in my mouth because he brought me to LA? It's almost funny, but what with him being the King of Brood and all, I can't quite laugh at him. Not about this. "But it's why I came," I finally say, holding his eyes with my own. "It's what I want, Angel," I tell him, "What I need."
I can see him thinking about that, and all the while my fingers are roaming his broad, strong chest, and when he finally nods, I give in to the temptation from a few minutes ago. My lips drop to his skin, my tongue sliding swiftly over the defined muscles of him, and I smile when he groans as I lave his tight little nipple. I nibble, and nip, and his hands are on my head again, and there's nothing else in the world quite like having my Sire writhing wildly from my touch. My hand slips down, fingers wrapping around his cock, and this time when he pulls me up, it's not for words.
No, it's to drive his tongue hard into my mouth; to hold me tightly upon him, our throbbing cocks dancing almost motionlessly together, and how could he ever have thought that this wasn't where I wanted to be?
Yes, he's a great sodding pouf. Yes, he's a broody fucking bastard at the best of times. And yes, he's entirely too bloody concerned with the state of his bleedin' soul. But he's *my* great, sodding, broody, soul-having pouf, and I'm not gonna let him forget it, not that he seems to be trying, and when he's suddenly above me, smirking down at me wickedly, I know that I *am* home.
I know it even more when he reaches over to the bedside table and pulls the drawer open, because he's not worried about hurting me any more. Hell, he even lets me help him with the lube.
He smiles, that darkness shining from him, even as he slides one arm under my knee, and just the sensation of his thick, hard tip forcing slowly into me is almost enough.
That smile grows wider as I grunt and strain beneath him, and I finally feel his heavy balls resting against my skin, and I'm so full of him it's almost frightening, but... My eyes slam closed, and he's moving so hard, and fast, and deep, and it's almost like the last century or so never came between us, because *this* is what I've been missing. *This* is what I've been trying to replace, and it's no wonder I haven't been able to. My hands fly to his flexing, pistoning ass, and dig in hard, and that's exactly what he needed.
His face shifts, and he drives his suddenly jagged teeth deep into my
neck, and the wild growl he releases as he explodes deep inside my aching
ass drags me along right behind him.
It could be hours, or minutes, that we just lay here, bodies heaving in reaction, skin slicked with my cum, but however long it is, it's not long enough. He sighs and starts to pull away, but I can't let that happen; not yet. I can't let him go off to brood about 'taking advantage of poor, damaged Spike'. So, "Stay," I tell him, my arms hard around his back, "Stay..." And he nods, slowly, like he's not sure I mean it. "Don't want to have to hunt you down for round *two*, y'know."
And there *will* be a round two. I've been eyeing his tight, hard peasant-y ass for almost a week now; it's past time I got better acquainted with it, I think. Bloody sod has no *idea*.
Okay, so maybe I'm *not* completely insane. Guess I'll have to wait and see.
End.