a.connor  a.doyle  a.lindsey  a.oz  a.spike  a.wesley  a.xander  a.other  three.somes  het.fic  character.study           
Title: Back in Your Bed
Author: Jennifer-Oksana
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angelus/Spike, implied Angelus/Wes and Buffy/Spike.
Setting: S4 AtS


There's a joke about all good cliches coming true. Or maybe it's just a
cliche. All you know is, it never rains but it pours. Which means in
reality, on the same night you go to drink off a large portion of dechipped
Buffy lust, Angelus walks into a bar--and the rest of the joke writes itself.

"Spike," Angelus rumbles, his not-breath hot against your neck. So all the
rumors you've been hearing are true. The good ol' Scourge of Europe has
cast off his Angel-coat and is making hell on earth for a lark. "How's my
favorite nancy-book-boy?"

He puts his arm across your shoulders, and it is not a friendly gesture.
You snort (as IF, the Little Bit would scoff) and carefully get yourself
right away from him.

"Giles is busy training a pack of wannabe-Slayers to fight the First,
though I'm sure he'd spare five minutes to set them on you," you bluster.
"What about your lot? Last I heard, you had yourself a lad to bend over the
counter and--"

Angelus laughs at the jest, and the glint in his eye is undeniably
triumphant. Sod it, then, there's already been a good deal of
counter-bending in the old town tonight if you're any judge of Angelus, and
you fancy you are.

"Ah, Wes," he says, the tip of his tongue flickering over the fullest part
of his lower lip. Once upon a time, you would have bitten right through it,
tasted the blood as it welled up into both of your mouths, but that's long
past. Now you're more of a mind to cold-cock this blustering twat and tell
the Slayer that he's loose. "Wes was so very sweet. Struggled like a nun at
first, but it's like you do with puppies. Just grab 'em by the back of the
neck and they go limp."

The smirk in his eyes is very telling. "So he's dead, then?"

"Not yet," Angelus replies, and your eyes can't help but to trace him over
and over, each limb and muscle distinct. Your brain helpfully makes sure
he's naked so you can do it properly. "He's not doing so great, but after I
get what I came here for, I'll have *plenty* of time to finish breaking Wes
in. Maybe I'll even find that bitch he's been banging to help him feel
better. Now that's a piece of ass. Legs up to her neck. Nice neck, too.
Someone's always trying to break it."

"Real soddin' clever," you mutter, not sure if you're jealous or nauseous.
"Go ahead and kill the nice lady and the book boy, and when they slam that
soul back into you, I'm sure it'll be extra fun. Now, if you'll bugger off--"

You didn't really expect to get off scot-free, but it's surprising just how
fast the old man can still move.

"Spike," Angelus warns, blocking you with one arm. He's gained some weight,
the tosser. Looks good on him, too, and he's really lost none of the
agility that made him so lethal in the first place. He could break you in
two and not even pause. "What's your rush? We're such good mates, you and
me. You can surely stay for *one* drink."

His eyes are holding you to your stool almost as surely as his hand (the
very warm one suddenly on your shoulder, and Christ, but Angelus must have
had a few before coming into the bar) is. You glower at him, but it's
Angelus. He's hypnotic. And you're unchipped and ensouled and bleedin'
frustrated by all the tender young girl blood that flounces past you every
morning, noon, and night, laughing behind your back--

*oh, him? that's spike. he's harmless. i think he might have had a thing
with buffy but he's good now, look at this i might have a callus from
training, do you want to go again?*

Perhaps you might even be feeling a little overwrought. That must be why
you're looking at Angelus sneering at you and feeling the blood rush out of
your brain and straight toward your cock. He's barely even touched you.
Bastard.

"I'm sure I could," you tell your beer. "I'll have to tell Buffy you're
here, you know."

Angelus chuckles--he's such a merry soul, is Angelus, always with a song in
his heart and a laugh that could cut steel--and sits down next to you,
making sure to brush against your back just a little bit.

"Hey, bartender!" he shouts raucously. "Get me and my friend here another.
Whatever he's having."

The bartender scowls, but he wipes out a glass for Angelus anyway. Angelus,
on the other hand, is barely paying attention to the beer, because he's all
smiles and accidental bumps for you.

"You heard me, didn't you?" you say a little more clearly. "The Slayer's
going to know about this."

