Hunkered on all fours, elegant fangs bared, scenting the air for any whiff of fear. Alas, there is none. Not here. Instead, just the hulking figures of voracious hunters, the timeless presence of shadows in the shadows; and this stillness.
No breath, no speech.
A low pitched growl, the slap of a glove. A dropped gauntlet.
We stare eachother down; ancient, golden demonic gazes arrogantly, defiantly refuse to waver. To blink is to show submission. To lower one's head is to admit defeat. Noone will blink. No head will bow.
Not here. Not among us.
Predatorial instincts at the fore. The dusty battle lines, the smell of steeds and steel and leather. The clanging sounds of swords and the swoosh of whips in the still night air. The harsh, guttural cry of a fallen foe. The blood is spilled. Let the games begin!
"Hey! Ponce, you gonna spin that damn thing or just stare at it til it grows wings?"
All right. So the battle ground is a plastic sheet covered in multi-colored circles, and the weapons of choice are a little spinny wheel and our limbs. And the prize is... I'm not entirely sure, something about getting naked. I'm very drunk, damnit, and it made sense when he suggested it!
Besides, I'm a modern guy -- vampire. I can do battle wherever the age old quest for right may take me! I will spin this... little... spinning... thing... and I will arise victorious! My enemy will fall at my feet! He will--
"Spin, you asshole, or I'll do it for you!"
I spin.
"Uhm... red and a foot?" I stare at him curiously.
"Put yer huge booted foot on a red dot," he answers with another disdain-filled look in my direction and yet another swig of vodka. I swear he has the constitution of a... oh yeah, he's dead. Technically, we don't have constitutions. He bends over to take his turn at the spinny thing and I realize that he still has a rather nice...
And suddenly I become aware that I am thinking alot... even for me. And that the thoughts involve Spike's... constitution. And that my metaphors are really really bad when I'm drunk. And that apparently, I'm not quite drunk enough.
I grab for my own bottle and take another gulp, just in time to watch him triumphantly plant his own boot clad right foot on a blue circle.
My next spin requires yellow, and my other foot. Now we're standing toe to toe, as he spins again. Followed by a tense moment where he tries to slide his left foot between mine... "Hey! There are other blue dots! Get your own blue dot!" I shout at him, taking another swallow of whiskey.
He just grins at me. ''This one is more convenient... 'sides... I knock you on your ass, and you gotta take somethin' off."
Oh yes. The getting naked part. In that case, I vow not to fall down. Ever. I will use all my preternatural stealth and balance, and with the lithe movements of a jungle cat I will... have another drink and hope my metaphors improve.
~~~
Having now figured out a system to drink, smoke and still manage a backbend, I'm a pretty contented bloke. Course, the fact that Peaches has already lost his shoes and socks in this battle makes life even more entertaining. 'Cept that I have to look at his feet. Alot. I bloody well hate feet.
It's the sight of those evil, souled feet that make me lose my bearings. I fall to the mat and slosh the vodka all over my... oh... I'm not wearing my coat. I had to take that off like two rounds ago. Least my duster is clean. I tug off my red silk shirt and toss it to the floor.
"Next round," I mutter, and he just grins at me. Prick. He will go down in flames. I will see to that. He may have survived the vengeance of a Slayer and half a millenium in Hell, but he will not live to brag that he won a match of Twister with William the Bloody!
Ah Christ. I need another drink.
~~~
"Ya know, Spike," I begin, realizing with a shmothered laugh that his name shounds more like Shpike now... Shpike... that's funny... he's looking at me... I was saying something... what was I saying? Oh yea...
"Shpike... Spike... I'm surprised you suggested this... game. You're kind of a chickenshit." I giggle.
I giggle? God, but I love Irish whiskey.
He blinks at me, really slowly. He's moving really slowly. His mouth is still quick though. "I'm a chickenshit? Who hid out behind the Slayer's skirts for three years?" I swing the bottle in his general direction. ''After ya got neutered, you did!'' I counter.
