Lar ||| Buffy & Angel

Blood Simple - Darkling
by Lar

eMail: HERE
Rating: NC-17 (sex/slash/violence)
WARNING: character death
Spoilers: none
Disclaimers: Not mine, but a girl can dream, can't she?
Summary: Reunions - you just never know what's going to happen when old friends get together.
Authors Notes: I apologize for the delay in getting this part out, if there were any of you waiting on it. Also, hey- my first slash. I hope I did themjustice.

Many many thanks to Kita for her endless hours of telling me it was going to be fine, and also the times she said to just go do it. Look, I did it!! :o)So for putting up with my whining and hedging and stalling and everything else in between, and for being such a great person to lean on and talk over ideas with, and for encouraging all the darkness I've found in myself in the plotting and planning that goes with this series...this is for you, Kita.

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The apartment was small, spare and spotlessly clean. It had the look of order about it - everything in its place. But there were touches of softness that kept it from having the anal retentive qualities of an army barracks. There were chintz curtains on the windows that would always bear smoky dirt smears, and a small plant on the counter in the closet that masqueraded as a kitchen. The furniture had seen better years several decades ago, but it was serviceable. Not home, but homey.

And the door had three exceptionally well made locks on it.

Wesley Wyndham Price was content here, for now. It was no great shakes, and someday he hoped to move on to better things, larger rooms and someone to share them with, something with lots of sun in the mornings. Perhaps something near the beach.

He kept his small space the way he knew his father would expect. Neat, clean as could be expected under the circumstances. Everything was always where it should be. No cup was ever left in the sink; it was washed and dried and placed away at once. No article of clothing was ever on the floor; it was hung at once to air over night, or tucked into the laundry bag in the closet out of sight. And all these little idiosyncrasies that others would see as a trial and a bore were done out of a habit that had been beaten into his head - literally - for so many years that it wasn't even a matter of thought now. It was instinct.

Wesley didn't think of it often anymore. Certainly not when he was alone and there was no one to drop an offhand remark or lift a dark brow at him, as Cordelia or Angel might have done. They would have done so with gentle ribbing, in the spirit of tightening friendship, although over the years most had been done in pure maliciousness. Easy target, new boy, prissy, uptight, overwound Wesley.

The things that shape a man.

Wesley tossed his mail on the counter and locked the door behind him -- one, two three. Tug on the doorknob to be sure. Jacket removed and hung up in the tiny closet that held his meager wardrobe. Once upon a time his closet had held tweeds and woolens and fine fabrics of all kinds. No longer. Gone with the Council's funding, sold off and left behind and lost forever. He stroked the leather jacket that hung in the darkest corner with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The things that shape a man, indeed.

Shutting the door firmly, he stepped into the tiny kitchen and filled his kettle with water, set it on the rangetop and waited to see if the fire would start. His luck was on the upside - it lit with the first try and he smiled again.

His mail, delivered to a post office box, was usually nothing worth looking at. But today the post had yielded a small parcel from home. He looked at the handwriting on the label and felt a twinge of homesickness. His mother was so good to him, despite the ire it would undoubtedly arouse in his father. His father, that great stickler for proper form and function, had summarily disowned Wesley when he had been sacked by the Watcher's Council. Wesley expected as much. It was a relief in many ways, to have finally achieved the great and absolute failure that his father had always said he was destined for.

His mother had said nothing, had kissed him with lips that trembled and whispered in his ear to let her know where to reach him. She hadn't been able to send money, of course; the old man had his hands on every pound that came into the house, but she sent other things, more important things. Letters about how things were going came once a month or so, news of his aunts and cousins, anecdotes about the few old school chums who had bothered to drop in for a visit, now and then a little parcel with his favorite biscuits or jelly. And today, a small box of tea from the little shop on the corner by their house; a small book of poems that had been his trusted companion when he was at University; a gray scarf with his initials embroidered in rich burgundy thread.

