Back in Your Bed
Show: Angel, Buffy
Characters: Angelus, Spike
Pairing: Angelus/Spike, Angelus/Wesley
Summary: Two hot vampires meet at a bar and do it on the hood of a car. Like a joke, except not.
“I can’t use what I can’t abuse
And I can’t stop when it comes to you.” –Garbage, Vow
There’s a joke about all good cliches coming true. Or maybe it’s just a cliche. All you know is, it never rains but it pours. Which means in reality, on the same night you go to drink off a large portion of dechipped Buffy lust, Angelus walks into a bar–and the rest of the joke writes itself.
“Spike,” Angelus rumbles, his not-breath hot against your neck. So all the rumors you’ve been hearing are true. The good ol’ Scourge of Europe has cast off his Angel-coat and is making hell on earth for a lark. “How’s my favorite nancy-book-boy?”
He puts his arm across your shoulders, and it is not a friendly gesture. You snort (as IF, the Little Bit would scoff) and carefully get yourself right away from him.
“Giles is busy training a pack of wannabe-Slayers to fight the First, though I’m sure he’d spare five minutes to set them on you,” you bluster. “What about your lot? Last I heard, you had yourself a lad to bend over the counter and–”
Angelus laughs at the jest, and the glint in his eye is undeniably triumphant. Sod it, then, there’s already been a good deal of counter-bending in the old town tonight if you’re any judge of Angelus, and you fancy you are.
“Ah, Wes,” he says, the tip of his tongue flickering over the fullest part of his lower lip. Once upon a time, you would have bitten right through it, tasted the blood as it welled up into both of your mouths, but that’s long past. Now you’re more of a mind to cold-cock this blustering twat and tell the Slayer that he’s loose. “Wes was so very sweet. Struggled like a nun at first, but it’s like you do with puppies. Just grab ’em by the back of the neck and they go limp.”
The smirk in his eyes is very telling. “So he’s dead, then?”
“Not yet,” Angelus replies, and your eyes can’t help but to trace him over and over, each limb and muscle distinct. Your brain helpfully makes sure he’s naked so you can do it properly. “He’s not doing so great, but after I get what I came here for, I’ll have plenty of time to finish breaking Wes in. Maybe I’ll even find that bitch he’s been banging to help him feel better. Now that’s a piece of ass. Legs up to her neck. Nice neck, too. Someone’s always trying to break it.”
“Real soddin’ clever,” you mutter, not sure if you’re jealous or nauseous. “Go ahead and kill the nice lady and the book boy, and when they slam that soul back into you, I’m sure it’ll be extra fun. Now, if you’ll bugger off–”
You didn’t really expect to get off scot-free, but it’s surprising just how fast the old man can still move.
“Spike,” Angelus warns, blocking you with one arm. He’s gained some weight, the tosser. Looks good on him, too, and he’s really lost none of the agility that made him so lethal in the first place. He could break you in two and not even pause. “What’s your rush? We’re such good mates, you and me. You can surely stay for one drink.”
His eyes are holding you to your stool almost as surely as his hand (the very warm one suddenly on your shoulder, and Christ, but Angelus must have had a few before coming into the bar) is. You glower at him, but it’s Angelus. He’s hypnotic. And you’re unchipped and ensouled and bleedin’ frustrated by all the tender young girl blood that flounces past you every morning, noon, and night, laughing behind your back–
oh, him? that’s spike. he’s harmless. i think he might have had a thing with buffy but he’s good now, look at this i might have a callus from training, do you want to go again?
Perhaps you might even be feeling a little overwrought. That must be why you’re looking at Angelus sneering at you and feeling the blood rush out of your brain and straight toward your cock. He’s barely even touched you. Bastard.
“I’m sure I could,” you tell your beer. “I’ll have to tell Buffy you’re here, you know.”
Angelus chuckles–he’s such a merry soul, is Angelus, always with a song in his heart and a laugh that could cut steel–and sits down next to you, making sure to brush against your back just a little bit.
“Hey, bartender!” he shouts raucously. “Get me and my friend here another. Whatever he’s having.”
The bartender scowls, but he wipes out a glass for Angelus anyway. Angelus, on the other hand, is barely paying attention to the beer, because he’s all smiles and accidental bumps for you.
“You heard me, didn’t you?” you say a little more clearly. “The Slayer’s going to know about this.”
