 |
| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Cometh The Son Author: M Pairing: A/S, Aus/W, A/Darla Rating: NC17 Setting: BtVS S3- 'Faith, Hope & Trick' and historical - a bit AU for both "What do you think of Prague?" "Bored with little ole' England, are ye, Darla?" "Maybe," the blond vampiress purred, rubbing taut nipples against her lover's smooth chest. "After a while, they all taste the same." "I am quite sure I can find ye somethin' a little more exotic." "Would you now?" Darla withered down the length of Angelus' body, like silk worshipping the hard planes of him. The fire crackling in the hearth warmed her porcelain skin, blue veins coursing along her arms like faithful reptiles. The bed was huge, but she plastered herself to Angelus as if she needed the contact more than she needed blood. As if the proximity of her would keep him forever tethered, the bond each night renewed. Fidelity sworn again and again in a nest of satin. The tip of her tongue parted the sheen of sweat on his pectoral, swirling around a nipple, exploring ever lower. Angelus smirked, grabbed his lover's hair, pulling her away from him. Darla snarled, outraged. Angelus paid her no mind. He had learned long ago how to toe the Sire-Childe line. They weren't bound by respect, or love, or even affection, but by desire, lust and blood. Darla knew how to satisfy his most primitive appetites. But there were... others... His grip on Darla's blond mane tightened. He ignored her growls, pushed her further down his body. Stared at the rich, dark wood of the canopy. He was hard. Painfully so. He forced Darla's face against his straining cock, arched his hips. "I could be easily persuaded," he rasped. Her groans turned to little pants and strangled whimpers. Her small pink tongue darted out longingly to taste him. He pulled her hair and she only moaned deeper. He let go, and as her experienced mouth closed around him, he lay back down with a sigh, then a growl. "Come on now, lass. No teeth." What's that stupid human saying? You can never go home again? Well, they got that one right. Home's a few thousand miles and a couple hundred years away. Bizarre, that he's still so attached to such a mortal concept. Home. Home's in his goddamn blood. Home is Family. Angelus once shared the words Darla imparted her Childe upon his Raising. 'What we were in life informs all that we have become.' She didn't even know the half of it. They are all so human still, vampires. Even more so in some ways. For humans, family - kinship - also originates in the blood. But they are free to leave and create new ties, mate with others of a different blood. Vampires don't have this luxury. There are no relationships, no bonds outside of the Clan, away from the Order. Obedience is due to the Elders, beds are shared with the Sire, and if allowed - with other Childer. There is no escaping the blood. There is no relief, no completion, no acceptance away from Family. The knowledge is painful, but what is he to do? Chose himself a companion, share the blood again? And he wonders... does the blood get corrupted down the line? Somehow, he doesn't see himself as a Sire. He won't have the patience, or the inclination. How is he supposed to find a human he will care enough about to want to share eternity with? A mortal who could replace his Princess? The thought alone makes him want to heave - maybe rip out a throat or two. And the question, again... asked through the centuries but never answered. Why him? Why did Angelus turn him? What did the vampire seek in the first place? Two hundred years ago, a decision was made, blood was shared. And for what? A companion? A challenge? And he muses - yes, I've certainly been that. Remembers with a smirk the look on Darla's pretty face when Angelus brought him home. So here he is now. He hesitates to think... godforsaken town... but if it doesn't apply to a Hellmouth, what ever will? He stands in front of this huge mansion which holds nothing for him but bitter memories, because Family is blood and enough of it has been spilled in this place. Because his Princess is gone, his Sire too, because he can't be bothered to seek out his other brother - bad blood between him and Penn - and he has yet to meet a human he can see as anything but lunch. Because he doesn't have anywhere else to go. He wants to stay here, lie down in his Princess' garden amidst Dandelions and nightblooming Jasmine - and remember a simpler life. The smell of poverty and the stench of human waste escorted Angelus down the streets of Whitechapel. Not