TITLE: "Harry's AAA" 1/1 -
A/S Humor/Angst/Smut
AUTHOR: Ducks, The Angel Ho. ;)
EMAIL: slayinsage@buffymail.com
DISCLAIMER: If I owned them, chains would be *fun*. Needless to say, I
don't. *grin*
PAIRING: A/S
TIMELINE: AU - Mostly irrelevant. Forget Poophead Joss' Canon - Angel is
Spike's Sire.
SPOILERS: None.
SYNOPSIS: Plotless smut. Spike gets Angel to take him to his favorite
store for his un-birthday. Then they open presents. *grin*
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody who houses my Slash, if you guys want it. Okay for list
archives. Anybody else, just send gushing feedback, and it's yours. *grin*
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a sort-of prequel to the in-progress response to
Avarice's EN b-day challenge, which I started writing before that challenge
appeared. So it's actually more of a companion piece. Sort-of.
Oh, just read it! And be warned, it turned out to be a weensy bit more angsty
than I was expecting. *shrug*
FEEDBACK: It's the only thing that keeps me writing, kids! :)
RATING: NC-17
CONTENT: Slash, Sex Toys, Spike-Confusion & Angst. Did I mention the
smut? ;)
DEDICATION: To Kita, as usual, 'cause it's all her fault. To Sandra D, the
creator of "Boy Meets Boy" for giggles and inspiration, to Avarice,
just 'cause she's a cutie pie (egads, did I just say that? I meant, you're
a hot, steamin' sex kitten), and lastly, but not leastly (is that a word?) to
Saber, who had me up at 3 a.m. laughing my face off while reading "Never
Send a Psychotic to Do a Lunatic's Job". My housemates hate you. ;)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Harry's AAA"
by Ducks
You absolutely cannot beat Harry's AAA Adult Entertainment for Earthbound
facsimiles of Heaven. At least, for a bloke.
Okay, at least for a bloke like *me*.
Harry, of course, would be this particular Heaven's Lord and Master. I
wonder if he was sitting about in his undoubtedly shitty apartment one night in
his grimy boxers, clutching a 40 oz. of Red Bear and gazing adoringly at his
gluttonously big porn collection, and said, "You know? Guys in LA really
don't have enough places to go and indulge their baser natures. I think
I'll build a convenience store for the unreservedly lecherous." 'Course...
he probably didn't say 'unreservedly'.
See, what Harry's created here at the corner of West Broad and Titherington is a
damn temple of everything carnal. Every possible way to get your knackers
off, all under one roof.
He's got the sex toys. And I mean *SEX* *TOYS*. Everything from
latex suits to strip board games to two-way dildos and blow-up dolls. He's
got beer and liquor--mostly the cheap stuff, like Mad Dog and the aforementioned
Red Bear, but there's a selection of scotch and wines that I think would make
even my telephone-pole-up-his-arse Sire sit up and take notice. Got penny
peep shows (even though they actually cost a buck), snacks, dirty books and
magazines... the whole kit and bloody kinky caboodle. Hell, if Harry
started stocking "Mostly Dead Humans -- Suck 'em Dry For Five
Dollars", I'd say screw Mopey-Boy, move in here, and never see the stars
again.
Been coming to old Harry's a lot,
since I moved in with me old Sire. You might not think it by looking
at him, but Angel likes his sex in a multitude of flavors, colors, textures, and
degrees of warped. So whenever I can steal his credit card without him noticing,
I pop over and buy a present for me... I mean, him... and get fresh ideas for
games and such.
Today is my birthday. Or, rather, my un-birthday, I guess. 140 years
since that fucker Angelus lured me into his damn fancy house, smooth-talked me
into letting him bugger me into the mattress, and then killed me. The
night he turned me into his little bitch.
So... I figure he owes me a prezzie.
I started my "Angel-Sponsored-Trip-To-Harry's" Campaign by getting him
to promise to take me out. Fairly simple task... just played the trusty
old guilt card. Said considering he murdered me in cold blood and turned
me into a monster and all, the least he could do was take me out for my
un-birthday.
Naturally, he scowled and brooded and apologized like he always does --which I
could give a shit about-- and then did the important thing, that I can get him
to do without fail:
He gave in and agreed. "Fine, Spike. I'll take you out for your
un-birthday."
See, Angel doesn't get the fun in celebrating the day he became a vampire.
Fucker thinks it was the worst day of his life... whereas me, I figure, I like
being an immortal demon, chip or no, and being where I am's a Hell of a lot
better than being worm food in a pauper's cemetery in Whitechapel, right?
"Anywhere?" I ask him. Gotta get it said explicitly, so there's
no backing out when he figures my plan.
That little worry line creases his supposedly ageless forehead.
"Yes... anywhere," he sighs, and I can tell he already regrets it.