“Spike, Spike, Spike,” Angelus taunts, accepting the glass from the bartender and taking a long drink. “By the time Buffy hears about this, I’ll be back in LA, drinking the nice warm blood of my Englishman. I always liked the English. They taste good. Refined. And Wes is a real blue-blood. He bruises real pretty–and once you get him going, those hips of his–mmm. I really have to find that girl. It’ll be a present for him. Me and Wes, we’ll eat her together. She’s got the thighs for it–”
“Are you gonna brag all night, or are you gonna finish your beer?” you snap. He’s always the same. Angel or Angelus, it doesn’t matter. He never bloody changes. “Bugger off, Angelus, I don’t need to hear about what new perversions you’ve discovered in the big city. They’re all the same anyway.”
He’s got his hand on your thigh. In the middle of your regular demon bar haunt, Angelus has got his hand on your thigh and he’s going to slide it up anytime now. Fucker. He knows that everyone’s watching, and he’s still resting his hand mere inches from your cock, pulling at the material of your jeans familiarly while he tells you all about his new English boy (and you hear the subtext: not you, Slayer’s pet) to fuck and suck.
Ah, well. Not like you came for the company anyhow.
“Oh, Spike,” he says, and you can hear his tongue moving, clicking against the back of his teeth when he overemphasizes the k. For some reason, you cannot stop focusing on his tongue. Clicking. Ready to slide out of his mouth and into yours like a wild animal. “What’s wrong? Is it your soul? I bet you thought it was gonna get you a nice, warm lapful of Slayer, didn’t you? And instead you found out what I always knew.”
You are going to hit him. And soon.
“What’s that, mate?” you ask, trying to drip even more sarcasm than he is. “That the Slayer can bust your balls without breakin’ a nail? Not that there’s much to bust in your case–”
Angelus doesn’t blink. Instead, his lips are insinuating themselves against your earlobe, wet and harsh.
“It’s not how much she can bust,” he whispers, his hand so close to your cock that you could grind against it if you were so inclined. “It’s how hard you get. And that soul makes it soft. Soft like dear, sweet Wes.”
Sweet Wes must be quite the lay, given the amount of attention Angelus pays to him. He’s even outshone the Slayer in Angelus’ litany of gross taunts. For a moment, you’re curious, but you know that’s what Angelus wants, and you push it away.
“Stop throwing your new girlfriend in my face, Angelus,” you say, remaining calm. “It must do your head in, wanting me to hate that English boy of yours, all the while knowing that I’ve had the Slayer more times than you could ever imagine. Heard her call my name while she was flexed around my cock. Had her so many ways that you’d trade it all for just one night. But if you’re happy with your new boy, be my guest.”
“Is that supposed to make me mad?” Angelus asks coolly. The pressure of his hand gripping your leg belies his attitude. You managed to hit him right where it hurt. “Well. Maybe just a little. It’s okay, Spike. I’ll take it out of you later.”
He’s definitely picked up a new woman or two since last you saw him. The way he lilts on ‘little’? He’s gotten used to taunting someone else, and you don’t think it’s Wesley. Bird with the legs, maybe?
“How about now?” you ask, standing up. “I’m not here for the beer or the clientele. And you’re clearly here for me, mate. So why don’t we fuck off with the games and take this outside?”
Outside, under a full moon sky, where two old vamps can have at it, blows and bruises (and if one of those blows is a blow job, you’ll not say no) and blood. Just the two of you. Family, with the blood between you like a siren call. It’ll be better outside. No audience to watch.
“Suits me just fine,” Angelus says, eyes twinkling wickedly. He throws a five on the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”
You’re barely out of the bar before he throws you up against the nearest wall and crushes your mouth beneath his, pinning you with hands and hips and lips. Bloody fucking hell, Angelus is drunk on blood, mostly stupid young girl blood, but you can taste his new obsession underneath all those interchangeable pretty young things.
You can smell him, too, in Angelus’ always-perfectly-gelled hair, a faint miasma clinging to everything. And even the aftertaste is heady, magic and marmite and jealousy and English things. You think you might understand why Angelus thinks you ought to be jealous, even as you’re moaning into his mouth as his cock rubs against yours, hard as ever.
“Soft,” he goads you, his hand cupping your face. “You’re so different now, William. New all over. How long has it been?”
“Years,” you remember, thinking he means since you and him. “Decades.”
“No,” he reproves, his fingers bruises your cheeks. “Since the soul that you got for your precious Slayer.”
“Last summer,” you confess, watching his eyes for the familiar danger signs. “Heard you were a bit waterlogged at the time.”