The tea kettle shrieked, startling Wesley out of his reverie. He turned off the flame and began to rummage in the drawer for the tea ball. Methodically, his mind turned over the past few days' events as his hands assembled the cup and saucer, filled the sterling tea ball with the fresh tea from his mother, poured boiling water over it and let it steep. The clean aroma of it was a welcome addition to the apartment's own close smells.

Wesley had thought he knew something of what it was like for his employer, Angel, and his life with the demon inside. He'd foolishly assumed that because Angel was in control whenever he was around them in the office, that he was indeed in control at all times. He made it look so effortless, as if it was merely on the level of avoiding something you wanted to do but knew was bad for you. Like Cordelia skipping the donuts once in a while, a small matter of just choosing not to take what you might like to have.

He'd been smacked full in the face with the reality of it when that damned tart of an actress had drugged Angel and released his hold on Angelus. To Wesley's relief it had been taken care of with none of them the worse for the ordeal physically. He was mortified to admit to himself how lightly he had treated something that was indeed a deadly threat to them all every single hour of every single day. Including Angel.

The beast was not resting lightly; Angel wrestled it to its knees with constant vigilance. It horrified Wesley to think that he had disregarded the enormity of it all. It would never happen again, this he swore to himself.

He realized he'd been standing there, staring at the wall like a man in a trance and shook his head lightly to dispel the fuzziness. Picking up his tea, he carried it gingerly to the couch and prepared to sit and relax for a bit. Nothing was happening, no demons were making themselves known, no one was in mortal danger and he could simply sit, and read his poems, and reminisce. How lovely.

As he bent to begin the descent to the couch, a furious banging came upon his door. He jerked in surprise, hot liquid splashing on his hand and causing him to drop everything to the floor. The cup shattered on impact and he swore.

"Damnation!"

The frantic banging came again and he lurched towards the door, awkward with the rush of adrenaline surging in him now. "What is it?" he called sharply, his hands shaking and undoing the locks, one, two...

He hesitated and peered through the tiny peephole. Whoever was out there was distorted and so close to the door that he couldn't see who it was. "What's this about?" he called again, his hand on the third lock, ready to turn but not quite. Something was strange.

"WESLEY!" The woman shrieked his name and he jumped. There was terror in that voice, so much of it that the sound was grating and freakish, sending a thrill of gooseflesh over him. He popped the third lock but didn't turn the knob.

"Who the hell is this?" he rasped against the door, his face plastered to the hole, straining to see who would be here, who would know him. He saw a sway of dark hair, flash of white arm as it banged on the door again, frantic, scrabbling nails, vibrations shaking him to his core.

"Cor-Cordelia? Is that you?" Wesley knew of no one else in the entire city who would know where he lived, who knew his name, who had that dark hair... Her face was turned to the hallway as if she was looking for something down there in the darkness.

"For the love of God, Wesley, let me- let me in! I need your help!" The shrieks came again, and he knew that the other doors on this hall would be locked tight against her and whatever she was running from. His heart was thumping wildly and he tore the door open, even as she screamed his name again.

"Get in here, quickly," he stammered, grabbing the upraised arm and pulling her into the apartment. She stumbled in past him and he slammed the door closed in a flash, turning the locks with a hand that was sure of its task from the weeks of repetition. He turned to face her, breathing out a great gust of air. "Good Lord, Cordelia, what in the world is happening?"

When he saw her, he realized three things in rapid succession.

She was not dressed. She was not Cordelia. She was not human.

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Spike was in a state of confusion that was matched only by his state of arousal. He didn't know what had possessed him to press his lips to Angel's like that, but once he'd done it, there was something so right in it that he couldn't stop. And he wanted more. His cock throbbed at the very thought of it, the memories of all the things that had done together. Wild things. Dark things. Wanton and wicked and wonderful nights full of feeding and sex and blood and come...

His brain registered vaguely that Angel hadn't pushed him away after the kiss, and without looking for reasons behind it, Spike pressed his advantage. His arms crept up Angel's chest, fingers spread, feeling the silk of the black shirt. He deepened the kiss, tip of his tongue barely brushing Angel's lips, half of him waiting for the other man to grab him by the neck and throw him across the room, half of him wanting to toss Angel backwards onto the bed and just fuck him into the mattress. Incredibly, slowly, Angel began to kiss him back.

