Fucked

Author: Rachel Anton

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
 
 

 Angel had to be insane, letting this happen. It wasn't anything he'd ever wanted. Not from Spike, or anyone else. He certainly didn't want it in the backseat of a van, with Willow less than ten feet away, and the Doobie Brothers singing about Jesus in the background. And yet, here he was.
 

He'd agreed to it, almost without thinking, because Spike had asked for it, and it seemed so much simpler than anything else he could've requested. So much easier, and potentially more enjoyable, than so many of the alternatives.
 

Spike had asked for it, above all else, and Angel was starting to understand why. Because it wasn't the killing that tortured his soul. Not really. He wasn't an expert in demon psychology, or any other psychology, but Angel knew about regret.
 

He knew that it was easy to justify certain aspects of vampiric existence. Feeding was necessary for survival. Food chain. Animal instincts. Hunger. Repeat as needed. It was hard to get past all the lives taken, hard to accept, but possible to forget. Sometimes. For a few minutes.
 

But then there was the other. The true face of the beast. The place where it wasn't just about feeding, wasn't just about survival. The place where torture and violation brought arousal, exhilaration, even a kind of inner peace. It was a familiar place to Angelus. Comfortable.
 

Not so for William. William had required lessons. But he'd been an apt pupil, and the results of those lessons were the memories that haunted him now, the crimes he'd committed that made him feel unworthy of Willow. Of any woman, probably. Maybe even any other man. Any man who wasn't Angel. He could fuck Angel without remorse.
 

Maybe there were other reasons. Probably. He wasn't particularly interested in pondering them, though. What it really came down to was that Angel was tired. Tired of fighting, and driving, and bleeding. Tired of listening to Spike complain and accuse and mock, watching him seethe loudly and suffer quietly. The weight of it all was threatening to flatten him, and he just wanted to rest. He wanted to forget.
 

It was easy to forget with Spike's tongue in his mouth.
 

Angel had kissed a lot of people in his lifetime. Maybe more than most humans had ever even met. After the first hundred years they all started to blend together- a mash of lips, teeth, saliva, sometimes fangs. Sometimes blood. Sometimes they were already dead before he got to their mouths, and those were the ones he tried to forget. The others just faded from memory, like photographs he'd seen in magazines twenty or thirty or forty years ago. Indistinct.
 

That was before the soul. After the soul, the kisses were few and pitifully far between, and infinitely more memorable because of who they came from, but before and after there had always been Spike. And Spike was different. Spike stood out, in brilliant, startling relief. A red gash cut across a black and white landscape.
 

Spike wasn't like other people.
 

Angel had wondered if Spike's soul would maybe tame him somehow, cut into his uninhibited ferocity, but if anything he'd grown even more passionate since the old days. His mouth was a bruising force of hunger, with flickering sparks of desperation, and Angel felt himself surrendering to it. Felt something trembling in his stomach, pulsing in his chest, as Spike coated the roof of his mouth with long swipes of the tongue.
 

It would be so easy to let this fill him completely, coat all his insides, flood everything else out.
 

Too easy.
 

He pulled back, reluctant and panting.
 

"Spike...I don't think..."
 

"Shh. You think too much."
 

Hands on his shoulders and Spike's small frame pressing down on him, laying him on the mattress. It felt good, being flat on his back, closing his eyes. He might've fallen asleep, even with his now raging hard-on, if it wasn't for Spike straddling him, kissing him again. Grinding hard against him and reminding Angel that yes, there was a cock there and yes, it was going to be inside him soon. This wasn't just a theoretical discussion.
 

He groped blindly upwards for something to hold onto, something to ground him before he flew away, and caught hold of a thick tuft of Spike's hair. It was curly and very nearly soft. Freed from the stiff control of gel and spray and all the rest. The stinging odor of peroxide that had lingered around him for God only knew how long was finally starting to fade away. He smelled like William again.
 

Angel brought his other hand up and buried it in the jungle growing on Spike's head. He massaged the scalp with the pads of his fingers, and tangled the curls into an even greater state of disarray. Spike moaned around his tongue, sucked and tugged, and started opening Angel's shirt.
 

Soon there were fingertips, moist, whiskey-soaked lips and sharp teeth working his naked flesh. Angel resisted the urge to push on Spike's head, nudge him down to where he was already burning for release. He wanted it too badly right then. It would've been too much. He pulled the hair instead, and rotated his hips greedily.
 

Spike paused to yank off his own shirt, toss it to the floor, and then there was the cool friction of skin on skin. Denim crotch against cotton crotch. Spike was sliding and rubbing against him, with a languid sensuality that made Angel dizzy. He seemed content to stay there for an eternity. Time passed and Angel began to wonder if he was going to do anything else.
 

