"Oh for Chrissake Angelus, you moron.
You can't be dyING, that's a state reserved for mortals and lesser demons.
We're vampires, remember? We got two modes of operation. Un-alive, and
small bits of grimey ash. Since you're currently wearing
your stupid Armani slacks, I'm guessing
you're still in the former category. Now eat some godamn shrimp."
The tips of his long, calloused fingers rub over the back of my hand once more, and in the half light of the restaurant, he flashes his elongated canines at me, and smiles....
I eat shrimp. And chicken. And steak.
And these funny looking stuffed mushroom things that smell alot like grass
covered in cream cheese. I also drink wine. Copious amounts of wine. The
entire dinner lasts about three hours, which is actually a longer
amount of time than I have spent
eating *total* in the last two hundred years.
And all the while Spike proceeds to taunt the boiling poultry and beef in a manner which really should be infinitely annoying, but is made significantly less so by the fact that I am now quite drunk. Also, by the fact that he is fondling me under the table.
***
Angel likes to play all long-suffering.
Long, dark lashes, long, stupid sighs. "Woe is me I never get any, but
it's Ok, for I am Batman, complete with adjustable cod piece. Never you
mind, I'll just whack off in my shower and drink pig's blood." It's
all a
big pile of dogshit. The man is
hornier than anyone has a right to be, 'specially if they're anyone who's
been dead over two centuries. In fact, all I gotta do is run a light fingernail
over the blue vein on the back of his hand and voila! Instant hard on.
You wanna know the deep, dark secret of my Sire? Basically, Angel is a whore. The rest is a lotta stuff n' nonsense.
So while he's chowing down on his
first human meal that *isn't* human in god knows how long, I'm making sure
he doesn't forget I know the real Angelus... The one who inhales once when
I grab his index finger in my tight fist, and slide it up and down
suggestively, keeping his gaze locked
with my grin. The one who grits his teeth when I scratch one wool-covered
thigh, hard enough to break skin and draw blood. The one who can't quite
swallow his steak when I find his (big surprise) enormously
hard dick under those foofy trousers
and stroke with a flat palm until he gives up trying to eat altogether.
He's not much of a multi-tasker. I on the other hand, am finishing off the sixth bottle of #52 and pondering the dessert menu. I'm thinkin' dark chocolate and marshmallows. Somethin' sticky....
***
Little prick laughed at me. How was I suppose to know the damn stuff was *supposed* to catch on fire like that?!
Chocolate Flambe? Moron. I'm a vampire!
I have a natural aversion to all things flaming! There was an entire three
minutes there when I pondered in glorious detail how the insane, bleached
menace would look with all these handy, sharp utensils
sticking out of his ass.
Then he started eating dessert.
Spike is sucking warm chocolate sauce off strawberries. Spike is running his long tongue over spoons, making sure I watch every single lick and nibble and...small drop of hot fudge travelling down his chin, neck....uhhhh..have I said 'gah' recently?
He undoes the fastenings of my pants and his clever little hands work their way inside my fly.
Spike is about to get fucked under the table.
***
This is the first time I've ever been on the receiving end of a fireman's carry. And there's no fire... well, if there's one, I didn't do it.
It's bloody embarassing, not to mention emasculating. Read that in Cosmo.
I'm fairly sure the patrons are staring at my ass, but i can't tell, cause right now my nose is bouncing against the big poof's own fat arse. I'm also sure I should be enjoying the view, but all I can see is black. I curse a bit at the indignity of it, but all I get in return is a growl.
Looks like I underestimated the horniness factor. Maybe also the #52 factor.
And the stairs factor....
'Cause wherever we're going, it's apparantly somewhere way down in the basement of the restaurant, and all this jolting and jarring is making me sick. Another serving of fondue anyone?
"Oi, Cro-Magnon, put me down!"
This injunction has no effect whatsoever, but then, it could be he didn't hear the words, muffled as they were by expensive Armani slacks.
We slow down, a door creaks.
Still don't know where I am, but...
Smells "woodsy" in here.
