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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: The Hollow Man ( Author: M Pairing: A/S Rating: NC17 Setting: AU of S2 A/N: Sequel to Nemesis) PART I He strains. Tingling, clanking, clattering, grating, clanging... This is the extent of his universe. Of his frustration with the loss of language. Every single word he wishes he remembered - rehearsed, mumbled, whispered, vague sounds rather than articulate utterance, offered to the void. But the void grants nothing in return. Just... Clashing, clapping, rattling... He used to feel the chaffing of metal around his wrists, but the skin has long gone numb. Scabs upon scabs. Some rules still apply in this place, even if most of the ones he's familiar with don't. When he is cut, he bleeds. When the silence grows, he goes insane. Ringing, shaking... Oppression in his chest when he doesn't need to breathe. Not the slow caress of disturbed air on the back of his neck, not the specks of light flashing behind his lids. Nothing is real. When was the last time he could actually tell if his eyes were open or not? It makes no difference whatsoever, but for the feathery kiss of eyelashes on his cheeks. Soon, even this will be gone. Habituation. The same square inch of skin forever teased with the remembrance of touch, until sensation fades and he is left hanging in the weightless embrace of the void. It feels like floating. Jingling... Naked. Not even the rasp of cloth against flesh. No tether but for the chains, which leaves him thankful to be bound. Wouldn't know what to do with himself if he was ever released. Clanking, clattering, chiming... The extent of his universe - darkness and sound. Clank of iron. Rasp of tongue against parched lips. He can't remember why his body does not make a noise. Shouldn't there be.. something? The woosh of molecules rushing through veins? What is this place? Has he ever known any other? He misses... the memory is vague and cherished. The ghost of... it was touch, wasn't it? They touched him, in the beginning. All the time. Searing touch, scalding touch, which left his skin open and raw, made his insides burn and the adrenaline flow. They touched him for centuries, allowing his mangled body to heal once in a while. He had wished for solitude then, for peace, for the end of touch, the natural conclusion of sharp blades bleeding him out and demons ripping him open to assuage their pleasure. He had prayed for death, nothingness, absence, never-ending darkness. If he had known then what he knows now, he would have learned to welcome the agony of their contact. Instead he hangs in the chains, and twists his tired body just to hear... Clattering, clanging, jingling... ...a sound. The shackles, bound to wrists and ankles, keeping him perfectly still and forever trapped in the great void, blackness and the echo of his own voice - which he cannot hear any longer. Nonsensical sounds at times manage to escape his throat. The memory of language was lost so long ago. What is this place? Why won't they touch him anymore? Why won't they hurt him? Awakening comes slowly and without screams. He stares at the ceiling for a minute or so, then sits up carefully, hands falling in his lap, head bowed. --waking alone-- He parts his lips, wets them with the tip of his tongue. Swallows a of couple times. Allows air into lungs and pushes it outward through straining vocal cords. First a grunt, then the shape of a word. He closes his good eye. Sighs in relief and self-disgust. He thanks no one in particular that he can still speak, that he remembers the language. The nightmare is always so vivid, he comes back to reality wondering if he is mute. He feels for the heavy bandage wrapped around his forehead. Drags himself out of bed and limps to the bathroom. He very rarely wakes up yelling anymore, but then he seldom dreams about the centuries spent shrieking in agony. He dreams of the aftermath. When they tired of him. Of an eternity lingering in absolute darkness and total solitude. --this is the dead land-- He dreams of his mind breaking. He doesn't need to not see himself in the mirror to be aware of the stubble darkening his cheeks. His eye hurts. The pads of his fingers rub against the day-old beard. He enjoys the burn of dead things which continue to grow, keeps his uninjured eye wide open even if the glittery surface reflects nothing but unending rows of sedate white tiles. --eyes I dare not meet in dreams -- Of all the tortures Hell has inflicted on him, that black room, that nothingness, that eternity of madness, of