It would've been enough, but there was supposed to be more.
 

He reached down between them, searching for Spike's fly, anxious to get the show on the road before he ruined his new pants, but just as he located the zipper there were angry hands wrapped around his wrists, lifting and pinning them above his head.
 

Angel opened his eyes.
 

"Spike, what're you..."
 

"Are you gonna let me fuck you or not?"
 

For all that his body was doing, Spike's face was a blank slate. Uncharacteristically expressionless.
 

"Well, yeah, if you'd get to it already." An attempt at off-handed teasing, but his tone belied a surprising impatience.
 

Maybe he just wanted to get it over with. Or maybe he was hungry for it, without having realized. He didn't know which, if either. Didn't care. Just wanted it to happen. Now.
 

Spike's mouth remained an impassive, thin line, but his eyes flickered with anger. Or hurt. Something.
 

"You really are a daft fucker, aren't you?" he whispered harshly, close to Angel's mouth.
 

"I..."
 

"Be. Quiet."
 

More kissing, and hands on his fly now, and it was all very confusing. He didn't really understand what Spike wanted from him. Whatever it was, it wasn't as simple as fucking.
 

Maybe he was just bad at this.
 

The thought occurred to him as Spike peeled his pants down and ran his tongue up the inside of his thigh. He realized that he'd probably had more sex on this trip than in all his post-soul years combined, but it still wasn't very much, and maybe it wasn't even very good.
 

Before the soul he hadn't been particularly concerned with anything beyond his own pleasure, and, God knows, as a human it never even dawned on him that there might be more to rutting in a barn than just...rutting in a barn.
 

And here was Spike, kissing and caressing and licking him right- God, right there, in the crease between his balls and his left thigh- and Angel was making weird little moany sounds and writhing, actually *writhing* from it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd made anyone writhe.
 

Buffy. He'd taken more care with Buffy than anyone, but he couldn't remember if she'd writhed. He supposed it didn't matter. Whatever ecstasy he'd managed to wring from her on that night, it was cancelled out by what came after.
 

Darla. Darla didn't writhe. Ever.
 

Willow didn't writhe either. She wriggled a little...
 

Oh, fuck. Lips. Lips on his dick, tugging at the foreskin, and when the van hit a bump the head slid against the roof of Spike's mouth and Angel made a thoroughly inhuman sound. This time he did grab and shove because he was so fucking close all of a sudden, but of course that was the wrong thing again and it made Spike stop.
 

"Muuhuh?" Angel whimpered, and pumped wildly at the air.
 

Soon Spike's mouth was replaced by Spike's cock, and there was more sliding and kissing and it was so sweet Angel stopped worrying about whether or not he was a good lay.
 

"D'you....ugh....where's the stuff?" He turned his head to the side, scanning the bedside cubbyhole for the small bottle of KY Spike stole from the hospital, all those weeks ago. It was there, and still relatively full, thank God.
 

"Don' worry about it," Spike murmured against his cheek, and that caused Angel quite a bit of worry.
 

"You're gonna use it, right?" he asked, sounding even more anxious than he actually was.
 

"Of course I'm gonna use it."
 

"Use a lot. Cause I...."
 

"Bloody fucking hell." Spike was annoyed now, and his cock wasn't moving anymore. He wasn't moving at all anymore.
 

Angel was screwing up again. God, he just wanted to come. Just wanted to make sure he wasn't gonna be in agonizing pain in a few minutes. For all he knew this was as novel an experience for Spike as it was for him. For all he knew it wasn't, and Spike was using this as an opportunity to avenge twenty years of dry entry.
 

"Can't turn it off, can you? Not for one second. I know what I'm doing, Angel."
 

"Well, are you sure? It's not as easy as it looks."
 

"All right, that's it."
 

Oh no. He was going away. No, no. That was just not fair.
 

Angel sat up and watched him crawling around on the floor, looking for something. Something that wasn't Angel's dick.
 

Come back and make me come, you stupid stupid boy, he wanted to scream, but he had a feeling that would only make things worse.
 

"What're you doing?" he asked instead. Frantic now.
 

"Shutting you up," Spike grumbled. His back was turned and he was kneeling near the beanbag chair, digging through a pile of clothes. Scrubs. Angel heard a tearing sound, and when Spike came back he was holding what looked like a torn up blue pant leg. "Turn over," he ordered, and Angel obeyed. He regretted it almost instantly, as blue pant leg filled his mouth, and was tied tightly around his head.
 

A gag. Spike was gagging him. With his old, filthy scrub pants.
 