***
I lay him down over a wooden barrel,
straddle his hips with mine, and just..stare. He watches me, unblinking,
unguarded, bemused. The wine cellar is darker than the restaurant, and
my vamp night vision sort of diffuses everything around him with a
muted, reddish-white cast. He hasn't
stopped grinning, staring back up at me, waiting...and I think about him
making these reservations for us, and wearing those shoes he hates and.....
You know, there are times when I look at him and I just feel this warm, sort of glowy, fuzzy feeling that I know must be lo-...
Ok, I'm extremely drunk. But he's just... so....well...Spike is *pretty*. I mean, *really*. Every curve and plane and angle just *so*. He's highly aesthetically pleasing, and the word 'handsome' truly doesn't do him justice. If he had been born a couple of centuries ago, someone with a long Italian last name would probably have painted him. But he missed it by a hundred years or so and instead got sketched by this Irish vampire...
Which is fine by me. Never liked the Italians anway. Too spicy.
Hoo boy yea. I am three sheets to the wind. But he is still pretty. Damnit. Wonder what he'd use to rip my spleen out with if I told him that...
***
Motherfucker all but clubbed me on
the head, then dragged me bodily into a wine cellar and tossed me
over a barrel in the literal sense. And now he's just bloody well *staring*
at me. Not smilin', not movin', not even breathin', just *staring*. He's
so
shlockered, those dopey chocolate
eyes of his are spinnin' counter-clockwise in his head, like the big dumb
dog in that cartoon.
Christ, he's not even blinking. It's
right unnerving is what it is. I cock my head to one side and open my mouth
to ask him what the fuck he is about, when he covers my lips with his.
I realize then that his eyes are still open, 'cause mine are too. Only
now
mine might be spinning clockwise...fuck...he
feels so godamn good...hard and cool and heavy...and he tastes so godamn
good...ripe, red fruit and tangy salt and hunger...and we haven't had time
to kiss like this in weeks..and wait a minute...
That's *his* line. I do the dragging
and shagging, he does the whining.. And hey! When did I turn into the bitch??
***
Gods, but he's pretty. Pretty when his mouth opens wide beneath the gentle, insistent pressure of my lips, and his tongue dances along my teeth, and he makes that soft moaning noise that rumbles inside of his chest and mine. Pretty when his eyes finally fall shut, and those dark lashes meet the stark contrast of white white cheekbones. Pretty when his arms wind ever tighter around my neck, and pull me closer, grinding his hips upward and whimpering...
So. fucking. pretty.
And if I said that to him, even now, in this most intimate of moments, when his breath is sweet with wine, and his lean, hard form yields to me, only to me, he would tear out my pelvic bones and wear them as a hat.
I know this. I know it because once,
in the blue-gray dawn when my alarm clock rang, shrill and harsh, and too
far away from my fist, I murmured, "sweetheart, turn off the alarm." I
don't remember anything after that, actually, but there was a "Sony"
imprint on my forehead for three
days afterward.
I don't get to call him sweetheart,
and I don't get to tell him he's pretty, and half of the time, I'm not
even allowed to tell him I love him without him rolling those sky blue
eyes heavenward and insulting the size of my personal parts. And that's
Ok, really,
'cause he's got his pride, and that's
part and parcel of the Spike I adore....The-Big-Bad-Slayer-of-Slayers image
that only *I* get to shatter. Call me a caveman. See if I care. That's
*my* pride. The fact that I can reduce this leather clad, multiply-pierced
punk to quivering, and shuddering,
and when I'm really. really lucky, calling out my name.
Let's get down to the business then.
***
Godamnfuck. He's got his tongue
in my ear, and he's making that noise.... He's always yammering on about
the noises *I* make when we shag. He sounds like a godamn motorboat. It
makes my toes curl in these damn foofy shoes. That combined with the small
puffs of cool air on my skin when he leans in close, and he's got
my spine trying to crawl out of my shirt. I arch against him, and he chuckles,
low, against my neck, teeth scraping the wet skin there. He moves to bite;
no fangs yet, just human teeth, tearing at the skin with a growl.
I arch, but his hands grab for my sides, hold me still by both hips, while he moves against me. Slowly. Rythymically. Purring and rocking and licking my face. Grinding his hips against my crotch, and holding me still. God. Damn. Fuck. He's rubbing all over me like this great big bleedin' cat in Armani's. He's still wearing his Armani's. Why the fuck is he still wearing his Armani's?