He swings a fist near my face and misses, but succeeds in making me lose my balance. I lay sprawled out on the twister mat, and gaze up at him. He's spinning now. That's wild. And slightly nauseating. I close my eyes.
"You're taller this way," I mumble.
He grunts and places his bare foot on my chest. "Take off yer shirt. Ya fell."
I'm not certain that's sticking to the rules of the game, but I can't seem to formulate an argument. Besides, if I'm gonna get sick, I'd rather not do it on my $200 silk shirt. I'll aim for his head.
~~~
Big effin pussy looks like he's gonna toss his cookies at any second. For chrissake he outweighs me by like one and a half people, and I've drank twice as much! And I'm not nauseous!
I am however, a tiny bit dizzy. And it's not fair that he keeps doin' that spinning around thing with the ceiling. I mean that is dirty pool. I look at the mat instead. All the little dots are doing a dance. How is he making them do that?!
"Ya know what, I'm surprised you agreed to this grudge match, Angelus," I tell him, placing my left hand behind his knee on the yellow dot. He smells like whiskey and clean, clean soap. It's unnervingly familiar. I snort at him and continue. "After all, last time we met, I damn well kicked your fat ass. It took yer pet humans to get you out of there."
He snorts back at me, and his chest presses against mine as he finds the nearest red circle. "You didn't kick my ass, you haven't kicked my ass in the entire two centuries you've been alive... In fact Spike, why didn't you just get Marcus to challenge me to Twister?"
That's it. Prance-N-Poof is goin' down.
~~~
You know what's really annoying about him? Well, besides the obvious... What's really annoying is that sense of entitlement he's got. I mean, who else would break into my house, raid my liquor cabinet and my blood stash, threaten me, and then challenge me to a grudge match of Twister? Ok... that was a rhetorical question. And fuck! I can't bend like that... OW! Note to self: get carpeting.
~~~
A'right, this is what really pisses me off about me Ol' Sire. Is there anyone, man or demon, who can be pissin' three sheets to the wind while playing Twister with my gorgeous half-naked ass, and not once, not bloody well once, mind you, crack a smile? No! The answer is no! He's not human, I tell ya. Soul and broad shoulders be damned. Shoulders? And... Oh shit. Where'd that blue dot come from? I need a soddin' yellow dot!
~~~
He's staring at me as if he's deep in thought. I fear that look. He opens his mouth and I think I wince before he even gets the question out. "What the hell were ya thinkin anyway?! With that whole shagging the only chit on the planet with a sworn duty to kill your stupid ass?"
Impertinent, disrespectful little moron! I place a curled fist on a red dot by his head and snarl at him. "Yea, well at least I didn't get dumped for a FUNGUS DEMON!"
Fuck. He hits harder when he's drunk.
~~~
Brainless pansy apparantly did not grasp the subtle nuance of my question! I mean, he's supposed to be the fuck-all chosen one, no? Him and Slutty... I grin at his now bloody face. "Slayer says hello. Oh, come to think of it... no she don't."
Christ! He hits harder when he's drunk.
~~~
He's an infuriating, slothful, manipulative sociopath. And I let him in my house! Wait... no, I didn't. Ok. I still have that. Dignity intact, I spin the small plastic wheel and try to juggle the bottle of whiskey between my knees.
~~~
He's an infuriating, whiny, stuck-up wanker. And I'm in his house! Well, I am kicking his ass. Soddin' toff tried to take off his jewelry for pete's sake. Anyone who plays strip-anything knows that jewelry doesn't bloody well count! Fuck him. I am the Big Bad! I have a dignified and well-deserved reputation for evil! I spin the small plastic wheel and try to remain upright while smoking, drinking, and slipping in the puddle of blood surrounding the big blue dot my left foot needs to be on.