I know what he's thinking -- I'm gonna drag him on a Spike-Adventure, like to
the
mall or a club. Somewhere loud and crowded that'll make him feel like a
big, dumb, socially retarded lummox with a continent-sized headache and an
incessant itch to end my existence... which, now that I think about it,
describes him to a tee anyway.
He thinks he knows me so damn well.
So I get him into the car, and we drive according to my directions. When
we pull up outside the ratty building Harry's is housed in, Angel sits there for
a long time, just staring up at the sign. By the look on his face, you'd
swear it said, "Welcome Back to Hell, Angelus. You Ain't Gettin' Out,
This Time!"
Sheer, horrified disbelief.
"This... this is..." he stutters.
"Harry's Triple A," I tell him, pointing up at the sign, "It's
even in English. Big block letters just for brainless twits like
you."
He blinks once, slow. That's how
he reacts to a lot of things I do. I'm fairly well convinced that this
sort of blinking indicates one of two things, depending on what I just said or
did. One, he really is completely
dumbfounded, and has to take a moment to let the ulcer-inducing reality set in
to his thick skull; or Two, he's repressing an Angelus impulse. Probably
to poke big holes in my torso or remove one or more of my limbs with his bare
hands.
"It's an... adult store," he observes, all disgusted, like you can buy
dead kids in there or something.
Which you can't, I swear. I'm no pervert... Okay, so... I'm no damn
pedophilic necrophile, anyway. In fact, anything less than a century is a
bit too young for me, when it comes to my lovers. 'Course, I don't usually
go for them as old and crusty as this wanker, either. But... he is my
Sire, and the best shag on the face of the planet, so I let his age slide.
"Smut emporium," I correct him, and jump out of the car. I've
already got my hand on the front door before I realize he's not behind me.
In fact, he's still in the exact same position, with the exact same expression
on his face.
"Come on, tosser! You promised!" I whine, like a kid going to Chuck E.
Cheese's, but mum won't give him any quarters.
I can see his big monobrow scrunching from here.
"I'm not going in there," he mutters under his non-breath.
Naturally, I'm a predator, so I can hear him.
"You mean to tell me, 150 years of eating raw baby entrails and raping
virgins, and you won't even walk into a perfectly legal and legitimate porn
store?"
His frown turns into a glare. That's his "Oh, thank you, Childe, for
reminding me of all my millions of mortal sins that I how have to spend eternity
atoning for, in order to forward your personal agenda" look.
Like I give a shit. I never told him he had to feel guilty for doing what
comes naturally.
He's still not getting out, though. Guess it's time for Plan B.
"And speaking of rape and
horrible murder... There once was a handsome young devil named William..."
I say... loudly.
Oh, shit. He's out of the car and has his hand clamped over my mouth in
less than a heartbeat.
"Spike!" he hisses, "Is it *really* necessary to regale the
general public with tales of your grisly death? If so... I'd be more than happy
to re-enact it with you. Right here. Right now."
He thinks he's so damn witty.
"Gotcha over here, didn't I?" I mumble into his big meat flank hand.
And... there's the murderous scowl again. My most reverend sire is nothing
if not completely predictable.
"Let's just get this over with," he grumbles, and jerks the door open
for me.
I dance through with a grin, and I swear I hear a choir of Angels singing as I
enter. Angels who sing a whole Hell of a lot better than the big lump of
brooding suicidal depression behind me. He's slouching harder than usual,
like he's trying to disappear before he sees anybody he knows.
Which is more likely than you might imagine. I've seen Weasley here.
Twice. Wanker buys his edible undies by the case.
Ah... Heaven, how I've missed you since Tuesday. It's Spike's bloody
Paradise, my bloody un-birthday, and my Plonker Sire's got a Gold Card in his
pocket just itching for me to give it a good pounding.
Angel hangs back with this pained look, like we're in Cross-O-Rama or something.
He's a funny old bird, this one. I can't believe he's so uncomfortable
about a simple smut shop!
"Hey, Spike! How's it hanging?" Harry calls from behind the
caged checkout counter.
I raise a hand to God in greeting. "Two feet to the left, Harry!
How's Maurice?"
"Fat and ugly. We got the new Sandy Sands video in yesterday.
Tres juicy, my brother. Girl on girl action like you wouldn't believe in
this one!"
I grin. "That's what I like
to hear, my friend."
Angel leans in close to me. "You're on a first name basis with the
filth peddler?"
I shoot him a look. Wow. Even I didn't think he was *that* much of a
snobby damn prude.
"And you're surprised by this?" I ask him, then make a beeline for the
new release videos.
He shuffles along behind me, not letting his eyes move from the floor.
Fine. Let him pretend to be all pure and innocent altar boy in public.
I know for a *fact* that the stuff I plan on getting's gonna make him one happy
little superhero when we get home.
"Come on," I say, giving him a little shove, "You used to love
porn. Hell -- time was you could have made some nasty stuff yourself, if
they'd had cameras back then."