Spike tightened his hands into fists, bunching the silk and pulling himself tight against the taller man. Angel's tongue slipped between Spike's open lips as his hands came up and cupped Spike's face. Spike growled into Angel's mouth, a completely unconscious reaction to the feelings that had taken over his body. The sensations that Angel always evoked in him, so long buried, woke with a vengeance. To have this mouth on his again, to feel this body against his own - these were things Spike had never expected to experience. Only in his darkest dreams would he have ever admitted to the ties he had never relinquished, to the pull he would always feel for the one who had made him.

Angel took his time, kissing his Childe with a slow and controlled thoroughness that drove the younger vampire wild. //Oh, Will, how long has it been?// drifted through Angel's mind, for it was always 'Will' to him, never anything else when he thought of the blonde he held now. Angel's thumbs caressed those cheekbones, the skin over them taunt and amazingly familiar to him. And his mouth, oh God, this was Will's mouth open to him, matching every thrust of his tongue, and it was so good, so familiar, so very much what he needed right now. When he heard the growl come from deep within the smaller man's chest, Angel's already hard cock gave a painful throb, rocking him to the core. Though Angel's eyes were closed, every other sense was alive with the details of this moment. The rough sounds of Will's arousal, the sharp scents of leather and smoke that clung to him, the taste of his mouth, the silk of his skin; it all came crashing down on Angel, breaking through whatever defense he might have had. The familiarity of it all soothed the ancient hurt in his soul and aroused him beyond measure. He wouldn't have stopped now even if given the opportunity, and by the feel of Will's hips grinding into his own, neither of them was going to call a halt to it.

Angel's hands left their resting place on Spike's face and came down to pull off his coat. The movement broke their kiss and abruptly blue eyes met brown. Neither moved for a second, then Spike shrugged out of the duster and let it drop to the floor in a heap of worn leather. He skinned off the T-shirt he was wearing under it in a smooth movement and then reached out to grab the material that covered Angel's upper torso. He took hold of the shirt at the neckline and, with a slight grunt, tore it open in one rapid motion. Then he grabbed Angel by the back of the neck, stepped closer to him and attacked his mouth again. This time Angel was the one giving voice to his arousal, moaning at the contact of bare flesh against his own. //Too long, too long// Angel though vaguely, his arms flailing with the remains of his shirt as it slid from his shoulders and joined the old duster on the floor.

Suddenly it seemed to Angel there were still far too many layers of clothing between them from the waist down and the bed was miles away. He planned to remedy both of those issues immediately. Just as soon as it was possible to stop kissing Will, stop savoring the feeling of that tongue exploring his mouth.

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Wesley found himself frozen in that moment of time when everything became crystal clear. He had opened his door to his own death and invited it into his apartment, and the next few minutes were going to be his last.

Faith smiled at him, her grin frightening in its complete and utter pleasure. She had been so lovely in life, a Botticelli angel. And in some cruel twist, she was even lovelier in death. Her skin, always pale, now glowed with the strange luminescence that some vampires seemed to have. Her dark eyes sparkled at him. Her mouth, Wes realized, was enough to drive a man to distraction in its lushness. And she also seemed to have somewhat more teeth than was necessarily natural, he thought suddenly. This snapped the spell that had held him there against his door and he took a breath that was surprising steady.

"Wes," she hissed at him quietly. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time." But she didn't move, and neither did he.

He couldn't help but to let his eyes fall to her naked body, but he dragged them up to her face again immediately. Even so, in that microsecond of time, she was suddenly right there in his face, not even a foot away. The lack of body heat was so ragingly apparent that it was like a blow to him. And all he could think of to say was, "Where are your clothes, Faith?"

She motioned with her foot to a vague shape on the floor beside her which looked like a rag. "I borrowed that from someone but it didn't really fit so I tossed it," she replied with a casual shrug of her shoulders. Then she cocked her head at him.