A fit of panic clamped in his chest. His throat closed up and went dry. Spike was on him, dragging his cock along the cleft of Angel's ass, and goddamn him, the little shit was just gonna shove it right in.
 

He wondered about Willow. Did she know what was happening back here? Was she watching them again, taking furtive backward glances. Would she see him like this? Would the gag muffle his screams when Spike...
 

"That's better now, isn't it?" A whisper in his ear. Angel grunted and shook his head. He could've taken it off, of course. He wasn't restrained in any other way, and he could've thrown Spike to the other side of the van quite easily. He didn't want to think too much about why he wasn't doing that.
 

"Now now, don't be cross." Another whisper, and a flicker of tongue at the back of his neck. "Just need to let it go. Let it go, Angel."
 

He felt Spike's body slithering downwards, cock at the crease of his thighs now, and relaxed a bit. Then there were Spike's hands massaging his shoulders, slow and hard.
 

"There we are. Let Spike take care of you, hmm?"
 

God, he was still drunk or something. What was he doing?
 

Trail of open mouthed, sloppy kisses down his spine. Hands, spreading him open and God, oh Christ, oh Fuck, what was he *doing*?
 

Angel sucked in a gasp and nearly choked on the taste of grime and vampire sweat. He should've taken off the stupid gag, but instead found himself clutching the dingy sheet under him, pulling one of the elasticized corners off the mattress.
 

Spike's tongue flickered and danced over him, then inside of him with short, sharp thrusts, and Angel bucked against him. Involuntary movements, back to Spike and then forward, rubbing his cock against the mattress. Back and forth and around, and soon he was glad for the gag because without it Willow would've surely heard his shattered cries.
 

It was over too fast. Or, maybe not fast enough, depending on how he looked at it.
 
 

Fingers now, slick and gentle, and Spike's mouth back at his ear. "Okay?" as one digit slipped inside, up to the knuckle.
 

Angel nodded and pushed up, strangely anxious for more. It hurt. A little. But not a lot.
 

Spike started pumping him- gently, so gently- and Angel rocked in time with it, felt waves of shuddering heat radiating from his cock, covering his entire body, coating his insides.
 

Let it go, Spike had told him.
 

It was gone.
 

"Love you." Another whisper against his skin as Spike pushed inside, cock replacing fingers, finally finally, and Angel knew he was only saying it because of the gag. Because there could be no response. It made him sad.
 

Which was good. He tried to hold onto that sadness as Spike started moving inside him, descending at last into wordless rumble of sound near his ear.
 

Again, there was just the smallest bit of pain, and that made him sad as well, because his memories of tearing into a virginal William with relentless brutality were suddenly very stark and clear in his mind. He held on to that, too.
 

Love. Spike's love was a formidable force. Mostly destructive, but, occasionally, brilliantly transforming. It was something he'd almost envied once. Something Angelus despised.
 

How could this boy, this whelp, this *poet* feel something that the great Angelus could not understand? How could anything in his puny body and pathetic mind be beyond the reach of the Scourge of Europe?
 

He'd tried to beat it, fuck it, mock it out of him, but it was an immovable object, set dead in the center of the boy, where nothing could reach it. Over time, Spike had built up a brittle, unbreakable shell to cover his soft, gooey insides, but he never really changed. Not really. And Angel finally understood that now. He felt it.
 

Spike was filling him with it.
 

It scared him. Thrilled him. Made him want to weep.
 

"Love you, Angel...God..."
 

He wanted to say it back, say anything back, but there was something liberating in his forced silence. In not having to worry or think or talk or...anything at all. He didn't have to do anything but let Spike love him, and the freedom of that was astounding.
 

"S'it good? Feel all right?"
 

Angel made a strange, guttural sound in reply, and arched up against him. It felt more than all right. It felt more than he'd ever imagined.
 

A growl at his ear, and ridges stroking his cheek. Sharp point of fang grazing his neck.
 

Another whisper: "Can I?" And Angel nodded yes, yes please, even though he hadn't eaten properly in days, and the world was spinning whenever he opened his eyes. Yes, because he couldn't refuse Spike anything now.
 

There was pain for a moment, pain everywhere because Spike fucked him harder as he drank. But then there was just...Spike. Spike inside him, Spike on top of him, Spike's grip on his cock, sudden and tight, stroking in time with his increasingly erratic thrusts.
 

It was almost suffocating, the swirling mass of feeling, chaos, freedom, Spike, and Spike and terror, and at the center of it all- his soul, slippery and waiting.
 

He came harder than he had in years, with a startled yell that was only barely muffled by the gag. He tasted tears mingling with blood in his mouth, and had no idea whose they were.
 

I really shouldn't have sex with Spike anymore, he thought, then promptly lost consciousness.

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