“Saw some fish. Went crazy,” he agrees curtly, his free hand suddenly on your hip, crushing skin and muscle and bone. Bright flickers of pain are starting to light him up and you’re forced to buck against him. “Fucking soul.”
“Yeah,” you say softly. Cos what else can you say? “Fuck, Angelus. Stop it.”
“I like the way it sounds when you break,” he replies smarmily.
“Break my hip and that ends our evening,” you point out. “And I’m so looking forward to the cake and sodomy.”
Angelus laughs at that, fit to bust a gut. Then he hits you sharp across the face, a blow that makes your head ache and your vision crackle. You answer with a knee toward the bollocks, which almost connects, but Angelus is quicker. He’s out of the way before your knee reaches its target, and proceeds to drop you with a solid punch to the shortribs.
“Cake, huh?” Angelus asks, smirking. “You really have gotten domesticated, haven’t you, William? Oh, well. Guess that means I won’t have to work so hard to get in your pants.”
“I could tell you to go home and fuck your pretty boy,” you point out.
“Ah, but you’d never say no to me, would you, Spike?” Angelus asks, hauling you up by the scruff of your neck and giving you a rough kiss. “I want to fuck you, and fuck you again, until your legs give out and you’re hoarse from the screaming. I like my new toys, but you’re the original. The best.”
His tongue is in your mouth, almost as sharp as his teeth, and suddenly you resent that he thinks you’re soft because of your soul. This wanker got cursed with a soul that made him into the original Lord of the Self-Indulgent Brood. You fucking went to Africa and endured torture and rage to earn a soul. And he’s the hard one? Sod that.
You growl, biting through his lip and getting a taste of that blood after all. It tingles, making everything shimmer at the edges like one of Dru’s songs, and Angelus groans, his hand moving under your shirt. All you can think is, if Buffy saw this, you’re not sure if she’d be disgusted or if she’d want to be the middle of the sandwich. Angelus is so bloody good at licking his way down your jaw, rocking against you as his fingers pinch and tease your nipple with finesse.
“Did I strike a nerve?” Angelus says, burying his head against your neck and fuck, you want him bad. Don’t know how he does it, but feeling him rubbing against your shoulder, going game face to man and back again, the faintest tease of fang against your skin–it gets you hard. It gets you needing it so bad that you start to moan before thinking there has to be a better place for it.
“Might have,” you agree. “Bloody hell, Angelus, where’s your car? I don’t need to get nicked by Sunnydale’s finest for fucking you.”
“You have a point, Spike old boy,” Angelus says, still with his hand under your shirt and his mouth grazing your neck. “My car. I’d like to fuck you on my car. Come with me.”
You are suddenly being hauled forward, Angelus’ arm around your waist (his hand, of course, is obscenely placed on your jeans, making you even harder) and him singing off-key.
“Ohhhhhhhhh WILLIAM!” he caterwauls. “You came and you gave without taking! But I sent you AWAY, oh William! Kissed me and stopped me from shaking! And I NEED you today, oh W–esley!”
You elbow him. “Angelus. Do remember to love the one you’re with or you can find another wanker to shag on the hood of your car. Xander might go for it, if you get him really drunk and convince him it doesn’t make him gay.”
“I’d have to be pretty fucking desperate to fuck Harris,” Angelus laughs. “It’d take him a week just to learn how to give a proper blowjob.”
“I dunno. His ex was demanding. I bet you could train him fast,” you say, trying not to laugh. Angelus’ response is to rub against your pants and make your knees tremble. “Fuck!”
“Soon,” Angelus taunts, pausing just long enough to lick your neck. “There will be fucking. And sodomy. No cake, though. Will that be a problem?”
“Guh,” you manage to reply, very intelligently. “Car.”
Yes, there’s the car, the good old-fashioned penis metaphor that Angelus throws you against like a sack of potatoes. And none too soon, either.
You can’t believe how right and bloody good it feels, his hands yanking the pants off you as you scrabble up and down, trying to find a natural resting place on the hood of the car. The rough feel of his skin on your cock, the night air against your skin, the slight bite of zipper as he pulls your jeans to your knees and forces a thigh between your legs. Fucking Angelus. Turns you into a needy, squirming big girl’s blouse with every motion.
Lips against your collarbone. Hand jerking you. The low rumble in his throat that could be a laugh or a growl. The feel of his back muscles underneath his all-too-slick shirt. Hips working against your thigh, letting you know that he’s hard and he’s gonna fuck you harder. Who wouldn’t want this? The feel of his incisors near a vein, harder than his cock and almost as hot-making.