even the full moon hung high in the sky could thaw the harsh darkness of deadly alleys or soften the imposing silhouette of the vampire stalking the disaffected district. No swoosh of satin dresses and silk petticoats here. No luxurious carriages riding down the cobbled streets. Angelus didn't mind. He was always one to hunt down his pleasure away from the beaten path. He inherited that trait from his human days. In fact, it was that very propensity which had placed him in Darla's path and led him here today. He had escaped his Sire's bed under the pretense of honoring his promise - find some exotic treat to liven up her diet. He might still fulfill his engagement, but most of all he wanted to roam. To stalk. Escape Darla's watchful, possessive eyes. Angelus had an ambiguous relationship with the concept of ownership. He thrived on being the owner, not the slave. And at the same time, he understood that vampiric clans flourished and owed their power to tradition. He respected the power enough to bend to the rules and swear allegiance to his Sire. Didn't mean that the iron collar never chaffed. And he had to escape... Here. Whitechapel, where humans lived on the street, ripe for the picking, and watched after their own backs. He was only one predator among many. He just wished the competition was more up to par. He craved a challenge. And he craved... other things. The mist followed him deeper into the darkness, through small streets black as coal. He walked further away from echoes of horses and pubs emptying for the night. Away from echoes of life. The sounds were small and deceptive here. Scuttle of rats or a cut-throat waiting for him around the corner? If given a choice, Angelus hoped for the latter. He was hungry. Dawn drives him inside the mansion's walls. The place hasn't changed at all. There's just a lot more dust covering every surface, and on the couch, the scent of the Slayer. The little bint's been here, probably mourning the passing of the great Poof. Oh, Spike is bright enough to put two and two together. World hasn't been sucked into Hell, word is that Sunnydale is up for the taking - there's no master around, not even a souled one. News travel fast. No sign of his Sire, the smell of the Slayer's tears everywhere in the room. Nothing in the bedroom, which Spike visits like others go on a pilgrimage. Maybe he's mourning too. Maybe he wishes that he could have said goodbye to his Sire, seen him one last time before the Soul drove the Demon insane. There was a time when Spike - William - nightly forsaked Dru for Angelus without a second thought. There was a time Angelus discarded tradition, giving William access to his bed over Darla's frenzied disapproval. The Bitch would make them both pay dearly for the trespass. Many a night she tortured and fucked Angelus within an inch of his unlife, while William was stretched on a rack, condemned to watch - or worse, given to Penn to use as he pleased. But Angelus would not be deterred. Didn't care about the wounds which took days to heal - William had dressed enough of them to know - about the burns and the public humiliations. Didn't care about his Sire's scorn or her fury. He would always take William back. In dark alleys over smoking corpses. In the back of a theater, groping like teenagers through any century. That had hurt Spike the most. To see Angelus obsessed with the Slayer like he had once been obsessed with him. Spike was the one who could understand Angelus' destructive affections. Would welcome them. The one who had lived through decadent nights of pain and pleasure for a century and begged for more. The one who could both defy and revere, and worship all at once. After Angelus' disappearance, William had turned to the only one who would not reject him, the one who missed their Sire as much as he did. Dru was family. Call of the blood. Nothing is calling to him now, in this house, except the fading scent that he craves. Fading... Fading? No, it's... Not... not fading... here... Is the floor shaking? He frowns. Thinks, that's it, he's finally out of his bloody tree. Was bound to happen. He allied with the Slayer against his Sire, after all - how much more fucked up can he get? He has to check, though... has to... Follow the scent out of the bedroom, down the stairs to the living room. The ground is still again. Spike freezes. Dumbstruck. It. Can't. Fucking. Be. Spike's had this dream many, many times. Angelus, appearing out of nowhere, naked on the floor of his living room. Except that in his dream, Angelus isn't shaking like a