"Spike, Spike, Spike," Angelus taunts, accepting the glass from the
bartender and taking a long drink. "By the time Buffy hears about this,
I'll be back in LA, drinking the nice warm blood of my Englishman. I always
liked the English. They taste good. Refined. And Wes is a real blue-blood.
He bruises real pretty--and once you get him going, those hips of his--mmm.
I *really* have to find that girl. It'll be a present for him. Me and Wes,
we'll eat her together. She's got the thighs for it--"

"Are you gonna brag all night, or are you gonna finish your beer?" you
snap. He's always the same. Angel or Angelus, it doesn't matter. He never
bloody changes. "Bugger off, Angelus, I don't need to hear about what new
perversions you've discovered in the big city. They're all the same anyway."

He's got his hand on your thigh. In the middle of your regular demon bar
haunt, Angelus has got his hand on your thigh and he's going to slide it up
anytime now. Fucker. He knows that everyone's watching, and he's still
resting his hand mere inches from your cock, pulling at the material of
your jeans familiarly while he tells you all about his new English boy (and
you hear the subtext: *not you, Slayer's pet*) to fuck and suck.

Ah, well. Not like you came for the company anyhow.

"Oh, Spike," he says, and you can hear his tongue moving, clicking against
the back of his teeth when he overemphasizes the k. For some reason, you
cannot stop focusing on his tongue. Clicking. Ready to slide out of his
mouth and into yours like a wild animal. "What's wrong? Is it your soul? I
bet you thought it was gonna get you a nice, warm lapful of Slayer, didn't
you? And instead you found out what I always knew."

You are going to hit him. And soon.

"What's that, mate?" you ask, trying to drip even more sarcasm than he is.
"That the Slayer can bust your balls without breakin' a nail? Not that
there's much to bust in your case--"

Angelus doesn't blink. Instead, his lips are insinuating themselves against
your earlobe, wet and harsh.

"It's not how much she can bust," he whispers, his hand so close to your
cock that you could grind against it if you were so inclined. "It's how
hard you get. And that soul makes it soft. Soft like dear, sweet Wes."

Sweet Wes must be quite the lay, given the amount of attention Angelus pays
to him. He's even outshone the Slayer in Angelus' litany of gross taunts.
For a moment, you're curious, but you know that's what Angelus wants, and
you push it away.

"Stop throwing your new girlfriend in my face, Angelus," you say, remaining
calm. "It must do your head in, wanting me to hate that English boy of
yours, all the while knowing that I've had the Slayer more times than you
could ever imagine. Heard her call my name while she was flexed around my
cock. Had her so many ways that you'd trade it all for just one night. But
if you're happy with your new *boy,* be my guest."

"Is that supposed to make me mad?" Angelus asks coolly. The pressure of his
hand gripping your leg belies his attitude. You managed to hit him right
where it hurt. "Well. Maybe just a little. It's okay, Spike. I'll take it
out of you later."

He's definitely picked up a new woman or two since last you saw him. The
way he lilts on 'little'? He's gotten used to taunting someone else, and
you don't think it's Wesley. Bird with the legs, maybe?

"How about now?" you ask, standing up. "I'm not here for the beer or the
clientele. And you're clearly here for me, mate. So why don't we fuck off
with the games and take this outside?"

Outside, under a full moon sky, where two old vamps can have at it, blows
and bruises (and if one of those blows is a blow job, you'll not say no)
and blood. Just the two of you. Family, with the blood between you like a
siren call. It'll be better outside. No audience to watch.

"Suits me just fine," Angelus says, eyes twinkling wickedly. He throws a
five on the bar. "Thanks for the drink."

You're barely out of the bar before he throws you up against the nearest
wall and crushes your mouth beneath his, pinning you with hands and hips
and lips. Bloody fucking hell, Angelus is drunk on blood, mostly stupid
young girl blood, but you can taste his new obsession underneath all those
interchangeable pretty young things.

You can smell him, too, in Angelus' always-perfectly-gelled hair, a faint
miasma clinging to everything. And even the aftertaste is heady, magic and
marmite and jealousy and English things. You think you might understand why
Angelus thinks you ought to be jealous, even as you're moaning into his
mouth as his cock rubs against yours, hard as ever.

"Soft," he goads you, his hand cupping your face. "You're so different now,
William. New all over. How long has it been?"

"Years," you remember, thinking he means since you and him. "Decades."

"No," he reproves, his fingers bruises your cheeks. "Since the soul that
you got for your precious Slayer."

"Last summer," you confess, watching his eyes for the familiar danger
signs. "Heard you were a bit waterlogged at the time."