He gives me his 'I have the patience of a saint not to dust you, whelp' look.
"I also used to enjoy beating you within an inch of your endless life with
a cat-o-nine-tails, if you remember correctly," he reminds me.
Touché. I shrug and turn back to the shelf, perusing all the yummies that
came in since I was here earlier in the week.
Harry is the master of obscenity. He's got it all -- fat chicks, chicks on
chicks, guys with enormous dicks, guys with enormous dicks on guys who look like
chicks, cheerleaders on cheerleaders (a personal favorite)... Hell, he's got
everything except vampire porn in here. And yes, there is such a thing...
and a market for it. But... I get plenty of demon raunch at the old
Hyperion, so I don't mind that particular omission so much.
I pick up a new flick with an colossally endowed, brooding bugger with dark hair
and Cro-Magnon forehead spanking his monster wank on the cover.
"Hey, Angelus! You got a side gig
you didn't tell me about?" I holler, holding it up.
Swear to God, he ducks behind the shelves and scoots away like he doesn't even
know me. I laugh and crouch down, hunting him like I'm about to make him
dinner... which I'm sure I will, later. When I catch up with him,
he's upright again, staring at a shelf in front of him. I peek around the
Hot Lube endcap--grabbing a bottle of Spicy Cinnamon as I do--and check out what
he's staring so hard at.
Fuck dolls.
I bust out laughing, totally ruining the element of surprise.
"I knew you were there," he mutters, shootin' me a glare out of the
corner of his eye.
Still laughing, I park it beside him, and nod to a box with a cute little blonde
doll in it.
"Missin' Slutty?" I ask...
And run. I always get a good cuffing when I bring up She Who Shall Not Be
Named.
He's behind me for a moment, but then he stops. I turn back and find him
looking-- with real interest, this time-- at a bunch of turning racks.
Bondage toys. Big fucking
surprise, there.
"Need me to explain anything to ya?" I ask him.
Angel pulls something off the rack and turns to look at me, now wearing this
nasty smirk that brings to mind long, lazy nights of branding irons, whips,
chains, blood and screaming.
"Boy... I know more about this stuff than you've even *dreamed* of.
Now go away while I pick out a suitable present for you."
Ouch. I stare at him. First off, he looks damn happy, which almost
always means I'm gonna get my ass creamed -- probably literally. Second,
he's not the least bit shy or embarrassed anymore. Ain't it poetic that
it's S&M toys that bring him out of his shell?
"You're gonna get me bondage crap for my un-birthday? That's real
romantic. Doncha think I got enough of that when you were whelping me?"
He doesn't answer.
"Liked the fuck-doll idea better," I go on, "'Course, we could
just invite Legs to join in... or... hey, what about Wussley? He's skinny like a
bird..."
Angel's still fingering the mild torture implements lovingly, and doesn't even
give me a glance. "I told you, you're not having sex with my friends.
Ever. Now go away."
Oh well. I sigh. Poor bastard's gotta get his jollies somehow, I
guess. I sod off to take a look at the butt plugs. Never tried one
of those, believe it or not. Bet Peaches would fucking love them, the fag.
I take my time, finish up my choices, and make tracks to the checkout. Fuzzy's
already there, lurking like a big rain cloud over the impulse buy crap, holding
a really big paper bag.
Hm.
I spill my stuff on the counter, and Angel gets his 'Jesus Christ, my wallet
hurts' expression.
I gotta admit, it's a record-breaking grab, even for me. Four videos, six
magazines (including "Big Bazzooms" a really raunchy UK import you
can't get anywhere but Harry's), a set of edible body paints, four bottles of
Hot Lube (Cinnamon, cherry, grape, and Froofy-Boy's favorite, Pina Colada), a
sizzlin' Sandy Sands poster, a set of fuzzy handcuffs, and one of those
honeymooner kits got a little of everything in it, including feathers and a
little tiny vibrator. Plus a case of Guinness, two bags of Cheetos, and an
institutional sized box of Twinkies. I fucking love Twinkies.
Even Harry looks impressed. "Wow, Spike. Nice pull this
week."
I grin at him. "'Smy birthday."
"Oh yeah? Hey! Happy birthday, buddy!" He throws one of those giveaway
flavored condoms into the pile, then looks at Angel, "I take it you're the
Sugar Daddy."
Angel clutches his big bag-o-kink with one hand, and reaches for his wallet with
the other, grumbling something only I can make out about how he'll show me Sugar
Daddy, when we get home, and asking himself why didn't he just drain me dry and
dump me in the alley like he usually did, "damn Irish Whiskey," and
slaps the old Visa on the counter.
'S all I can do not to jump up and down. Let 'im grumble. He's still
payin' for all my crap, and now we get to go home and celebrate.