"Angel, take yer godamn pants off." I pant at him, between more of those long, slow tongue swipes over my mouth...All the while he's still purring and rocking... Fuck. "Angellllll..", and now I'm whining. Fuck that too.
"Don't wanna," he murmurs; more long, wet strokes over my mouth, and his tongue snaking inside. I try to meet it with my own, but he eludes the kiss, covering my cheeks and chin and neck with cool, wet licks and small bites. He's whispering something at me, but the combination of wool and denim and impossibly hard cock is making it a mite difficult to pay attention. So long as he doesn't call me sweetheart, we're good to go.
***
Friction. is. a wonderful. thing. Spike needs to stop clawing at my pants. I'm really enjoying the friction. "Whatssamatter, Spike, you can dish out the teasing, but you can't take it? That it?"
He growls at me. I press my weight
more firmly against him until the growl gets higher pitched...faster...picks
up the rythym of our hips and tongues. His thumb pulls on my lower lip,
tugging my mouth open wider, and forcing inside. He runs his index
finger along my fangs and the inside
of my cheeks while we kiss, his tongue sliding in and out of my mouth with
that same ever-quickening rythym.
My moan is lost inside his warm mouth, and have I mentioned friction?
***
Ok, the great pouff is trying to
tell me *something* here, but damned if I know what. He has all the communication
skills of a confused toddler most days, but when we're shagging, it's pretty
well past pathetic. It's all stuttering and begging, and I'm
normally all right with that, cause
I don't like to mix my modes of interaction. Chat is for over a beer, and
grunting is for....well, over a barrel, apparantly.
But he's trying to get some stupid point across, in between all the rubbing and the hair pulling. And since he is working so hard at it, I figure I should at least try to determine what the hell it is. This bein' his night out and all.
Course, when I try to open my mouth to ask him, he finds my tonsils with his tongue.
***
Friction is. and I wanna tell him.
Cause he is. And I am. Friction. Very very good.
((**OK, Angel, you're 247 years old.. Find the two brain cells that haven't leaked out your dick yet, and just tell the man you're very grateful for this uncharacteristic display of chivalry, romance and good taste in footwear.**))
Course, when I try to open my mouth to tell him, he finds my tonsils with his tongue.
***
Jesus Christ, there are stars behind
my eyes and his fists in my hair, and I'm gonna come in my pants. Which,
is fine, since I am *never* wearing these godamn things again. But, more
to the point, Angel is gonna come in his pants. Allow me to repeat that.
Angel. Armani's. Come. Angel won't even get *lint* on his Armani pants. And I bet somehow, he's gonna find a way to blame this on me...
"Ange--gahh..." Oh. That's what the gah is all about. Now that I notice, damn fine word. About sums it all up, don't it. I wrap my legs around his calves and bite clean through my bottom lip.
Pants. Angry Angel.
Deep breath.
"Peaches, if you don't drop the drawers, yer dry cleaner is gonna regret it."
He doesn't break rythym for a minute, but one eyebrow arches at me. He grins. And suddenly, I get it. What he's trying to tell me. Pouff.
His mouth finds my ear, the quietest whisper on already wet skin. "You're worth it."
I'm fairly sure they hear us howling upstairs.
***
"You're burning those trousers when we get home, aren't you?"
I shrug carelessly, seizing him by
the wrist and hauling him off the wine barrel. Barrels are nice.
Wine is nice... God bless #52. It's good stuff. I stumble slightly and
he loops one arm around my waist, chuckling derisively. "You still
can't hold
your liquor, you sod."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I ruffle one hand through his hair and he tucks his head in the hollow of my shoulder. "I had a good time tonight, Spike."
"I know," he says impatiently, pulling the cellar door open. "Ooof, move yer big fat Irish arse."
"I don't know why I let you be so mean to me..."
"Oh, you like it. Just another way of atoning for your crimes and whatnot." I turn and glance at the room behind us as we ascend the stairs and shudder unconsciously. "What is it now?" he snaps.
"I don't know," I reply, shaking my head. "It's just... something about wine cellars really creeps me out."
He rolls his eyes and pulls me up the stairs. "Wanker."
~Finis.