"Saw some fish. Went crazy," he agrees curtly, his free hand suddenly on
your hip, crushing skin and muscle and bone. Bright flickers of pain are
starting to light him up and you're forced to buck against him. "Fucking soul."

"Yeah," you say softly. Cos what else can you say? "Fuck, Angelus. Stop it."

"I like the way it sounds when you break," he replies smarmily.

"Break my hip and that ends our evening," you point out. "And I'm so
looking forward to the cake and sodomy."

Angelus laughs at that, fit to bust a gut. Then he hits you sharp across
the face, a blow that makes your head ache and your vision crackle. You
answer with a knee toward the bollocks, which almost connects, but Angelus
is quicker. He's out of the way before your knee reaches its target, and
proceeds to drop you with a solid punch to the shortribs.

"Cake, huh?" Angelus asks, smirking. "You really have gotten domesticated,
haven't you, William? Oh, well. Guess that means I won't have to work so
hard to get in your pants."

"I could tell you to go home and fuck your pretty boy," you point out.

"Ah, but you'd never say no to me, would you, Spike?" Angelus asks, hauling
you up by the scruff of your neck and giving you a rough kiss. "I want to
fuck you, and fuck you again, until your legs give out and you're hoarse
from the screaming. I like my new toys, but you're the original. The best."

His tongue is in your mouth, almost as sharp as his teeth, and suddenly you
resent that he thinks you're soft because of your soul. This wanker got
cursed with a soul that made him into the original Lord of the
Self-Indulgent Brood. You fucking went to Africa and endured torture and
rage to earn a soul. And he's the hard one? Sod that.

You growl, biting through his lip and getting a taste of that blood after
all. It tingles, making everything shimmer at the edges like one of Dru's
songs, and Angelus groans, his hand moving under your shirt. All you can
think is, if Buffy saw this, you're not sure if she'd be disgusted or if
she'd want to be the middle of the sandwich. Angelus is so bloody good at
licking his way down your jaw, rocking against you as his fingers pinch and
tease your nipple with finesse.

"Did I strike a nerve?" Angelus says, burying his head against your neck
and *fuck,* you want him bad. Don't know how he does it, but feeling him
rubbing against your shoulder, going game face to man and back again, the
faintest tease of fang against your skin--it gets you hard. It gets you
needing it so bad that you start to moan before thinking there has to be a
better place for it.

"Might have," you agree. "Bloody hell, Angelus, where's your car? I don't
need to get nicked by Sunnydale's finest for fucking you."

"You have a point, Spike old boy," Angelus says, still with his hand under
your shirt and his mouth grazing your neck. "My car. I'd like to fuck you
on my car. Come with me."

You are suddenly being hauled forward, Angelus' arm around your waist (his
hand, of course, is obscenely placed on your jeans, making you even harder)
and him singing off-key.

"Ohhhhhhhhh WILLIAM!" he caterwauls. "You came and you gave without taking!
But I sent you AWAY, oh William! Kissed me and stopped me from shaking! And
I NEED you today, oh W--esley!"

You elbow him. "Angelus. Do remember to love the one you're with or you can
find another wanker to shag on the hood of your car. Xander might go for
it, if you get him really drunk and convince him it doesn't make him gay."

"I'd have to be pretty fucking desperate to fuck Harris," Angelus laughs.
"It'd take him a week just to learn how to give a proper blowjob."

"I dunno. His ex was demanding. I bet you could train him fast," you say,
trying not to laugh. Angelus' response is to rub against your pants and
make your knees tremble. "Fuck!"

"Soon," Angelus taunts, pausing just long enough to lick your neck. "There
will be fucking. And sodomy. No cake, though. Will that be a problem?"

"Guh," you manage to reply, very intelligently. "Car."

Yes, there's the car, the good old-fashioned penis metaphor that Angelus
throws you against like a sack of potatoes. And none too soon, either.

You can't believe how right and bloody *good* it feels, his hands yanking
the pants off you as you scrabble up and down, trying to find a natural
resting place on the hood of the car. The rough feel of his skin on your
cock, the night air against your skin, the slight bite of zipper as he
pulls your jeans to your knees and forces a thigh between your legs.
Fucking Angelus. Turns you into a needy, squirming big girl's blouse with
every motion.

Lips against your collarbone. Hand jerking you. The low rumble in his
throat that could be a laugh or a growl. The feel of his back muscles
underneath his all-too-slick shirt. Hips working against your thigh,
letting you know that he's hard and he's gonna fuck you harder. Who
wouldn't want this? The feel of his incisors near a vein, harder than his
cock and almost as hot-making.