despair beyond despair, that eradication of the self is what haunts him now. In that Cimmerian expanse he sees the reflection of his past - dank alleys and diseased rats - and an echo of his future - for they will abandon him, as everyone does in the end. --the supplication of a dead man's hand-- He draws open the shower curtain and turns the knob, setting the temperature as high as it will go. He extends a hand under the spray and hisses when the water scalds his skin. He doesn't remove his fingers. He wishes that he could explain to them, to Cordelia most of all, why he enjoyed the dreams of Darla so much, why he clung to them so fervently. How could he not, when Hell was the alternative - the call of the void? How can he make anyone understand - not even Darla, not even Will - what kind of damage ultimate isolation can wreak, how the want of touch will reach inside your soul, nestle at the seat of the self, and gnaw. Bit by bit. The happy memories first, the remembrance of otherness, then the souvenir of sensation on cold skin, of feeling, and eventually, the cardinal foundations of who he was. --between the essence and the descent-- Pretty soon he was beseeching, pleading, begging his jailers to come back and hurt him, penetrate him, tear him apart. Left to his own devices, he had destroyed himself from the inside out. --this broken jaw of our lost kingdoms-- He steps inside the stall. Groans when the water hits assorted aches, cuts and bruises. He's not healing as quickly as usual. Cordelia says that he doesn't feed enough, and that almost makes him smile. How would she know what is enough? It is never enough. He works the lather against discolored skin. He didn't ask to be hurt this time around. He thinks about Lindsey. Not in the way one would expect - he doesn't dream about the rape, there are no flashbacks, but he thinks about the lawyer just the same and wonders. Too much of Man in him to let it go, not enough to just grieve and move on. --between the desire and the spasm-- Did Lindsey win the right to do this to him - torture him, rape him, damn Darla - when Angel failed him? Failed to redeem him, or at least show him the way? There had been so much anger in Lindsey's eyes, in the plastic hand pushing against his throat and the hardness ripping him apart. Maybe, just maybe, Lindsey was trying to make him pay for being the one soul Angel had not wanted to save. He breathes in, almost chokes on the water. Throws his fist into the wall. Watches the tiles break in tiny webs and his blood drip through shredded skin. The vampire understands revenge. He understands anger. He understands rape. Invasion. His will forced upon others. The will of others forced upon him. Violation, every single minute of every day. That soul, crammed back inside a dead shell. --between the potency and the existence-- He remembers a time when listening to the guilt was a preferable alternative to the uncertainty of moving forward. When numbness held back the anger. Now there is just control and he's clinging to it by his fingernails. His knuckles are starting to cramp. Too many people around him, demanding too many things. He's asked them all to leave, but here they are, scurrying around the hotel like silent, surprisingly caring rodents. Yet can he fault them for ignoring his feelings when he never shows any? He is the Hollow Man. --stuffed men-- He is still tired, would love to go back to bed, but refuses to surrender. --in death's dream kingdom-- He dresses with quiet, sharp motions, efficient and thoughtless. Thoughtlessness, the path to discipline. Prying eyes must be avoided at all cost, for they rip and rent the worn fabric of his restraint. Mindlessness tames the anger. The rage that bubbles, a century's worth of mind-tearing fury. He misses freedom more than he misses clarity these days. The luxury of making his own mistakes, of tumbling and falling, picking himself up. Too many crutches offered, too many visions prodding him on the way, and it's not his, never was his. Never his decision. He strayed, set himself a new goal, his own, dared to believe that he was more than a convenient tool. Saving Darla, offering her the choice he never had - vicarious redemption, vicarious joy of an understanding offered without expectations. No strings attached. --leaning together headpiece filled with straw-- He has been punished for daring to believe that he had a choice. Free will. He chose to abandon Lindsey. Chose to save Darla. And the lawyer became the instrument of his punishment. Not when he raped him, no. The act is inconsequential. When he killed