"What's wrong, Wesley? You're not into having young naked babes in your apartment? Do I make you ... uncomfortable?" Faith licked her lips and leaned over, mouth poised as if to kiss him. Wesley found himself looking at those red, ripe lips and wondering just how it would feel to have them pressed to his own, and how cold would they be, really, if she did it.

With a sudden jerk, his head snapped back away from her, banging solidly into the door that he had forgotten he was leaning against. Even as he closed his eyes at the pain, Faith pressed forward and kissed him firmly, her hands coming up to pin him against the door. Wesley was overcome with a wave of desire that competed with the feeling of pain and conspired to make him both erect and nauseated at once. Her lips were indeed cold, but they were soft and full and oh, her mouth was opening...

Faith calmly slid her tongue out to lick Wesley's mouth, like a kitten laps at a bowl of cream. There was no hurry or urgency in her - she knew full well she was in charge here, was aware that he knew it, too - and she planned to take her time and do everything she wanted to do, as the whim took her. And right now, what she wanted was to make Wesley squirm. Faith was still wired from the kill, full of blood and adrenaline, and itching to get off. Whether or not she used Wes for that purpose was not something she'd decided on yet. It might be fun to teach her old Watcher a few things before she sucked him dry. Hell, she might be the first and last fuck he ever had. The thought of taking his virginity and then his life made Faith shiver. Her nipples hardened with the roll of desire that swept through her and she brushed them against his shirt as she forced her tongue into his mouth.

And he took it.

Wesley's brain had ceased to function as soon as his cock had gotten hard. Certainly had he been thinking, he'd have been making a move to find a way out, a way to kill her, to find a stake, a cross, something. Certainly he wouldn't be here, letting her press her naked body against him, letting her kiss him like a lover. Kissing her back, harder than anyone would believe that Wesley Wyndham Price was capable of. No, if he had been fully rational, he wouldn't be bringing his hands around to her back, tentatively at first and then, when she just undulated against him, firmly pressing them to her tight ass so that she was in closer contact with him, hips grinding into the hard length of him that seemed to be the only part of his body that knew what to do.

She allowed him the few seconds of pressure and them abruptly she shoved herself away, leaving him disoriented and vaguely angry. Her eyes dropped to the bulge in his trousers and he felt a flush of embarrassment, a desire to cover it. He restrained himself, cleared his throat, tried to focus on what was happening. It was, however, impossible to make sense of anything now. The world as he knew it was no longer in existence. There was no point of reference for what was happening now. A line from an American movie came to him - "I don't think we're in Kansas anymore." He waited.

Her eyes heavy lidded, Faith stared at Wesley and considered the pleasantly engorged state of what she had felt him pressing into her hip when he'd grabbed her ass. Having him touch her like that had been a surprise, but not entirely unexpected. He was, after all, a guy, she thought. Proof of it was tenting his trousers even now as she stared at him. Just like a guy, even one as straight laced and uptight as Wes, to let his prick do his thinking. Here he was in the room with a Slayer turned vamp, one who had a grudge against him the size of Boston Harbor, and he still got a hard-on the minute sex entered the equation. It almost made her laugh.

"I see you got your stake all ready for me, Wes," Faith said, her voice loud in the tiny room. "You wanna give it to me?"

"Faith, I -" He stopped talking. What was he to say to her anyway? That he regretted his erection? That he didn't mean to be enticed by her amazingly nubile body when she rubbed it against him? That he was, Good Lord, sorry? She wasn't even Faith anymore, so this was all completely ridiculous. Faith was dead. Something else was in her body, using her skin to house it's evilness. Killing it would be a blessing to Faith's soul, wherever it might be.

So following that line of logic, his brain whispered to him, you wouldn't be fucking your former Slayer, You'd be fucking a demon. How guilty could one be about that? Surely you could get her distracted during sex and then put an end to this tortured existence. And let's not forget that you'd also be fucking that exquisite body...

"Come on, Wes, let's put an end to the torture," she said, almost echoing his thoughts and giving him a nasty jolt as he wondered if she was reading his mind. She cupped her breasts in her hands, tweaked her nipples and winked at him. "We'll do it right here, rough and ready, up against the door."