"So good--" he mutters. Not much for coital conversation, Angelus.

"Fuck, yeah," you reply. Then again, neither are you.

"Gonna come for me," Angelus orders, his hand trying to drag the orgasm out
of you. Maybe trying to draw blood. Sometimes, there's not much difference
for the old bastard. "Come on, give it to me."

Like it was in any doubt.

"Good boy," he says, admiring the mess he's made of your shirt and his car,
before looking at you with a little consternation. "Is that going to ruin
the paint?"

Dumb as a sack of hammers. Still. You chortle your amusement as you take
the opportunity to knock him over and get on top, aware of how very much
Angelus wants it.

"Fuck the paint," you murmur, soft as you please, offering him a finger or
two to suck on. It'll shut him up for a moment or two as you finish a quick
zip up. No need to be entirely obscene or unwieldy. In fact, it's not about
the obscenity. It's that it's too difficult to move on Angelus with your
jeans bunched 'round your ankles.

And this one needs to be moved on, rubbed against, licked, gnawed on, and
fuck, yes. Listening to him whimper while you rub against that rock-hard
cock of his while he sucks your fingers to the knuckle's almost enough to
get you hard again, and if it happens, it happens. But first, you're going
to show him who's hard.

Show him who knows how to push all the buttons. You pull your hand out of
his mouth, but only so you can suck at his neck, reveling in the warmth.
You want to bite him, but that's not going to happen. If you get the taste
of blood, it'll end with you and him feasting on someone, and you waking up
in the morning with worse than a hangover.

"Does your boy know how to do this?" you ask, grinding the flat of your
palm against his zipper. "How long you can wait, letting it build up in you?"

Angelus growls, straining against you. "Spike--"

"I can wait even longer," you taunt, unbuttoning the top button of his
leather pants. "Enjoying it while you rub up against me. Yeah. Like that."

His lust and bloodrage are starting to drive into your head. The image of
you both with some pretty little thing between you, screaming as you petted
and bit and drained her dry, is making you hard all over again, and that
alone gets your fingers fumbling. You can't.

"You want to feed," Angelus mocks suddenly, as you're trying to get his
trousers off. "You can smell it on me, can't you? And you remember how it
is. The kill. How much they shiver and moan when you've got your fangs in
their neck. It's better than sex. Some of 'em even start begging you to
keep going because it feels so go--GOD."

You have to shut him up, and it's always been easy to shut Angelus up by
focusing on his cock. Because if you think about it (while you've got him
in your mouth, you bobbing up and down obediently like a good
boy), you'll see the girl, and it's not just one of the silly bints with
budding breasts and no sense.

It'll be her. Mouth open, eyes round. You know Buffy's kinks, and you know
if you got to her at the right moment, she'd ride you both and moan and
scream for it at the top of her lungs when you opened her veins.

This is bad. This is very bad. Best to continue letting Angelus fuck your
mouth while ignoring your own incipient erection, round two.

"I know who you see in your head, Spike," Angelus whisper-moans throatily,
his hands in your hair. "I see her, too."

You try to take him deeper, but he's still talking, as if it makes it
better for him, knowing that you're in agony. Always does, the sick wanker.

"She pretends to be SO sweet," he muses, holding your head still while he
juts his hips against your jaw, making it ache. "We'd have a lot of fun.
You, me, her. Blood. We'd bathe in it, and she'd beg us to take more."

He has to shut up. You'll slit his throat once you're finished servicing him.

"Bet it kills you that I broke her in," Angelus hisses. "I break them all
in, just for me, and no matter how hard anyone else tries, they like the
way I do it best. And you trail along, taking my leavings."

As if he could time it, he comes right about then, laughing and leaving you
to half-spit, half-swallow. Some gets on the car, which is fine by you as
you struggle up to your feet.

"Sod off, Angelus," you mutter. "It's not that you break them that counts.
It's that no matter how many of 'em you break, they all come to me to get
fixed. Because you're only good at the breaking."

And it's true, you think, leaving him behind to shout something at you as
your boots grind the dust and come into nothing. Angelus--even Angel--can
be so proud of being first. But as you've learned, it's nothing to be
first. Hell, the First Evil had you, and you're still standing. It's just a
position.

And Buffy came for you. Dru came back for you. And someday, you suspect,
Wesley may come the same way, all haunted eyes and unending hatred for Angelus.

But not you. Not anymore.

Never again.

-End

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