Happy un-birthday to meeee...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's late when we get back to the
hotel -- close to ten, in fact. But the damn Superfriends are still hard
at work. Booby-Girl's all hunched over her little computer that looks like
a danish, and Squealy's reading some dusty old dictionary-sized beast of a book
like it's the latest Grisham best seller.
I trot right over to the counter. "Sod-off, losers."
They both look up, startled for a moment, but then give me matching, 'Oh, yay,
it's Spike' looks. Bet they wouldn't look at me like that if I played out
one of my 'Chain Up the Gang and Generate Some Real Team Spirit' fantasies with
'em.
Angel walks up behind me and clamps a big meat-vice hand on the back of my neck.
"Why don't you guys take the rest of the night off?" he translates.
That's what I just effin' said! Of course, hearing it from 'I've got a lot
to atone for, and never take a damn second off' nearly gives them a heart
attack.
"What? Why?" Cordelia yelps, but you better believe she's up outta the
chair and getting her sweater on as she yelps it.
"Got things to do," I explain, "It's my un-birthday. And
thanks for the present."
She sneers at me. "Whatever. No, really, Angel, what's
up?"
He squeezes my neck harder, a clear,
'shut up, boy' signal. He's being even rougher than usual, which gets me
to wondering what he's got in that damn bag.
"Spike and I would like to spend some time alone, and I think that you two
deserve a nice evening. Take some money from the drawer. Do
something fun. On me."
I resist the urge to share one of the 6000 snappy one-liners that pop into my
head at that one.
Wesley gives us a knowing little grin. Wonder what flavor his edible
undies are today. "That's very generous, Angel. Thank
you."
My Sire smiles, all benevolent-like. If only they knew. "My pleasure.
You guys work hard."
Cordelia eyes our bags suspiciously. "You went shopping?"
That would be my cue to gross her out before Angel gets a chance to excuse them
as, "Groceries." I yank out "Hard and Horny, the Movie, Part
XI" and flash it at her. "Harry's Triple A. Ever
been?" I direct the last at Weasley, who blushes a really interesting shade
of maroon.
"OH MY GOD YOU GUYS ARE SO *SICK*!" Cordelia cries, "I can't
BELIEVE I not only work for a *vampire*, but a gay PERVERT vampire!" She
stomps out, muttering "only in LA" as she does.
Have a nice night, Miss SunnyHole. Hope you get eaten by Marrow-sucking
demons.
Wussley comes around the counter, pulling on his coat. "Well.
Happy, er...un-birthday, Spike. Enjoy your evening," he says, and
follows her.
"Fuck you, too, Pussley!" I shout after him.
The hand on my neck squeezes even harder.
"Ow, ya wank! That hurts!" I bark at him.
His cool breath tickles the little hairs on the edge of my ear.
"Time to open your presents,
boy..." he purrs, and starts pushing me toward the stairs.
Damn if I'm not instantly rock hard. Happy effin' un-birthday, to me, baby! Oh
yes, it's a damn good thing to be William the Bloody. Whoo hoo!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So... the first thing he does when we
get to the bedroom is handcuff and blindfold me. This in itself is a damn
good sign.
Now... if you're a vampire, getting blindfolded's like having somebody turn the
world up to 20 -- already sharp sounds get skull-ringing loud, and you can smell
a paper cut on a guy two blocks off. Needless to say, this particular
honing of my hunter's senses is enough to make me come right on the spot.
"Oversensitive" don't even begin to cover it.
But sensory deprivation has its downside, too. I'm highly damn visual, and
not being able to see what the fuck's going on as I listen to him shuffling
around the room makes me want to rip his Jose Eber head off. I hear
rustling and clicking, rattling and paper tearing, and GODDAMN IT I CAN'T FIGURE
OUT WHAT THE HELL IT ALL MEANS!
Of course, Angel knows this about me, and since this is *my* night, the annoying
waiting doesn't last all that long. After a couple of minutes, him and his
Ivory clean scent come wandering back over and stand in front of me, taking some
time to kiss me, all soft-like... tracing my lips with his cool tongue before
slipping it inside and tangling his big hands in my hair.
Him smooching my face off is just... damn erotic. Part of what I like
about this particular incarnation of my relationship with my Sire is how
completely different it is than that last one. I mean, yeah, he's still
the
Master and I'm still the Childe, but... it's not always about domination
anymore, you know? Sometimes, it's just about two horny guys can't keep
their hands off each other.
That's o-kay by me.
Another plus -- most nights, I can actually *walk* after sex, which is another
nice change. I've gotten to kind of like my Sire this way, all gentle and
giving and whatnot. But never scrimping on the bloodplay
and violence, when the mood calls for it.
So as he's kissing me, he starts getting me naked. That's slow, too... he
takes his sweet time to make sure he caresses or nibbles every square inch of
skin that he bares, from shoulders to toes (which he sucks -- GAH!). Damn it,
Angel's nothing if he ain't the best damn lover walking the Earth, and I've had
a few. My cock's fit to burst by the time he's done stripping me, but
that's the one zone left he hasn't thoroughly devoured with either his hands or
mouth. Or both.