Faith stalked towards Wesley then, one foot placed precisely in front of the other, hands still cupping her breasts like an offering. Her gaze held him there, unable to break away, even as she reached out to him and pulled open the shirt he wore. She tugged it out of the waistband of his pants and popped the buttons off one at a time. When the buttons had all hit the floor, she tugged the shirt partway off his shoulders so that it immobilized his arms just a little. Of course, he was wearing a crisp white undershirt beneath, and Faith felt a pinprick of...something...when she saw that. But it was gone in less time than it took to form the whole thought and she was tearing the thin cotton right down the middle. Wesley's chest was exposed, covered with dark hair, pretty copper colored nipples hardening when Faith stroked them with her fingertips. She rubbed her own nipples against the fur on his chest and he gasped to feel those cold points hit his own warm skin. His cock was hard as iron and straining the zipper of his trousers. He knew it would be cold inside of her, like wrapping himself in a bag of ice. Oddly, that very thought made him want to know if he was right. He made a fumbling gesture towards his belt but couldn't quite reach because of the tangle of cloth around his arms.

"Yeah, I knew you wanted this, Wes." Faith said, looking at him with a small smile on her face. "All that time you were my Watcher, you were looking around, thinking about how you'd like to give me some private lessons. No wonder things were so fucked up for us, you know? How could I ever listen to a guy who was secretly trying to sniff my panties?" She reached down and grabbed him roughly through his pants. "This is what you wanted to give me all that time, Wes. Isn't it? You might have been chasing Cordie's skirts back in Sunnydale, but when it got dark at night and you were all alone with your hand, it was me you jerked off to. It was me you wanted to fuck, you could just never admit to it."

She tugged again, none too gently, and Wesley whimpered. The voice that had been telling him that it was quite all right to go ahead and have his way with this thing had conveniently deserted him now that events had gotten even nastier. She was hurting him, he should be afraid, but he knew that if she kept doing this, kept tugging at him despite the pain that came with it, he was going to be done with this before it ever got around to anything else. He knew, he could feel, that the front of his pants was wet, soaked in fact, because of how very far along he was. He could tell by the way his cock quivered in her grasp, he was used to that feeling of almost-there, used to getting off in a hand grip. He was alarmed to realize that the pain was enhancing his pleasure, and feared she could tell. Certainly in a moment there would be ample evidence of just how much he was enjoying her abuse if she did not stop. So he gave her what he thought she wanted, an affirmation of her accusations.

"Yes, Faith. It was always you," he said, voice uneven and quivering. "I've always wanted you. Cordelia was just a sham, a cover, so no one would suspect that I dreamed of taking you over and over again." He paused, let his head fall back against the door and his eyes close. He swallowed hard and waited for her to do something, anything. And he wondered how, if she did this right now and he came all over his pants, would he manage to get to the stake that was in the closet? He supposed he could make a break for it as she was doubled over in laughter at him.

But Faith seemed to relax, as if those words of admission were something she had sought for a long time. She softened her grip on the length of him and let her hand caress what it had moments before punished. She surprised him with another kiss while his eyes were shut, tongue plunging into his mouth. Her hands busily undid his belt buckle, and with a yelp from Wesley, his pants went the way of his undershirt, slipping to the floor in tatters. His naked cock lay hot between them, covered in clear, slick fluid. He groaned when she took it in her hands and smoothed the lubrication all over him, pulling back the foreskin with a practiced motion. Then she was on her toes, one leg lifted high against his side, guiding him into her core.

"Ahh, Wes," she sighed out, suprisingly soft in tone. He blinked at her, frustrated by the shallow penetration, shocked that there was some warmth to her after all, and then she rocked her hips and the friction wrenched him into motion.

"Christ!" he ground out from teeth that seemed to be locked together, and clutched her hips in his hands, pushing her down and himself up. Her eyes were closed, he saw, and she was wet between her thighs with her own juices. It gave him some measure of insane pride to think he'd done that to her, not imagining that the things that aroused Faith were things he would never understand.