newborn or covered in welts and bruises. And when he lifts his tear-streak face, Spike can't see a soul reflected in his eyes. The blond surveys the room in a daze. He can't see anything out of place - save for the burnt outline of a body on the floor - and, of course, one very naked vampire. "Angelus?" Spike can't tell if the dark-haired vampire reacts to the voice or the name, but he whips his head up, the rest of him balled in a tight little knot of fear. The smell of pure, unadulterated terror is overpowering. And the fragrance of blood. Angelus - damn it, *Angel* - is drenched in it. Spike takes a few steps forward. A low growl rises from the trembling form, both a plea and a warning. The blond isn't deterred. "Angel?" The older vampire is on all four, balancing on his knuckles, fangs bared before Spike can reach him. He snarls, backing away slowly. Spike keeps going. He isn't stopping to process what is happening. Angelus is here, or Angel, but who cares, the blood is all the same. All Spike sees are broad shoulders covered in sweat, powerful, trembling legs, and the absence of a sneer. No disdain in the dark, moist eyes, no insanity - no recognition either, but they'll work on that. Do vampires get an early Christmas? Spike stalks forward; now Angel is backed into a corner and it feels good. To be the one looking down on him. The blond's keen eyes catch the shift of muscles, the whiff of blind panic, the animal whimpers of a cornered animal. Angel is wounded, in pain, confused and trapped. When the dark-haired vampire jumps on him, lithe but weak, Spike is ready. He grabs Angel around the waist and wrestles him to the floor. His Sire snarls and bites, twists and slashes at him, catching his cheekbone, breaking the skin. Spike growls over the other man's gnarls of fright and fury, angered. He clutches Angel's matted hair, digs a knee in the small of his back, evading powerful, flailing arms, and slams his head face first into the cold stone floor. Angel cries out and goes limp. The silence is like a cold shower on a hot summer night. Spike slowly lets go of Angel's hair. Stares at the unmoving body sprawled underneath him. And licks his Sire's blood off his hands. Ironically enough, Angelus found what he had been looking for in the immediate vicinity of the cathedral. He spared a glance at the gargoyles bowing to acknowledge his passage. The tip of his fingers grazed the thick walls of the old religious edifice. Seemed like an eternity since he had last defied God. He could hear no chants, no litanies coming from inside. This night might be the one. The vampire turned lithely around the back of the cathedral. He liked the silence here, far from Darla's chatter and the society events she favored. He didn't mind snacking on the bourgeoisie, but he preferred by far going after the common people. Their blood had so many more stories to tell. And sometimes, they even welcomed him with open arms. Midnight fell from the bell tower. Only a trained eye - or a man who knew where to look - could have seen them amidst the stones of the crumbling cemetery. A dozen at the most, each huddled against the walls of some mausoleum, blowing air in their hands to fight off the cold. A December night in London. A couple might not make it to morning, even without his intervention. Some were in their mid-twenties. The youngest must have been twelve, thirteen at the most. Boys dressed in rags - dark-ringed eyes and sooty skin. Angelus remained in the shadows of a wide tombstone for a while, studying. He watched a blond boy - a child - who might have been pretty under the layers of dirt marring his face. A twig snapped not far away and the darkness regurgitated an older gentleman in pressed coat and silk tights. He stopped by the boy and exchanged a few words with him, furtively throwing a glance over his shoulder. After a minute, the boy led the older man inside the mausoleum. There was silence. "Ye lookin' for somethin', mister?" Angelus couldn't remember the last time anything, or anyone, had taken him by surprise, but he managed to maintain control over his features, and didn't vamp. He turned around, eyebrows raised. The boy was about twenty-four, dressed in a noticeably untorn coat, his hair a light chestnut, his eyes of the most striking blue. He was looking at Angelus, unruffled, meeting his gaze head on, sometimes sparing a glance at the vampire's expensive attire - the silk tie, the gold rings, the shining shoes. Angelus was still wondering how the kid had managed to sneak up on him. There was something