Did I mention Angel's also a maestro cock tease? Got me all whimperin' and
beggin' like a biddy baby, he does. Then he takes me by the arm and leads
me across the room over to what I assume's the bed, and stands me still again.
"Don't move until I tell you," he commands, his voice only half-human
and sort of grumbly. Tells me he's enjoying this as much as I am...which is a
whole damn lot.
Then with the noises again. Clink, rustle-rustle, clink. I can't
take much more of this!
He undoes the handcuffs, but whacks my hand with something... a belt, maybe?...
when I reach for him.
"Not yet. Patience, boy," he says, all soft-like. And I'll
tell you what -- I don't care what else happens. I'm screwing the Hell
outta him before we're through!
Then I hear the bed creak... his weight settling down on it, I guess. Another
click. Then two more. And a last.
Oh... boy.
"Okay. Take the blindfold off," he orders me.
I've ripped the damn thing from my face before the last word's even out of his
mouth, and...
Holy... Mother of Christ on a Ritz. I swear, I almost fall over.
Fucker's chained himself to the bed!
No shit! And laid out all nice as you please on the nightstand, a
beautiful S&M starter kit -- whip, scourge, belt, feather, ball-gag, and
every other nasty little accouterment a beginning Dom needs. I'm thinking
the Marquis himself never had such a nice set up.
And, you'd think I'd be diving for the chance to flail the bastard ragged,
wouldn't you? Hell, he spent the first thirty years of my life making me
scream, tying me down, laughing at me while I bled in this very position. Power
was the name of the game for Angelus, and he made it damn clear every bloody
opportunity he got to demonstrate -- he had it all, and I had shit.
Now look at him! And I mean... Look. At. Him. 225,
chisel-cut pounds of flawless, creamy Masterflesh all spread eagled like a damn
helpless smorgasbord, chained up good and tight, and giving his boy permission
to use him as he sees fit, all with a cheerful smile.
So what do I do? Stand there and fucking gape at him like a moron, that's
what. His smile fades a bit.
"Something wrong?" he asks, looking a little worried.
Something WRONG? Fucker turns the world upside down, and wants to know if
something's WRONG? Fuck yes! And... Fuck no. This little scene is totally
confusing, which is why I'm standing here pissing myself (not literally) instead
of jumping all over his ass.
"What the Hell's this all about, then?" I yip like a little puppy.
I mean, yeah, I'm evil, and this is the chance of a damn eternal lifetime,
but... Hell, I don't know what to do! We've been living like human lovers for so
long, seeing him laying there, waiting for me to beat him is just... twisted.
"It's your deathday. I thought you might..." He shrugs as he
trails off, making the chains rattle a little, "Take some... revenge."
Well, FUCK ME! Goddamn martyr bastard! This is supposed to be a damn
celebration, not a public flogging for his crimes!
Yeah, I'm upset! And you better bloody well believe I'm upset that I'm
upset! I *want* to beat the Hell out of him, most days. And yeah,
maybe he does deserve it. But him... *offering* himself up for a licking?
Defeats the whole purpose, if you ask me! What the Hell fun is that?
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me!" I screech at him, "What the
fuck is this supposed to be? Bloody PENANCE? Fuck you, Saint Angel! You're
not using my damn un-birthday to ease your damn guilt, you bastard!"
He flinches like I hit him, and before I know it, my hard-on's history, and I'm
right on the edge of blubbering like a little girl. Angel immediately gets
Guilty Face, and I can see that he wants to grab me and hold me or something,
but... he is chained to the bed, so at least I'm spared that indignity.
"Will... I'm sorry. I didn't... I just... I thought you'd enjoy
it."
Sometimes I wonder who's really the brains in this outfit. Popular opinion
says it's him, what... because he reads all the damn time and can quote poetry?
Big effin' whoop. Popular opinion obviously never spent a whole lot of
time with him, 'cause the fucker's got the common sense of a big pile of rocks.
"Well... yeah! I mean... I might, if you didn't..." I wave my hand up
and down his prone form. "If you weren't..."
Weren't what, Willie boy? I can't explain why I'm so pissed. I mean...
he's chained to the bed. So what? Doesn't mean I *have* to beat him,
does it? There's lots of things I could be doing right now besides throwing a
hissy fit that I don't even know the reason for.
All of sudden, standing there, looking down at him and his hang-dog look, I get
this rush of something going through me. It's not anger so much anymore...
definitely not violence. Not even lust, I don't think, even though he's
too bloody beautiful to look at. And now this happy little sex game's
turned into something else altogether.
I'm in love with the bastard.
That's no secret, I guess. Three years, we've been living together, and
this is the first time the thought's popped so clearly into my head like that.