her. Proving once and for all that the choice was not Angel's to make. --paralyzed force-- He freezes at the door. --gesture without motion-- He can hear them, whispering in the lobby. --rat's feet over broken glass-- Both men, worried, prying. Cordelia, who keeps the truth of his humiliation close to her heart and cries waterless tears. His preternatural senses seek the one who is always silent, but always there. --shade without color-- Not far. Not in the hotel, but not far. In the street, then. With the other two. The women, like waifs, watching over the building. Professional mourners clad in garish silk and outrageous leather. They wait, it's all they do. Scare his staff with their eerie, unexplained presence, although Cordelia knows why they stand guard in front of the hotel all night long rather than rampage through half the city, and retreat only with the first rays of the sun. --quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass-- True to her word, Darla is waiting for him. For him to be ready. More unreasonable demands. And Spike. --shape without form-- Spike like some restless travelling dove, going back and forth, between humans and vampires, bringing wordless assurances of shaky armistices and mysterious stand-offs. --from prayers to broken stone-- Delia and the blond vampire are the only ones allowed to cross the threshold of his rooms, because necessity dictates that he placates his family - both of them. And drinks his blood like a good little boy. And talks in a reasonable tone about mending and moving forward. All he gets in return are unshed tears in Cordelia's eyes, and enduring patience in Spike's. --trembling with tenderness lips that would kiss-- He can stand neither. --between the emotion and the response falls the shadow-- PART II The hotel is a cross between a funeral home and a crack house. Quiet whispers in dark corners, tensions running high, feathers bristling. Everyone, both in and out of the building, is waiting. For what - it's hard to tell. For Angel to make some kind of move. Come to some sort of decision. Embrace one side of the Force or the other. Spike knows his Sire will never choose, and he hovers morbidly. Waits for the inevitable disaster, the foreseeable conclusion of that weirdest of Mexican standoffs. Spike figures Angel's about ready to snap and there's no little blond bint to pull him away from the edge this time. The smirk is tight but feral. Counting himself out, that is. He doesn't spare a thought for his Darla. Angel might be the obsessive headcase, but Darla's the one with a new fixation. She's on a crusade for redemption. He would laugh if it wasn't so pathetic. If he didn't secretly hope that she will succeed. She doesn't understand Angel. None of them do. Not that they haven't tried, over the last couple of days at least, but they still don't get it. Darla thinks acknowledging her failure as a Sire will be enough to lure Angel back to the fold. The little humans believe Angel's frantic search for salvation has led to this latest tragedy. They don't see what Spike knows for a fact is the driving force of Angel's existence. His anger. Anger he crushes with everything he has - fanatical displays of discipline, which spill into all areas of his life. Angel likes to mete out the law. Always has. Take away that control, and the edifice falls apart. Father, Sire, Curse, Lindsey. The rage warps his judgement. Spike smells it now. The familiar, thick aroma of his Sire's ire spills from the upper levels into the lobby. The men don't even tense when he pushes the door open. "Where's the chit?" The Watcher stares at him solemnly. Seems he's decided to follow the girl's lead. If she allows the blond vampire anywhere near Angel, there must be a reason. No one is more protective of their boss than she. From the profound sadness darkening the Englishman's eyes, he has reached his own conclusions about what really transpired in that motel room. And he's right about them too. "She's upstairs." Spike nods shortly in acknowledgement. Feeding time then. He moves with preternatural speed, doesn't bother to try and spare the humans' sensibilities the way his Sire does. He's a fucking vampire. They better learn to deal. He picks up on the voices before he reaches the landing. One sad and trembling. The other exhausted and cold. "Angel, please. Please." She puts everything she ever was into that word. "Eat something. If you don't like that blood, I'll send Gunn to get something else." "Not now, Cordelia." Low, whispered, tired. "Angel, I'm begging you..." "Not. Now." The chit can't hear his control breaking in the clipped tone. Spike is at the door, but he doesn't come in, and neither of them turn to acknowledge him. Angel faces the window, hands deceptively relaxed at his sides, presenting his broad back to the ex-cheerleader. The bint is all wide wet eyes and trembling shoulders, color bleeding out of her cheeks. "Angel, you need... you need to... talk." Utter stillness. "Cordelia, I'm trying to... not..." "But that's it. You... you're playing stoic guy, and it isn't good..." The interruption comes swiftly. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, when... but I'm fine now. Why don't you go back downstairs?" Spike sees the girl frantically looking for an excuse not to leave him alone. "Can't do that," she says flippantly. "Your girls are still standing in front of the main doors. Freak me out." Shoulders hunched and a sigh. "I'll... I'll get rid of them, Cordy, I promise... As soon as..." Chit looks horrified and takes a couple steps forward. "That's not what I meant, Angel! Don't worry about things like that right now, okay? They aren't hurting anybody at the moment, so it's... it's all cool. I just... I wish, that you'd talk to me. I want to help, Angel. I know what you're going through..." Spike groans quietly. Wrong thing to say. Angel straightens, doesn't turn around, but his hands clench into fists. "Do you now?" It comes out like a sneer. Cordelia stands very still. "What is it that you know, Cordelia?" The question is quiet and carefully worded - that soft whisper of a voice, all the tricks of the snake tamer. "Angel, please..." "You said that already. But I thought you wanted to talk." Harder now. "And you were right. I really think we should." He faces them both, although he doesn't seem to take notice of his Childe's presence. Ember madness and sinew, and bones jutting out. The room is dark and silent. Cordelia appears frozen, leaning against an old, art-deco high-backed chair. Angel is staring at her from under black lashes, and the way he holds himself - the purplish rings under one golden eye, the sideways smirk, barely visible, the even breathing, the too prominent bones, the fingers shaking - telegraphs his wrath and exhaustion. Somebody's going to get hurt. "Angel, your hand..." The vampire looks at his bleeding knuckles as if he has no idea how the skin got ripped in the first place. He discards the mystery with a shrug and focuses his attention back on his newest prey. Cordelia flinches, the faintest hint of fear rolling off of her. She's good, but she's still a bloody human. "So what, exactly, do you want to talk about, Cordy, uh?" Angel's jaw is clenched so tight it looks painful. "Do you want to talk about watching someone you care for being killed and turned into a monster in front of your eyes? Do you want to talk about the shell of her fucking stalking you, promising sweetness like you haven't known in half a millennia?" he purrs, gesturing derisively towards the window and Darla waiting in the street. "But then you never really cared to talk about that before, right? So why would things be different today?" Cordelia's throat works convulsively, her lips part, but Angel lifts a single finger, effectively shutting her up. "So what else is there... hm?" Angel scrunches up his brow. His smirk is not entirely sane when he tilts his head slightly to the right. "Oh, I know! Why not just talk about the curse, uh? Bet you wonder what it would really take for it to break, right? So you can stop wondering if I'm fucking evil every goddamn evening, uh? So I can stop fucking smelling the fear and the distrust on you Every. Single. Day." Angel's voice is rising. His huge frame shakes with the effort required to stand still. The Watcher and the black guy are in the hall now, stunned. They want to get to Cordelia, but they don't fancy sharing a room with two unpredictable vampires either - Spike can tell. If he sees one of them make a move for a stake, he'll rip their throats out, chip be fucked. Angel's hands are on his hips, falsely relaxed. "I think we should leave Buffy out of it this time, okay? I know how much you like hearing about her, but let just skip the whole rehashed, boring saga. I mean, it's old, history, I should be over it by now. So... what does that leave us?" he ponders out loud. Energy and manic fury cannot be contained one moment longer, and he starts to pace. Wild erratic circles of confusion and despair. "Hell, maybe? Nah, I don't think I would have the words anyway," he snarls. Takes a couple steps towards the frightened seer. Wesley and Gunn make to move forward