there. In that angular, sharp face and those knowledgeable, old eyes. Angelus bowed lightly, observing the boy's surprised step back at the mark of respect. Yes, there was definitely something... Exotism, maybe, the kind Darla was after. But Angelus had no intention to share. "What is yer name, lad?" he inquired softly. The boy frowned and stuttered, flabbergasted. He had never been asked before. Angelus knew that. "Will... William." "Pleased to make ye acquaintance, Will." The vampire smiled. "Aya. I am lookin fer somethin'." He met the boy's weary gaze. "And I think ye can help me." **** When he awakens, Spike is startled mostly because he can't remember falling asleep. And also because something is lightly rubbing against his stomach. He sits up brusquely, only to be confronted with a rapidly retreating, still very naked Angel. The dark-haired vampire huddles against the wall. His eyes darts frantically around the room, going back regularly to Spike as if to make sure that the blond hasn't made a move towards him. Spike remembers. The mansion, Angel, the struggle. After knocking out the vampire, he chained him up to the wall by his wrists and ankles, thought vaguely about dressing his wounds - for old times sake - then remembered the wheelchair and gave up on that idea. Considered finding him something to wear but abandoned that one too. Too busy enjoying the view. He spared some time to try and figure out what was going on. Taking into account the last time he had laid eyes on Angelus, the fact that a portal to Hell had been activated in the immediate vicinity, considering the wounds on Angel's body, the fact that he was naked and incoherent... Spike came to the conclusion that he had just witnessed his (mysteriously soulful) Sire's return from Hell. And it hadn't been a happy ride. Then Spike, exhausted by all this thinking, promptly fell asleep. He's very much awake now. Angel is crouched a couple of feet away, battling the chains like a kitten teasing a woolen ball. An overgrown kitten. He gives up, tests the limits of his restraints, pacing the length of the wall, still perched on his hands and the balls of his feet. Spike is so hard, it's not even funny. Angel's sleek form roaming the room like a panther on the prowl gives a whole new meaning to the word untamed. This is how he remembers sex with his Sire - savage, feral, hot, lush. Angel pauses, his head swivels, his eyes, tinged with gold, land on the blond. He moves a little. Sniffs intently. He's straining. But not against the chains. His left arm is curled around his waist. He's protecting his stomach. Spike wonders suddenly if there are any internals injuries. Maybe he should have tried to feed Angel while he was unconscious. Maybe he should try feeding him now. The older vampire is closer now. He's shivering badly, he can barely hold himself up. His eyes go from the floor to Spike, then back to the stone tiles. There's blood flowing down the side of his face where he impacted with the ground. He's struggling. He's staring at Spike as if he wants to come closer, but would rather go back to cowering against the wall at the same time. He cocks his head to the side. His lips part, move, try to form words maybe. Nothing comes out but a whimper and he looks down. Tears of frustration brim in his eyes. He sighs. Strong shoulders shake. Angel kneels. He's hard. Tall and proud. Lifts his hand towards Spike, eyes wide and wet. And Spike wonders... have I known true beauty until now? Can he remember that far back? Angel's fingers are inches away from Spike's face, and the blond is paralyzed. If his Sire decides to go for his throat, so be it. All he can think is... touch me... touch me... Sire, please touch me... There's nothing else. Angel finds his wounded cheekbone, almost healed. Nails scrape at the dried blood, and Spike tries not to flinch. Angel brings his hand back to his mouth. And licks his fingers. At first, there is nothing. Then a low, deep keening sound rises from Angel's chest, a rumble, almost a purr, but more desperate, and the dark-haired vampire reaches for Spike. The chains stop him, and he snarls. The blond doesn't think about it twice. He unlocks the manacles. Will didn't take much convincing. Didn't lift an eyebrow when Angelus broke the handle of the presbytery's door with one hand and ushered him inside. The vampire paid him in advance. He wanted to observe the boy's reaction. He had yet to be disappointed. Once inside, Will took the lead and stirred him through the immense transept to a small chapel in the Occidental