I love Angel. I love his stupid faggy
hair, and his stupid designer clothes, and his damn Holy Mission or whatever,
and his unending guilt and his idiot damn smile, and I love and hate all at once
what he's trying to give me for my un-birthday.
I remember the night I died with a lot of damn pleasure, thank you very much.
One of my very favorite memories, in fact. And Angelus didn't do a damn
thing with whips or chains or anything else but his mouth, his body, and his
bare hands, that night. In fact, he was downright gentle, and licked and
sucked and fucked me right into peals of whimpering bliss before he drank the
miserable life out of me. Not the worst way to go, I tell you. And I
wouldn't trade my horrible death, or all the years we spent together after, for
fuck-all.
And now he wants me to *punish* him for it. You're damn right, it pisses
me off, because it reminds me that if he had it to do over again (and had his
poncy damn soul), I wouldn't be standing here right now. It reminds me
that he regrets I exist.
But then... on the other hand, it tells me something else, too, I guess.
Something I'm a lot more interested in knowing. Tells me that Angel cares
about me, no matter how much he bitches and whines about my behavior, my
attitude, my mouth, my hygiene, my drinking, my housecleaning skills (or lack
thereof), and pretty much everything else. It tells me that he cares about
me enough to set his own damn precious pride aside and give me a chance to
express to him how I *really* feel about his gift of eternal life.
He wants me to tell him how I feel about him being my Sire.
Bugger just doesn't know how to ask... or maybe doesn't know he wants to know.
Which reminds me that his Sire fucked up his head as bad as he did mine.
Maybe he'd beat the shit out of Darla if he was standing where I am, and it was
her chained to the bed. But I ain't him. And I don't regret a damn
moment of being a vampire. This pathetic bastard gave me that.
And...as far as Sire's go, he isn't so bad, I guess.
But I'm not gonna tell him that. I'm not the romantic idiot in this pair.
William the Damn Bloody is a demon of Action. He didn't ask with words, so
I'm sure as Hell not gonna answer him that way.
I kneel down on the bed beside him, and let my eyes wander from his chained
feet, up over his perfectly sculptured legs, to his still semi-hard cock
(apparently, me pitching a fit isn't enough to overcome his lust for getting
chained up), over that six-pack stomach, the bulging pecs, Mack truck shoulders,
corded neck, and finally coming to rest on that gawd-awfully magnificent fucking
angel's face. His eyes are all watery and soulful (when aren't they?
I mean... when we're not ruttin' like dogs, that is...), full of all kinds of
therapy-ratin' stuff... hurt and love, confusion and lust. Poor bastard don't
know what he's doing any better than I do.
No. You know what? Scratch that last bit. And sod this
"Dawson's Creek meets Dark Shadows" storyline crap. I know
exactly what the fuck I'm doing.
I'm about to shag the Hell out of the hottest damn... *anything* on the face of
the planet! And I mean... NOW.
He wants torture, right? And I gotta get him out of brooding mode, first.
Don't worry. It's not as hard as it sounds. Believe it or not,
Angelus ain't near as gloom and doom as he likes to act.
"Not much in the mood for whips and such, mate..." I tell him,
reaching for the blindfold from where I dropped it on the floor.
He starts a little, like he wasn't
expecting me to say that... which I'm fairly sure he wasn't.
"Spike... you can undo the manacles, if you want," he tells me.
I grin at him. "Didn't say I wasn't in the mood for bondage, did
I?" I hold the blindfold up and dangle it over his head.
His face freezes for a second, like all ten of his trademark expressions are battling over which one's gonna surface.
Then... he smiles. My friends,
that bloody smile is more than enough to make my dead heart wrench tight and my
wank jump right back to attention -- and this, I think, rates a reward. So
I tie the blindfold on
him and swing a leg over his hips. Slide my whole body down his...slow and
easy, so we both get plenty of that sweet friction all over. And I
immediately get my reward -- a hiss of pure pleasure from him.
Love that damn sound, I do. Dream about it sometimes. Get to feeling
like a bloody idiot, too, when Wussley's brewing tea or something, and the
kettle starts to steam, and I get an instant damn hard-on from the noise callin'
to mind the one Angelus just made.
Fuck me... I've never been hot for another creature like I am for my Sire. It's
way too easy to forget everything else as I set to devouring that luscious damn
body. Which, in this case, is a good thing.
The skin in the hollows of his hipbones is cool and soft like silk stretched
over bone, and tastes sort of salty sweet as I lick him like a damn flesh
lollipop. Every inch of him is hard as bloody stone, especially his cock.
Not that I've had a whole lot of blokes naked like this, mind you, but I've seen
a few. I'll tell you, Angel might be cursed in a lot of other ways, but
one of 'em ain't what he's got goin' on below the belt. Wanks' straight as
a damn arrow, huge and perfectly proportioned from head to root, foreskin a
flawless, ruddy deep peach color, and I swear, he must spend an hour scrubbing
the damn thing every day, because when I slide that baby down my throat, he
tastes so spring fucking fresh, it's like the bloody monster's brand new.