and interfere, but Spike blocks them at the door. No time to deal with collateral damage. Angel leers. His expression softens, bright and deceptive; he raises a hand to Cordelia's ashen face. Caresses the softest skin along her jaw with the tip of a finger. "I know," he whispers sweetly. "I know what you want to hear about. Really. Why didn't you say so before? I would have shared." Spike stares straight ahead. He knows what's coming, and he doesn't want to be here. Cordelia backs away from the vampire and Angel's expression darkens. He resumes his pacing, his motions brusque and febrile. His left arm wraps protectively around his waist, his free hand closes around his bandaged eye. His lips are tight with pain. "You wanna talk about tazers searing your flesh? About steel-toe boots breaking your ribs? About drowning in your own blood?" The Prom Queen's so pale her skin is almost translucent. Angel trembles with exhaustion and rage. Cordy's eyes stray to the door. The vampire shakes his head violently and wedges himself between the girl and the exit. "Oh, no. You wanted to know, you're staying!" His voice is raw and broken. "You want to hear about being restrained, about pain so sharp it bleeds inside your brain, about being exposed, and helpless, about some guy fucking you, riding you, while some thugs are watching and leering, and humiliating you." His words are beginning to run into each other. He's talking too fast, almost yelling now. Cordelia is crying, big sobbing gulps, but she stays, even though she knows Angel won't really use force to keep her there. The men are silent. Spike wants to shut his Sire up, doesn't want him to share all this, expose his weakness, acknowledge what has been done to him, how he has been marked and violated - even if the perpetrator is not here to claim the fame any longer. Now that he knows, he'll have to hunt down the thugs, too. The women will help. But Angel isn't done. "Want me to tell you about Drusilla cheering Lindsey on and then sucking me off? About having to stare into Darla's dead eyes while this was happening, and know, fucking well know that she had wanted to be saved, that she had accepted her second chance, was thankful for it, that I wouldn't have left her alone and that she wouldn't have left me alone; know that I couldn't save her just like I couldn't save myself, that I gave everything I had, every fucking thing; I didn't have more to give, you know, just my life, my soul for hers, and I thought that would be enough. But I got screwed! Again. My soul was worth nothing, my life was worth nothing. I am worth nothing! Nothing!" Spike takes a moment to recover from the shock of hearing about Drusilla's involvement. Silly cow is crazier than he thought. Hopefully, Darla can keep her in line. He strolls inside the room, decisively but carefully takes Cordy's elbow. He leads her to the door and the men still standing there, shocked and grieving. He exchanges a brief look with the chit; she nods. He closes the door on them. Turns to face his Sire. Angel is heaving, bent in half at the waist, both arms wrapped around his middle. Teardrops on the carpet. Angel will hate himself for this later. And blood. The older vampire has bitten his lip cleanly in half. "Come on, mate..." Spike murmurs soothingly. Awkwardly, he puts a hand on his Sire's quivering shoulder. Scrunches up his nose. No matter how many showers Angel takes, he still stinks of the lawyer. Angel has to smell that too. "Leave me alone, Will." Spike wraps his arm securely around the older vampire. Angel bolts away from him, until his back hits a wall, and he slides down slowly to the floor. "Leave me the fuck alone! I can't... I'm trying..." Spike crouches in front of him, locking eyes. "I can help." That shuts Angel up. The dark-haired man tilts his head up, dark irises drowned in confusion and sorrow. "Why do you keep doing this? Torturing me with all the things I can't have." "I can't leave you alone now. You're my Sire." Angel shakes his head. "That's not enough. It means nothing. Not anymore." Spike growls. Grabs Angel's biceps and pushes him against the wall. His Sire groans in pain as he jars sore ribs, but the blond doesn't ease up. "Don't bloody fucking ever say that again, hear me? It's not your decision to make. Some things you have no control over. And I'm one of them." Angel chuckles darkly. "Whatever you say, Spike." That's almost a surrender for the younger man, yet not enough of an invitation. He lets go of Angel's arms, flattens his hands against the wall on either side of his Sire's head and leans