“So good–” he mutters. Not much for coital conversation, Angelus.
“Fuck, yeah,” you reply. Then again, neither are you.
“Gonna come for me,” Angelus orders, his hand trying to drag the orgasm out of you. Maybe trying to draw blood. Sometimes, there’s not much difference for the old bastard. “Come on, give it to me.”
Like it was in any doubt.
“Good boy,” he says, admiring the mess he’s made of your shirt and his car, before looking at you with a little consternation. “Is that going to ruin the paint?”
Dumb as a sack of hammers. Still. You chortle your amusement as you take the opportunity to knock him over and get on top, aware of how very much Angelus wants it.
“Fuck the paint,” you murmur, soft as you please, offering him a finger or two to suck on. It’ll shut him up for a moment or two as you finish a quick zip up. No need to be entirely obscene or unwieldy. In fact, it’s not about the obscenity. It’s that it’s too difficult to move on Angelus with your jeans bunched ’round your ankles.
And this one needs to be moved on, rubbed against, licked, gnawed on, and fuck, yes. Listening to him whimper while you rub against that rock-hard cock of his while he sucks your fingers to the knuckle’s almost enough to get you hard again, and if it happens, it happens. But first, you’re going to show him who’s hard.
Show him who knows how to push all the buttons. You pull your hand out of his mouth, but only so you can suck at his neck, reveling in the warmth. You want to bite him, but that’s not going to happen. If you get the taste of blood, it’ll end with you and him feasting on someone, and you waking up in the morning with worse than a hangover.
“Does your boy know how to do this?” you ask, grinding the flat of your palm against his zipper. “How long you can wait, letting it build up in you?”
Angelus growls, straining against you. “Spike–”
“I can wait even longer,” you taunt, unbuttoning the top button of his leather pants. “Enjoying it while you rub up against me. Yeah. Like that.”
His lust and bloodrage are starting to drive into your head. The image of you both with some pretty little thing between you, screaming as you petted and bit and drained her dry, is making you hard all over again, and that alone gets your fingers fumbling. You can’t.
“You want to feed,” Angelus mocks suddenly, as you’re trying to get his trousers off. “You can smell it on me, can’t you? And you remember how it is. The kill. How much they shiver and moan when you’ve got your fangs in their neck. It’s better than sex. Some of ’em even start begging you to keep going because it feels so go–GOD.”
You have to shut him up, and it’s always been easy to shut Angelus up by focusing on his cock. Because if you think about it (while you’ve got him in your mouth, you bobbing up and down obediently like a good boy), you’ll see the girl, and it’s not just one of the silly bints with budding breasts and no sense.
It’ll be her. Mouth open, eyes round. You know Buffy’s kinks, and you know if you got to her at the right moment, she’d ride you both and moan and scream for it at the top of her lungs when you opened her veins.
This is bad. This is very bad. Best to continue letting Angelus fuck your mouth while ignoring your own incipient erection, round two.
“I know who you see in your head, Spike,” Angelus whisper-moans throatily, his hands in your hair. “I see her, too.”
You try to take him deeper, but he’s still talking, as if it makes it better for him, knowing that you’re in agony. Always does, the sick wanker.
“She pretends to be SO sweet,” he muses, holding your head still while he juts his hips against your jaw, making it ache. “We’d have a lot of fun. You, me, her. Blood. We’d bathe in it, and she’d beg us to take more.”
He has to shut up. You’ll slit his throat once you’re finished servicing him.
“Bet it kills you that I broke her in,” Angelus hisses. “I break them all in, just for me, and no matter how hard anyone else tries, they like the way I do it best. And you trail along, taking my leavings.”
As if he could time it, he comes right about then, laughing and leaving you to half-spit, half-swallow. Some gets on the car, which is fine by you as you struggle up to your feet.
“Sod off, Angelus,” you mutter. “It’s not that you break them that counts. It’s that no matter how many of ’em you break, they all come to me to get fixed. Because you’re only good at the breaking.”
And it’s true, you think, leaving him behind to shout something at you as your boots grind the dust and come into nothing. Angelus–even Angel–can be so proud of being first. But as you’ve learned, it’s nothing to be first. Hell, the First Evil had you, and you’re still standing. It’s just a position.
And Buffy came for you. Dru came back for you. And someday, you suspect, Wesley may come the same way, all haunted eyes and unending hatred for Angelus.
But not you. Not anymore.