I discover pretty quick that I like him helpless. I'm sorry we've been
shagging as long as we have without trussing the bugger up! As I suck him
deep and slow, givin' him my trademark long tongue trails on the underside, he
groans and arches his hips up into my mouth. His body's so damn tight, I
think he's prob'ly gonna explode in a minute, and he's twitching all over,
fighting against the chains, he wants to touch me so bad. Angel likes to
tangle his fingers up in my hair when I blow him... pretty much fucking my face
raw, and the fact that *I'm* in bloody control -- control *he* gave me, thank
you very much -- is driving him right up the damn wall.
Power is one sweet aphrodisiac.
No wonder my Sire's always been so damn cranked for it.
I take my time, now. Never quite increase the pace or pressure of the blow
enough to send him over, and he starts giving off his little 'shit, I'm gonna
lose it' grunting sounds, so I slow down even more. But I snake a hand
under him and start caressing his balls softly, ticking the skin with one
finger, and you know... I could conduct a damn symphony with his body and the
damn sex noises he makes. A soft squeeze gets me an "Ahhhh... yessss!"
A little rolling of the nuts ellicits an "Mmmmmm... ohhhhh...' and
shortening the strokes of my mouth to hard little sucks over his bulging head
rates a, "Jesus, Spike!"
My favorite part, of course, is the crescendo. When Angel comes, he either
screams at the top of his lungs like somebody's torturing him, howls like an
enraged animal, or lets out a string of curse words mixed up with some variation
of my name... a stream of climatic filth fit to make the gruffest old sailor
blush.
But this is *my* un-birthday. And it *is* torture, so when I feel his cock
start that pulsing sort of jerk that says he's about to come, and his hips pump
up spasmodically into my face...
I stop and pull away.
"Nooooo... Please, Spike. Please. Don't stop.
Don't..."
I grin to myself. Now *that's* a nice fucking song.
Now, I'm not usually much known for my patience. And frankly, getting my
Sire into this sort of frenzied state has my damn grunties in an ache and twitch
all their own. I need to get things speedin' along, here. I lean
over the edge of the bed and feel around inside my Harry's bag, pulling out the
first plastic bottle I lay hands on.
Grape. My favorite.
I squeeze some of the Hot Lube out on my hands and rub them together until
they're good and hot, then slowly slip a finger between his tight cheeks,
sliding the single digit up and down until his crack is warm and slick.
Which particular action gets me a,
"Ohhhh... my... Gaaaaaaaaaahd...."
Like that one, too. Regular dirty noise makin' machine, is my Sire.
He's one sexy, sexy bastard, and him not getting any but his right hand for how
many damn years? Fucker's lucky he didn't pop, libido like his. Even
bloody luckier that I came along to help him out with that.
So I rim his puckered hole softly with tiny circles that I know drive him
nutters by the little whimpering noises he makes... and his cock's doing a
pretty damn fancy dance, jerking like it is. Bet Angel's Johnson would be
begging me too, right now, if it had a voice.
More little fingertip circles around his anus. The muscles of his arse
clench and relax, almost shuddering under my touch, like they're trying to force
me inside or something.
"Whatsamatter, Sire?" I purr at him.
"Please, Spike... please,"
he moans.
Yeah, that's right. *Beg me.*
"Please what?" I edge just the tip of my finger into that vice
grip ring of muscle, and he gasps, throwing his head back.
"Yes. That. More."
I slide the finger in up to the second knuckle... and wiggle it.
"More of this?"
"GOD, YES!"
He's being a good boy, what with all the begging, so I give him a little
positive reinforcement by sliding that finger all the way in, making sure to get
his prostrate as I stroke in and out a couple of times.
Damn yummy, Angel's arse.
Now he's just sort of rumbling and purring and making little baby grunty
whimpers, not really forming words at all anymore.
I like the words, myself. So I
stop.
"Spiiiiiiike..." he whines desperately.
E-fucking-gads, that whine... if we were anywhere else but in bed, I'd prob'ly
rip his froofy head off for it. But here... here's it's just like more
erotic damn music.
"Yes, Sire?"
You know, a cock ring would be handy right about now. Too bad neither of
us thought to grab one. I don't see how he's gonna last much longer.
Now that I think about it... I might
need one, too.
"I want you," he gasps, "Inside me. Please."
Oh, boy. Yeah, I want inside him, too. But I hold back... he wanted
me to punish him, right? And this kind of punishment, I can handle.
I'm not too damn shabby at torture, I'll have you know. Angelus got the
rep for it, what with all the slow eviscerations and eating entire villages and
such, but you better believe old Will's got 'frustrate 'em till they bust' down
to a fine art.
"Now?" I ask him, and try not to chuckle at the frustrated moan
that explodes from his chest.