~~~
I know I'm really, really plastered now. He's the bane of my existence, the perpetual and eternal thorn in my side, and he looks... well... Spike looks very... shiny. Yea, that's it. Shiny. Like a lil' Christmas present wrapped up under my very own... ohhhhh god... my metaphors are getting worse!
~~~
I know I'm fucked up now. The Great Pouff is the bane of my existence, he's the bloody thorn in my bloody side, and he looks... well... kind of glowy-like. All lit up like a... and suddenly I remember it. The last time we got drunk together. It was Christmas, 1898, just before he dissapeared... And then we... oooooh god.
I'm going to have to kill him.
~~~
"You're cheating, Spike!" I holler at him. I'm clad in only jeans by now. This is the Death Match. He can't beat me, I'm the Scourge of Europe! I'm his Sire for chrissake. I'm not going to drop my pants!
"How can I be cheating?? It's not my fault you're about as graceful as a one legged man at an ass kicking contest. Now take off yer fucking pants or I'll do it for you." he threatens.
I notice there are two of him now. How interesting. I'm still not taking my goddamn pants off.
"You wanna take my pants off?" I grin at him. "That what all this was about?" I bare my fangs a bit for good measure. Both of him look annoyed.
"Ya, right. You're even less attractive now than you were pre-Hell, and that is amazin' in and of itself. Stop stalling and drop your bloody drawers, ya nonce. I promise not to make fun of your dick."
I sigh and undo the zipper and button on my Levi's. They hit the floor and he laughs out loud. Hey! Wait! I have nice dick... and he promised! --
Oh. He's laughing at my boxers. Well then. I square my shoulders at both Spikes. "They were a gift. From Cordelia. For Christmas." I sound pretty damn convincing and haughty for a drunken vampire standing on a Twister mat clad only in LoonyToon boxer shorts.
He falls over laughing on the mat. I grin triumphantly. "You fell! Your turn!"
He doesn't hesitate to toss his black jeans to the ground. Which is when I suddenly recall that Spike doesn't wear any underwear.
I down another fifth of whiskey in one gulp.
~~~
The mat is covered in blood, whiskey and vodka. Which all in all, would make a damn fine mixed drink.
I thought the nonce was gonna drop dead when he realized I had shorts on under my jeans. I sneer at him. Motherfucker wants to see my perfect knackers he's gonna have to work for that shit.
Now he's laughing. He's laughing? I'm not the one in sodding Underoos for Chrissakes!
~~~
Ok, I can't help it... I can't... I'm gasping for air I don't really need, tears streaming down my cheeks, taste of alcohol and mirth in my mouth, and gods... it feels good. Good to laugh, good to laugh at him. I'm clutching my sides as he kicks at me... hard, with one foot, then both feet... and I just continue to laugh.
He tried to kill me too many times to count... I tried to kill him back... or... first... I've lost track... and I slept with his ex-girlfriend, and rumor has it he was actually engaged to mine, and he's a soul-less, murdering fiend, and I'm the swirly-coat-ed Dark Avenger of Justice or something... and I hate him, and he hates me, and he's standing here, above me, in my living room, wearing only black Froot of the Looms... looking mighty goddamn tasty... and see that's it... I've officially lost my mind, and the Powers That Be are going to have to find themselves another vampire 'cause I'm gone for...
~~~
I kick him harder, aiming for the stomach, the chest, anywhere but his head, cause that sure as shit wouldn't hurt him... and he just keeps laughing... and what the fuck is so funny anyway? I don't see anything funny about his half naked, all souled self rolling around on plastic, all covered in blood... and... whiskey... and that big fuck-all dirty smirk on his face... and... and... Loony Toon Underwear! Yes! Yes! Think Loony underwear and... baseball... isn't that what the humans think of...? And oh yea... I hate him! Right! Right!
So, I'll just keep kicking him in the chest until this ridiculous notion of fucking him into the Twister mat goes away.