Faith's head fell forward as her hips churned. Wesley no longer needed to try and move; she was creating the most exquisite rhythm on her own, and he knew he was rubbing against her pleasure spot, he could feel it when she pushed that part of her hard against his shaft. And then he could think of nothing at all but the feeling of cresting, soaring up to the top of some majestic mountain of sensation.

He never noticed the change take her, her skin rippling as the demon came forth. He didn't see her forehead bulge, her teeth grow, her eyes turn from bitter chocolate to glowing gold. When she pressed her face to his neck, he was too caught up in the feeling of orgasm to realize he was seconds from death.

He wasn't even thinking about how he was supposed to distract her in the throes of passion when her teeth sank into his neck and ripped open his jugular. He was already in the spasms of his peak, and his final sounds were shouts of exultation colored with shrieks of pain, and then it was over. His heart stopped beating; his body slipped away from her to huddle in a somehow small and sad heap at the bottom of the door. A thick crimson smear marked his passage. By the time Faith reached her own climax, she was covered in his blood.

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Oh, God, to be held again! To be touched by hands that knew him intimately, to be kissed by a mouth that was so skilled, to be stroked by those clever fingers. Angel wondered vaguely why he had ever thought he could go through eternity without this pleasure, this comfort. Without this fulfillment.

They were lying on the bed, finally naked and skin to skin. Angel raised his head and watched as the blonde moved lower down his belly towards his hard and weeping cock. He took as much pleasure in seeing that image as his did in feeling those lips close over the head and the tongue gather up those shining threads that were the evidence of his arousal.

"Jesus, Will," Angel groaned as his cock slid deeper into his Childe's throat. The benefits of not needing to breath were rapidly being reintroduced as he was held in that throat for an impossibly long time, the muscles flexing tighter and tighter. Then he was sliding back out again, a deliciously slow and drawn out process that had always made him insane with the desire to grab Will's head and just fuck his mouth hard and fast until he came. But of course, wanting to do that and knowing he wouldn't was part of the pleasure, the fuel of anticipation making the fire of lust burn hotter. And how could he deny himself the pleasure of Will's agile tongue, pressed to its widest proportions as it was even now stroking down his shaft and back up to the sensitive head. Then he was drawn in between those lips again, sweet pressure everywhere, vague scrape of teeth making him hiss in a breath and buck his hips upwards. Seeing himself disappear into that mouth as glistening blue eyes watched him watch Will made him flush all over, something he would have thought impossible but was happening nonetheless.

Spike glanced up, the head of Angel's cock laying on his tongue. He held his Sire's gaze as he let his hand slip between well-muscled thighs and cup the sac there. Just held it, remembering the soft weight of it, as his tongue licked up and over the slit of the heavy cock in his mouth. Angel let his head fall back onto the pillow and grabbed the sheets in huge fistfuls of linen. He turned his head to the side, inhaling the lavender scent there, as he felt the fingers that held him begin to move. He tensed briefly, but Spike was only rubbing that tender place beneath his testicles, creating a frustrating tickle-itch that made Angel clench his jaw.

He sat up suddenly, catching Spike offguard, and pulled the smaller man to him. From the position he was in between Angel's legs, Spike could do nothing but allow himself to fall forward with the momentum of his grasp and then he was in Angel's arms. And his Sire was kissing him roughly, thoroughly, tongue exploring every inch of his mouth. But slowly, too; he was never in a rush at times like these, not Angel. He liked to savor everything, a trait that benefited them both. Angel held him tightly as he lay back again and their bodies began an achingly intimate slide, chest to chest, hip to hip, cock to cock. Bracing his hands on the bed to either side of Angels' broad chest, Spike used the leverage to grind himself against the larger man below him, the skin between them wet and slippery and incredibly sensitive.

Angel's hips moved up to meet the pressure of Spike's in a spasm he couldn't control. Seeing Spike above him made his head swim, made his skin burn where they were touching and tingle where they weren't. There was nothing in the entire world other than this moment in time, this beautiful man above him, the blue eyes that were dark with passion, the mouth that was slightly open as if waiting to kiss or be kissed. Such a luscious mouth, soft among the angles of Will's pretty face, so completely fuckable. It was like old times, that mouth on his body, bringing him pleasure. Something, however, made him pause and think.