aisle of the cathedral. Angelus didn't ask him to take the crosses down. He didn't really mind the pain, like he never minded in life a little flogging to enhance his sexual pleasure. A true sensualist, Liam reveled in heightened sensations. As a vampire, Angelus could have assigned whole new depths to the meaning of the word, but sometimes, it still wasn't enough. And so he did not mind the cross searing its shape on the small of his back when Will pushed him against the chapel's wall, before falling to his knees in front of him. The boy was forceful, and there was no submission in the set of the still shoulders. As he went down on Angelus, the spine was still ramrod straight. The vampire sighed, buried his fingers in the surprisingly soft chestnut mane. He tried to force the boy to take more of him, but Will resisted, pushing back against his thighs, yet not trying to escape - just setting his own rhythm. Angelus let go, losing himself in the feel of the warm tongue against his cock, the agile fingers squeezing his balls with a little more force than was necessary. How long since someone had tried to set the pace, to defy him... refused him anything? Resisted his pull? Of course he would have killed anyone fool enough to try, except for Darla, but still... it would have been nice to meet the challenge for as long as it lasted. When he came, Will swallowed and bathed him gently with his tongue. When he was done, he remained on the ground, hands on knees, face raised, eyes clear and wide, blue like the sky must have been - if Angelus had bothered to remember. He pushed away from the wall and offered his hand to the boy. Will took it, pressed himself against the vampire when Angelus drew him to his feet. The fingers of one hand fought stubbornly to undo the older man's tie and shirt, while the other rested on Angelus' ass. At last he exposed the vampire's chest and fastened his talented mouth to a perk brown nipple. Angelus groaned. His cock swelled. "Yer cold," Will murmured softly against his skin. "Does it bother you, lad?" Angelus asked. Will shrugged, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow of the vampire's throat. "I'm warm enough." Angelus needed to know just how warm the boy was. He flipped them around faster than the human brain could register, so that it was Will crushed face first against the wall and its religious icons, and Angelus pressed against his backside. Will did not even cry out in surprise. The vampire raised his eyes to the Christian Savior staring at him compassionately from the Cross. He sneered, but his voice remained even and soft. "Bend." The muscles under his hands froze, but the boy did as he bade. Angelus grabbed Will's waist, forced his legs apart with one knee, and found his entrance. He did not wait, did not warn, just plunged in. Will muffled his scream against the sleeve of his own coat. The scent of blood permeated the small chapel. Angelus pulled out almost to the head, before thrusting back in with a snarl. Will shook fiercely, but did not cry out again. He did not see Angelus' features shift - just clamped harder on the older man's shaft, rubbing his own neglected cock against the rough wall. Angelus' fangs pierced the transparent skin of a white shoulder. Will's eyes widened, but he arched into the bite, drawing Angelus' face ever closer, moaning loudly. The vampire's eyes shut tight in bliss. Young blood. "You're... you're very cold..." Will stuttered, his voice fading away, his ass still sheathing Angelus' cock with fervent determination. His hand closed around the slit wrist Angelus was lifting towards his mouth, holding on for dear life. "Yes...." the vampire hissed against his ear. "But you're warm enough..." Angel stares at him, confusion swirling in the dark orbs, as if he can't possibly conceive of being set free - and Spike has to wipe the doubt off that face. So close, the bruised lips, so moist and inviting, the skin, alabaster and silk, the eyes innocent and pleading, but resigned. It's the innocence that gets to the blond vampire, more than the fear and the submissiveness. It's the innocence. Because, ironically enough, that's what he misses the most. Those private moments - his Sire asleep, trustingly, in his arms after a night of dark pleasures; hours spent watching the perfect face relaxed in slumber, a artless mask which belied the demon underneath. Other specks of memory - Angelus sore and bleeding, the target of Darla's ire, refusing to bend, seeking his Childe's arms after the punishment, uncaring that he might enrage