forward. Angel's lips are chaffed and taste like soft water. "Are you going to take from me too?" his Sire murmurs against his mouth in an empty voice. Spike pulls back. "I ain't taking. I'm offering." "Why? You're horny? Drusilla isn't putting out for you?" "Fuck you, Angelus." "Stand in line." Spike's fingers wind through thick, dark hair still damp from the shower and he nibbles a corner of Angel's lips. "I don't need your pity." "Yes, you do." He bites the tip of Angel's tongue. "Because I'm your Childe. Because I'm the only one who can give you what you need." "What I need..." "Control." Long, agile fingers creep to his waist. "Power." His mouth strays. He finds the jugular. Nips the skin but doesn't break it. "I'll surrender it to you... for tonight, anyway." Angel hasn't stopped shaking, but it's from exhaustion now - starvation. "Why would you want to?" "Because that's the way things are s'posed to be. You're the control freak, and I drive you out of your tree, and I hate you, and I break you, and you hate me right back." He presses forward. "And because I can't stand the stench of him on you." "Dru... she killed Darla... and I couldn't..." "I know." There's no empathy to offer, just a couple of meaningless words, and Spike can't even pretend to be that hung up about it. "That's not why I'm here, mate." "Just shut up." "Then fuck me." Angel's lips part. Spike's fingers find the waistband of Angel's sweats, riding low on his hips. His Sire tries to hide the flinch by grabbing the back of the blonde's neck and dragging his mouth roughly against his own. The younger vampire stirs away from his intended target and lifts Angel's soft white cotton tee-shirt. His Sire's chest is a sea of discolored bruises and barely healed cuts. He needs more blood. The container Cordy left on the table is already cold. Spike sniffs. Pig anyway. That's fine, he's fed enough for two - Darla and Dru saw to that. His Grand-Sire knows perfectly well what he's doing right now. In fact, she's counting on it. Another tether to bind Angel to his bloodline. As much as Spike is loathed to stand, they have to move this party to the bed. Angel is still injured, can't have him pass out from the pain in the middle of the good stuff. Spike guides Angel to his feet, ignoring his Sire's groans, and leads him to the plush mattress. He wastes no time in ridding him of his pants. Angel reclines against a pile of cushions at the head of the bed, then stills, and watches Spike undress. The blonde stands proudly, taut, and smirks. "Tell me what you want." Angel is silent, and for a minute Spike thinks he's not going to get his answer. "Touch me." His Sire is utterly expressionless. "Tire me enough so I can sleep without the dreams." He blinks slowly. Rubs his good eye, looking like an exhausted twelve-year-old. Not that Spike knows any. "In fact, don't let me sleep ever again." Spike's nod is solemn and, for once, entirely lacking in scorn. He can't find humor in the sight of a naked Angel, half of his face still heavily bandaged, ribs visible under translucent, bruised skin, little black dots scattered wherever tazers have broken flesh, and no flame, no light, not the slightest hint of care in that one dark eye, in that downturned mouth. And it's not enough to remember Lindsey, broken, fucked, bleeding, lying in his own piss and vomit on the floor. The lawyer never pleaded, just screamed. Spike should have turned him. Have Kaikos pound his ass with that spiked dick of his for a couple centuries. He can't fix all of Angel. Doesn't understand the stuff about failing to exchange his soul against Darla's, can't empathize and, ultimately, doesn't really care. But there's stuff he can fix. He can get rid of that goddamn lawyer smell for one thing. And they can get one good fuck out of it for another. Time enough to worry about Darla's silly master plan later. Maybe punish Drusilla for her transgression. She'll beg for it anyway. Spike climbs on the bed, settles between the strong, perfect columns of Angel's legs. He leans forward for one long, wet kiss on the older man's navel, tongue plundering the soft flesh, taking away the taste of musk and ivory soap. His hands stay safely away from Angel's backside, knowing the vampire won't be healed. Instead he rises on his knees, hovers above Angel's mouth and steals a short, slow nip of full moist lips. This time Angel offers his tongue to Spike's teeth. The kiss is deliberate and soft, like tears. The blonde isn't playing it rough, not tonight. Maybe later, when Angel is back to his usual broody self. For now, Spike concentrates