"What is it?" Spike asked, voice thick with desire. He stopped moving against Angel, waited to see what it was that had brought the crease to his forehead when only moments before his Sire had been awash in bliss.

"I don't know," Angel said quietly. He gripped Spike's upper arms. "There's something..." His voice trailed off.

Immediately Spike's face changed. His mouth tightened to a thin line, eyes getting darker yet as anger began to cloud their depths. "Something not right, then?" he said, voice carefully controlled. He felt something sharp and cold go through his heart and for a moment thought he had actually been stabbed. He realized almost immediately after that it was just a pang, an uncontrolled emotion taking root because his defenses had been down. He bit the inside of his cheek and waited.

"Yes," Angel replied, and in a split second Spike found himself on his back, Angel pressed heavily against him, his weight driving them both into the thick mattress. Speechless, he looked up to see a grin on Angel's face. The stabbing pain in his heart gave way to a dangerous flutter when he saw an expression so long lost on a face so greatly loved. He swallowed. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

"Much better," Angel whispered before leaning down to kiss the mouth that had softened again. His full lips covered his lover's, mouths opening in unison, tongues tasting of each other. Although he could never have enough of that mouth, Angel soon moved his attention to Spike's ear, tongue darting out to trace the outer rim, then dipping in briefly, sending chills over the body of the man beneath him. He smiled again, remembering the countless times he'd done the same thing and received the same reaction. Funny how some things just soaked into your skin and you never knew what you knew until it came down to doing it.

Dragging his body down the length of Spike's, relishing the way he groaned at the friction of their cocks pressed together and rubbing, Angel stopped to lick and gently bite first one rust colored nipple and then the other. They hardened at once, small pebbles that he had to taste again, just for the growl it elicited. Hedonist that he once was, Angel had always enjoyed the reaction of his partner as much as his own physical pleasure. Granted, in the past, the reactions he had enjoyed had as likely been shrieks of agony from hours of torture as moans of pleasure from lengthy sessions of sexual indulgence. Be that as it may, the habit of reveling in what he created for his partner had never really been forgotten. So now the little sounds he was getting from Spike as he licked and kissed across the pale skin were as erotically charged as the pressure of Spike's mouth on his cock had been.

Spike let his eyes remain closed and soaked in every touch, every press of lips to his skin. The scrape of tongue across his nipples followed by the pinch of teeth nearly sent him out of his mind. And why in hell had he remembered about the ear? In the hundred plus years since he had shared a bed with the man who was at this moment dipping his tongue into Spike's navel, he should have forgotten how that lick to the inner shell of his ear always made Spike utterly mad. But he hadn't forgotten. The smile on Angel's face told him that he remembered everything. And for once, he seemed to be allowing himself the luxury of guilt-free memories and indulgences long denied.

Then Angel's huge hands were gently urging him to turn over and Spike's cock throbbed when he realized that it was about to get a great deal more indulgent for them both. With a strangely dizzying feeling of deja-vu, Spike found himself on his knees, thighs spread. Angel was on his knees behind him, and then his hands were on Spike's shoulders and his chest was against Spike's back. And with a slow and deliberate movement, he brought his hips up against him, the full length of Angel's hardness nudging into the cushion of Spike's ass. Then more than nudging, in fact, pressing in a way that made Spike press back shamelessly. Despite whatever had been between them over the years, the only thing between them now was what Angel was rubbing against him with languid stokes, and the desire they both had to get it even closer.

When Angel leaned back briefly, Spike almost followed him. But before he could make the effort, he felt fingers caressing him, spreading him, and he rolled forward, instinct and desire and memory taking over. There was a gentle probing that made him gasp as he was invaded, stretched, filled by one digit slicked with clear fluid. He looked down and back between his own legs and saw the same liquid shining on his rigid length, one droplet hanging on the tip, and for some reason that made him shiver. The finger slipped in deeper, turned just a little, then was gone, leaving Spike wanting.