his Sire even more. William would be the only one allowed to witness Angelus' degradation then. Like he is the only one witnessing it now. Always the favorite, but only with Angelus. He's never been anyone's favorite before or after - not even Drusilla's. Favoritism implies some sort of attention span. He wants that exclusive connection again. To be the one allowed to tame the beast. And be it with fists or cock, he wants Angelus - or Angel, having experienced first-hand his Sire's latest incarnation, it might be just as well - to claim him in return. He is startled when Angel takes the initiative. The dark-haired vampire leans forward. He's sniffing Spike again and the blond doesn't move. Angel's cheek grazes Spike's chest, his lips caress his collarbone. Until he's nuzzling the hollow of his Childe's throat like a big cat. Spike is the one shivering now. Angel's moves are slow, hesitant, as if he's waiting to be disciplined, castigated for daring to touch the other vampire. Spike is careful when he raises his hand to reciprocate, a lot more careful than he's ever been when touching Angelus - but he really doesn't want this to end. His hand settles on Angel's waist, coaxing him closer. Angel whimpers, stills, seems to wait for something, trembling against Spike. When nothing happens, he lifts his face to lick the blood off Spike's cheek. A small cry, a whimper, and Spike finds himself flat on his back, Angel perched on top of him like a starving feline. When Angel wedges his strong thigh between Spike's legs, the younger vampire moans long and deep, rubbing his aching cock against his Sire's hard muscles. Angel growls, pawing at Spike's shirt, then rips off the material. Spike's hands fumble with his belt buckle, and he toes off his shoes at the same time. It isn't fast enough for Angel, who decides to tear Spike's jeans to shreds. Angel's mouth closes around his Childe's cock before the blond realizes what's happening. Spike arches off the floor with a shout, almost spilling his seed right there. "Angelus..." Angel backs away, frowning and a little fearful, watching Spike expectantly. When the blond lifts his arm to reach for him, he flinches. "Bloody Hell," Spike sighs. "What did they do to you?" Spike rises on his knees, cups his Sire's trembling face with both hands and ravages his mouth with his tongue. Angel whimpers, his fingers find Spike's hair, his arms wrap around his Childe with crushing, desperate force. His lower body rubs shamelessly against Spike's, his cock hard and weeping. His tongue plunders, his teeth nibble the blond's swollen lips, his mouth roams the sharp planes of his Childe's face. Spike reciprocates recklessly. His hips seem to be possessed of a mind of their own, driving his hard length in his Sire's stomach. He wishes Angel would stop shivering. His hands close around the wide shoulders. Angel groans, but doesn't stop kissing him. Spike looks at his right hand over Angel's shoulder. The palm gleams crimson, sticky with Angel's blood. Uncharacteristically gentle, Spike pushes Angel on his back on the cold stone floor of the mansion. The dark-haired vampire looks puzzled, but complies meekly. Spike is crouched between his Sire's spread legs, looking past the damning, glistening cock in front of his nose to the wide expense of muscled chest. For the first time, he sees the scars. Layers of scars, and he can't even imagine how bad the original injuries must have been, how often Angel must have been hurt, for the scars to still be visible. He has a feeling Darla's worst must have been a trip to Disneyland compared to whatever his Sire has been put through. "Shit, mate." Angel is still looking at him, not understanding. Waiting. Quiet. So Spike mutters... "What the Hell?" Regrets having voiced the horrible pun at all, and sweeps down to swallow Angel's length, taking the vampire as far down his throat as he possibly can. The dark-haired man convulses with a cry, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted, his features a cross between pain and ecstasy. Spike works him over with tongue and throat, purring high in his chest, knowing from experience how much Angel will enjoy it. His Sire twists and moans, driving himself deeper down his Childe's throat, but Spike can take it. His tongue teases the foreskin, wraps around the underside of Angel's thick cock, savors the taste of cum, pain, and still, underneath it all, the tang of blood and Family. Angel strains, and Spike thinks... Angelus always had the most amazing stamina... but this is just silly. The cock in