on damage control. His fingers replace his mouth against Angel's lips. The older man sucks and nips at the white, slender digits while Spike treks down to one perk brown nipple. Working the little nub without poking his nose against a patch black of skin is nothing short of impossible, but Angel doesn't seem to mind. Spike's initiative is rewarded by a soft intake of unnecessary air and teeth clamping around his knuckles. He retrieves his wet fingers to pinch one neglected nipple until Angel bucks lightly, shivering under him. "Touch me." Again, an order. A plea. Angel's eye and face are dark with arousal, his hardness teases the underside of Spike's balls. The blonde hovers on all fours, laving a wet path from Angel's pectorals down to his groin. Angel's hands twitch like dying animals on the mattress, but Spike doesn't mind. His palms rub tension out of those ridiculously wide shoulders, down massive arms and strong wrists. He traces the contour of his Sire's bellybutton with the tip of a fang, until his nose is buried in dark, coarse curls, full of the smell of Angel's maleness and seed. Too long since anyone has taken the time to worship that glorious body. Too soon since one man has trespassed in Spike's territory. "Will..." Angel directs him with a sigh of his name and a gentle twist of his hips. Spike sits down on strong thighs, mindful of the large wound there. What did this? A hook? "Touch me." Spike wraps one fist around the base of Angel's cock, his other hand fondling his Sire's balls. His tongue snakes out for a taste of the older man's weeping hardness, then a slow lick along the thick vein, up and down, up and down, until Angel is almost sobbing. Spike waits. "Will, fucking touch me." The blonde swallows his Sire's cock to the root, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks, hard, fast, never holding back, teeth and lips, palate and tongue. He is hungry. Unsatiated. Blood rushes and pulses, muscles strain and bunch, until Angel's hands spring off the mattress with a mind of their own and grab Spike's short bleached hair. A groan, a cry. Angel fucks his mouth, never releasing the stronghold on his Childe's hair, mindless testimonies of lust and pleasure spilling from his mouth, until the pressure builds, hips raise off the bed in a wild rhythm and Angel tears Spike off of him with a howl. "Let me touch you!" It's what the blonde's been waiting to hear, and he obeys. Raises himself up - no preparation, no waiting - and impales himself on Angel's hardness with a roar. Too long, too long, too long... The Slayer could never feel like this, could never give him this. She could be touched, but would never touch him. Would never make it an order. Would never be obeyed. Full, at last. A foreign presence deep inside of him - and it isn't electronic, isn't a punishment or a muzzle. He rocks, powerful and uneven. Grabs his own hardness and jerks harshly. Stares at Angel's face, distorted with pleasure. The older vampire reaches for him blindly and Spike crushes himself to his Sire's chest - fuck the injuries, he won't die from it. Blood is the imperative. Angel is senseless and in game face, starvation driving him mad, and he rips out Spike's throat as soon as the blonde is within reach. He gorges sloppily while the younger vampire scrambles to find his own pleasure, his cock wedged between their bodies. Angel thrusts wild, moaning and growling and spilling blood on spotless sheets. His nails dig into Spike's back and when he comes, it sounds like the wail of a dying thing. Spike follows him soon after, jerking himself off a few times against Angel's stomach, painting bruises with lifeless seed. He collapses atop Angel's wide length, wrenching a grunt from his exhausted Sire. He raises himself on his elbows, but Angel stops him. "Don't. Don't move." "I'm hurting you, mate." "I don't care." One strong arm wraps around his waist. A sigh in his ear and the rasp of Angel's tongue, slowing down against the closing wound in his throat. "You can't stop touching me," Angel whispers. It's the sweetest order Spike has ever been given. His Sire is soft inside of him, not going anywhere. Angel's breathing slows. His words feathery, slurred. "Don't let me fall asleep." Spike kisses him in the quiet and the dark, drawing a cover over their joined forms. "Don't fret, Peaches. I'll wake if you dream." A long suffering sigh, eyelid fluttering on a velvety, white cheek. "Okay." --in this last of meeting places we grope together and avoid speech gathered on this beach of the tumid river-- -END (This author wishes to remain anon.) |