He wasn't left wanting for long, however. Suddenly the thing probing at him was much larger, much more insistent than that finger had been, and he was spread wide as the slippery head of Angel's cock bumped against Spike's tight opening. Spike closed his eyes, gripped the sheets, pressed down with his muscles to try and open the way just a little. Then with a slow burning push, Angel was in. And in. And in. And he was reaching down to pull Spike upright by the shoulder even as Spike was biting into his own lip to muffle the cries that tried to escape him. He tasted his own blood and swallowed it with a gulp.

Angel pulled Spike back against his chest, locked his arm around the blonde vampire and held him there for a moment. They were both quivering, Angel repressing the desire to just pound into the muscles that held him so tight, Spike from the need to pull away and push back at the same time. Then Angel's hand was leaving Spike's chest, grasping the hard cock of his Childe and sliding down the length of it. He whispered, "Are you ready, Will?" and got an exquisitely drawn out groan in reply.

Holding both prick and shoulder of his lover in a firm grip, Angel began to move. The ring of muscle holding his own cock had loosened just enough for him to be able to slide out and back in again in one smooth motion, and it was so good, so fucking good, that he couldn't go slowly from there. He pushed in deeper the next time, hitting the spot inside of Spike that made him writhe in Angel's arms and fuck himself into Angel's hand. They missed the rhythm for a stroke or two but then they caught it again, and they were working in unison, back and forth and up and in, unnecessary breaths coming hard and fast, Spike's head finally rolling back onto Angel's shoulder. Last position finally achieved, neck bare and vulnerable and there was no more holding back of anything for either of them. Then Angel was changing, eyes golden, teeth piercing Spike as his cock drove into him and Spike changed, too, at that final penetration, and jerked into Angel's fist awkwardly, out of control.

The rhythm was gone then, the Sire holding the Childe still as he drank and fucked and drained and then with a groan that was muffled by the mouthful of blood, he came, pressing deep enough into Spike to elicit a growl from the //boy.// And he remembered to stroke with the hand that was still full of hard-on and all it took was one hard slippery slide from head to base and up again before there was wetness everywhere, hitting Spike in the chest and splattering onto the sheets.

Then Angel released his hold on the softening length in his hand, and he took his mouth from Spike's neck. He didn't want to pull out, though, because that would mean it was done and he didn't want it to be done. When it was done, he would have to think about what happened, and what it means. And he was so tired of thinking. What he wanted right now was to stay in this bubble of time that they had created, where it was fine for him to have companionship and pleasure and comfort. So maybe if he stayed connected to Will, maybe if they stay joined, they could freeze the moment for as long as he likes and just be...content.

Angel became aware that Will had not moved at all. His head was still resting on Angel's shoulder, turned to the side, neck exposed. The wounds Angel inflicted were already closing; they looked like little black freckles on Will's pale white skin, and he rubbed a finger over them very softly. His face was shifting back to its human mask. Will's had already changed. Angel waited, but he wasn't sure what he was hoping to happen.

Spike could feel himself beginning to get sleepy. It happened to him every time with Angel, this soporific state he fell into post climax. He imagined that it came from the mental exhaustion involved; with Angel it was never just about the physical pleasure. He didn't want to move, although he wouldn't admit to himself how much he was enjoying the closeness, holding him inside of himself. But his legs were getting tired and he wanted to lay down on the sheets, fuck the fact that they're wet from his coming all over them. So he did, finally, move a little and felt Angel's hand on his shoulder tighten just the slightest bit in protest before letting him go. And then there was that feeling of loss as Angel slipped out and Spike felt more open and vulnerable for just a second but then it that was gone, too. Spike laid face down on the bed, on a pillow that is miraculously dry and wonderfully soft, smelling of Dru which was oddly comforting in the calmness of the aftermath.

Moments later, there was a weight next to him, making him roll just a bit to that side. Spike hid a smile in the pillow and pretended he didn't know that Angel was laying there next to him with his dark eyes wide and his brow uncreased and his mouth soft and probably the slightest bit swollen. And he forgot completely about what brought him here tonight, and what he had set in motion.

~end



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