his mouth is almost purple with need. He looks up at Angel's face. Pain has driven away pleasure. The vampire is biting through his lower lip, tears escaping through clenched lids, fighting not to make a sound. Spike is at a loss. What is he supposed to... then he remembers. Remembers Darla and the sadistic games, when she wouldn't allow Angelus to... "Hey, it's okay." Angel peers at him, fights to keep his eyes open. Spike tries to smile. "It's cool, mate. You can..." - fucking Hell, he never thought he would ever say that to his Sire... - "you can come." He nods emphatically, wrapping his hand around Angel's swollen balls to make his point, and sheaths the straining cock back in his mouth. Angel comes with a roar. Spike swallows eagerly, on and on, until Angel is spent and flaccid in his mouth. He releases his Sire's cock, licking his chops. The older vampire is relaxed and limp underneath him, smelling of sweat, come and his Childe. The blond's hands meander along Angel's thighs. There's something else he wants. Another taste he craves. His fingers wander between the dark-haired man's legs. Muscles spasm and freeze. At first, Spike doesn't care. His fingers find the cleft, follow it to the puckered ring of flesh he worships. He pushes one finger in, slowly. Angel sobs. Spike's head whips up. His Sire is crying again. Startled, the blond removes his finger. Turns Angel around slowly. Assesses the damage. It's the first time in forever that he feels like weeping. He gathers Angel in his arms, because he doesn't know what else to do. He has no clue as to how he can fix this... or if he should even try. He wants to... because he needs his Sire back. And at the same time he wants to take without asking, feel full... Spike turns around, presses his backside against Angel's cock. Angel, who is still shaking and crying in silence. Angel, who is hard again already. Spike grounds his ass mercilessly against the older vampire to make his point. Slowly, tentatively, Angel's arms come up to encircle his chest. Spike coos his appreciation. He's back in Drusilla-mode. Coaxing Angel like one talks to a child - to get what he wants. He raises himself on his knees, Angel draped over his back, and reaches back with one hand to guide the dark-haired vampire to his entrance. He wriggles his ass in anticipation, stomach clenched with need and hunger. Angel doesn't use his fingers, no time for foreplay or anything that requires higher brain functions. He dives in with one powerful thrust, and even though he had him in his mouth a minute ago, it is only then that Spike remembers what it means to feel this man inside of him. It's been so long. A few months ago, Angelus wouldn't touch him, sneering that he didn't do crippled. Now Spike grunts with the rhythmic, unrestrained thrusts of his Sire, stretched almost to the point of pain, full, brimming. Drusilla liked to use all sorts of toys and implements, but nothing can compare to this cool fullness. This completion. Angel's fist closes ruthlessly around Spike's cock, tugs hard but not painfully, teases his perineum. Spike pants, arms wobbling. He wonders if he'll be able to support himself much longer. Angel's other hand finds his nipples and he thrashes madly, plasters his back to Angel's chest, rubs himself against his Sire like a cat in heat. The moans are trapped in his throat. He bares his neck for the bite. When Angel strikes, Spike howls. He comes. The muscles of his ass tighten around Angel's cock like a vice, and in the midst of mind-blowing pleasure, he refuses to let go. Angel roars against his skin, his fangs go deeper, search the skin, urge the blood faster. His fingers clamp around Spike's balls and squeeze, drawing out his orgasm. Eyes closed, Spike reaches for Angel's arm, still wrapped around his chest, and brings the wrist to his mouth. The bite is wild. It'll scar for a while. At this point, Spike doesn't think Angel will care. The blood hits him like a whip, enfolds him like a father. Family. Angel removes his fangs and nurses the wound, lapping at the blood amidst whimpers and tears. Dimly, Spike understands that if he wants to drain his Sire dry, Angel will let him. And he struggles with it... < preserve us from temptation, Lord... > but lets go in the end. He rips his fangs away from the proffered wrist. The connection is not lost. Angel is still inside of him. "Will..." His name, like a plea or a prayer, carried out on a sob close to his ear. Spike relaxes in Angel's embrace. "Yes, Sire." He is home. -END (This author wishes to remain anon.) |