~~~
What happened next is a source of endless consternation between us, and an ongoing battle ground in and of itself. Suffice to say, my version of the events is based in reality and Spike's is version is based soley on the notion of himself as the center of the Universe. Never the twain shall meet.
I clearly recall realizing that he was not going to stop pounding on me like a pissed off two year old, so I reached out an arm and neatly swept his feet out from under him. He landed in a puddle of blood, alcohol and bad humor, and promptly re-initiated his assault. This was followed by an excess of arms and legs flying about, and quite a bit of torn flesh. I heard bones snapping, and his groan of pain, and I remember the taste of his blood in my mouth when he tilted his head back in a gesture of submission... and then...
~~~
On occasion, after a really mind boggling blow job or eight, I'll go along with my poof of a Sire's interpretation of recent history. But let me assure you that any similarity to his version of reality and my own is purely coincidental. Peaches' martyr complex got him thinkin he's the center of the Universe. Maybe he could just re-christen himself 'Angel-Sun' and have it done with. You wanna know what really happened that night?
I nearly kicked the snot out of him while he lay there, wheezing and gasping on the blood-covered Twister mat. It was a good five minutes before he could even get up enough strength to grab for my legs, and when he did, what's he do? He pulls me down like the nancy-boy he is... all scratching and clawing and biting... not even one good punch in the lot...
No, he rolled all over me, succeeding more in annoying the hell out of me than anything else, while I landed blow after blow... what choice did he have? 'Bout two minutes into it, he turned his neck to me in a gesture of submission and I sank my fangs into him... and then...
~~~
My fangs find themselves embedded in Spike's jugular like a knife sliding through butter - and could my metaphors get any more prosaic? The thickness of his blood coats my tongue, slides down my throat and then I taste it... The smug bastard isn't submitting to me. Underneath the alcohol, there's the tang of arrogance and the strong flavor of hate.
The little ungrateful... he's drinking my booze, he messed up my wooden floor and now he refuses to bend over...
Bend over. Now that mental picture has indisputable appeal.
There's a roar. I think I'm roaring. I'm also wobbly, what was I saying? Oh yeah, love Irish whiskey...? No... it was something else...
Fangs in my neck! I can't believe the bleached moron. He can't possibly think I would submit to him, and how dare he drink from me?!!? Angelus is not a happy demon camper. In fact, he's screaming his head off in his customized little cage at the back of my mind right now. Which doesn't do anything good for the incessent pounding between my temples.
As soon as my brain can convince my arm to lift my hand... there! I grab the insanely blond head nestled against my neck and yank back.
He answers me with a snarl, the snotty little shit. If he knew the kind of effect alcohol as on my control... and on my senses... oh hell, that probably wouldn't stop him either.
His skin smells... nice. (Oh look... metaphors and adjectives now officially sucking).
His lips are so close to mine. And his eyes... I'm not going to bother with adjectives. I'll just keep working on verbs.
Fingers buried in his platinum hair, face buried in the side of his long, smooth neck, fumbling at him with drunken hands, and the taste of the bitter past, and the uncertain, unknowable future, and the understanding, even through the haze of alcohol that blankets us both that this is just really, really really fucking stupid.
Not that that has ever stopped either of us before.
And anyway, it's insolent his smirk that sends me over the edge.
~~~
If the wanker doesn't let go of my hair soon, I'm gonna rip his balls off. I go for a punch to his stupidly perfect face but I can't quite work out the hand-eye coordination requirements, and my fingers end up tangled in his hair.
Funny, that.
I tug on the spiky strands and now I know we've passed the point of no return. Fluffy puppy here doesn't take kindly to anyone messing with the hair. He hated it even when he was unsouled... but what's Batman gonna do to me now, I mean he's all...
Shit!!
Apparantly, I've greatly underestimated Captain GQ's attachment to his follicles. 'Cause next thing I know I'm sliding my way through his living room on the Twister mat and my back is being pounded into the floor. The rhythm of the pounding he's simultaneously putting on my face and chest vaguely resembles something akin to 'fuck me, fuck me, fuck me' in a foreign language, but I could be biased.