"NOW, BOY! NOW!" he barks, trying to be all Master-like. Which
is pretty damn funny, considering I got him trussed up like a prize pig,
blindfolded, and he couldn't even master his own dick right this particular
second.
"Hm. You know, Peaches, I didn't hear any magic words, that
time."
His dark scowl is usually a fairly frightening thing to see. But... the
blindfold sort of ruins the effect. Even with the growling.
"Please," he hisses between clenched teeth, "Please!"
'Course, while I'm making him beg, I'm already lubing up me old Little Willie,
because although I really like drivin' him batshit, I'm done torturing *me*.
I take my cock in a nice, firm grip, and start makin' me
into a Spike-Pop with a few nice...oh, yeah... long... strokes. Then I
crawl up his bulk again and dangle my meat over his face.
You know, I wonder if he'd bite it off if I called him boy and ordered him to
suck it. Might be fun... not the biting, the ordering. Anyway, I'm
not chancing it, so instead I just prod softly at his lips with my head, and let
out my own moany-growl as he opens that big, overworked gob and sucks me in.
GOOD GODS his mouth is fucking
amazing! He seals his lips tight around my girth, and does little tongue
lashes all around, lapping off the grape goop as I thrust into his face.
My Sire could made a damn fortune giving head, if it wasn't for all that
superhero nonsense. And the Catholic thing prob'ly doesn't help.
Three or four good Hoover Maneuvers, and I'm seeing stars.
Part of me hates to end this particular part of the adventure, but my balls are
pulled tight like a damn rubber band, and it's not his mouth I want to blow my
wad into. So I pull out of his lips, slide back down, and position myself
between his spread legs. Reach for the Hot Lube again and slick my dingle
up nice... he's not getting any more prep than that. If he ain't relaxed
by now, he ain't gonna be. I slide my hands up under that meaty arse of
his, and pull his hips up off the bed. Take a nice aim with my head
against his entrance, and slam home with one good, long, deep,
ohholyfuckingjesusbloodyshithesgoddamntight, thrust.
Angel cries out and arches right into it as I start a nice, steady rhythm,
stroking straight into the depths of his *unholy delicious* ass. I keep a
hand gripped on one of his hips for purchase, and with the other, take hold of
his straining wank, jerking him fast and firm in my still-lubed grip.
I wish we had a camera... one of those digital things with a timer... because
I'd damn well bet that this little scene looks as fucking amazing as it feels.
My indomitable Master all helpless and wailing like a damn
banshee while me, the "submissive" Childe bangs hard into his arse,
jerking him off, and him now whimpering and crying out and chanting my name like
I'm gonna bestow him with gifts or something.
Which, of course, I am.
Ah, fuck me, he's so good. So... ohchrist good. I get down on my
hands and knees (God bless the misposish!), and claim his mouth as I hammer him,
his cock now pressed tight between our stomachs.
Angel pulls away from my mouth, and his face contorts like he's in absolute
agony... bites clear through his lip, and... jesusgods, he's so fucking
beautiful! I slam into him, and his big, sumptuous body goes totally taut,
bowing and arching up off the mattress, and he starts screaming, ramming his
hips up into me, and sod-all, that's game, set and match for old Will, kids. I
start pounding, jerking and pulsing in his tight passage, feel his cum spurt,
slicking the skin of our abrading mid-sections, and I start hollering
*his* name as I shoot deep inside him.
Sigh. Happy bloody un-freakin'-birthday, Will.
I don't pull out right off, but lie down on top of his enormous bulk, instead.
I'd sorta go for him puttin' his arms around me right now... post-coital bliss
and all, but... bugger's still bound tight. I just lie there, and we both
pant, struggling to regain breath we don't really need in the first place.
Finally, I tug off the blindfold so I can see what's going on in those Hershey
Bar eyes. They're still smoldering, which makes me think that maybe the
birthday fun's not quite over yet.
"Spike..." he says softly.
Oh, fuck-all, if he starts with the fluffy-mushy crap, I really *will* beat him.
"Yeah?" I nuzzle his neck. He nips my ear. All comfy-cozy,
us... 'cept for him still being chained to the damn bed.
"I am glad, you know. I may not always show it, but... I'm glad
I made you... and that you're here. You brighten up my..."
I slap my hand over his mouth before he can go any further and I'm forced to
puke. "That's enough. I shag you into bliss and keep you from
turnin' into a psycho loony, and you like that. Got it."
With my hand over his gob, all I can see is his eyes smiling. It's enough,
though. His kind-of apology gets my groin showing interest in the
situation again.
I let go of his face.
"Happy un-birthday, Spike," he whispers with a little Angel-half-grin.
I feel his rod start stirrin' against my belly, and grin back at him.
"Thanks for killing me, ya bastard," I say, and kiss him.
God bless Harry's Triple A.
~FINIS~
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