And if I have anything to say about it, I'll be the one doing the fucking.
I flip Hairboy over so he lands with a satisfying thwump! on his back. Nice. I'm gonna take him like a woman. Slutty would be so proud.
Clearly however, the big foof objects to my plans, because he bucks wildly underneath me. Suddenly I'm flying, and I don't think the booze has anything to do with this. I land on a chair, crushing the bloody thing to pieces and the huge motherfucker of a posterboy for anal retentiveness doesn't even seem to care.
I think I might be in trouble.
I remain lying on my elbows for a minute, staring at the wooden splinters scattered around me and poking me in the arse.
Fuck it all to hell. Angel is going down.
On me.
~~~
You know what they say about alcohol eliminating one's inhibitions? It's all true. And you know what they say about vampires being sex-crazed maniacs? That's true, too.
Now imagined two pissed off, horny, drunken vamps, Sire and Childe, who can't stand to be in the same room together for more than a minute without wishing they had a tactical warhead handy.
You scared yet? You should be.
I would be if I had any sense.
We've already done the scene from Friday Night Wrestling, and we've played strip Twister. There really is only one thing left.
My living room won't ever recover from this.
I'm crouching on the balls of my feet, fangs gleaming and Spike is trying to regain his footing. I see his hand creep to a makeshift stake, a leg from my defunct chair.
I purr. "You pick that up, boy, and I set you on fire."
Apparantly I've channeled Angelus, and Spike knows I'm not kidding, because he lets the splinter go.
We're circling each other now. Well, more like crawling in a somewhat circular fashion around the bloody mat, but let's not get technical. At this point, my brain operates soley in basic survival mode. The only functioning portions are associated with primal, biological needs. I am no longer amused. Instead, I am pissed off. I am hungry. And, I am horny. This so does not bode well.
Spike just grins.
And I'm starting to wonder if that's what he had in mind all along.
~~~
Angel stares at me like I'm a gallon of Ben & Jerry's and he's Red who's just been dumped by her werewolf boyfriend. If he licks his lips, I'm outta here.
He doesn't lick his lips. He pounces. His fingers claw at my shoulders and I'm on my back once more. Soulboy's been abusing the Discovery Channel again, 'cause now he's sniffing me like a dog.
Bloody hell.
His eyes, all yellow and shiny, bore into mine and I'm conjuring stupid thoughts like the ingredients of a good Screaming Virgin... the drink, not the literal... although... no... no... that has the wrong effect... and... and two hundred and fifty degrees is the boiling point of linoleum! Christ... I'll think of Xander Harris just to keep my dick from jumping out of my boxers and embarrassing me on the spot.
Angel's cheeks are flushed - the whiskey - or... the moment -and his stare is blurry. But if the alcohol has impaired his equilibrium, it hasn't impaired his strength. His hands find my wrists and the bones crumble in his grip.
I growl, but Mister Warm-and-Fuzzy doesn't give a flying fuck. I don't think he's running on all his cylinders anymore. He's inches from me and he is all I can see... and suddenly I can't remember why I hate... all right, yea, I can remember that part. But his hands are in my hair, and he is looking at me with those eyes... all sleepy and lust-filled, and I'm an idiot.
His broad chest is so close to my tongue, and just I let the lust wash over me. The clean smell of him tramples over my thoughts the second I begin to lick his soft skin. I cling desperately to my new mantra...
Fuck the consequences. Fuck the consequences. Fuck the consequences.
Anyways, I'm still the one on top.
~~~
Spike is looking like he wishes the spinny-device-from-hell was made of wood so he could stake me with it. Tough luck, boy.
I spare a moment to thank the Powers that they don't play Twister in Hell. That's a disturbing thought if there ever was one.
I've managed to pin one Spike to the floor. I don't care what the other one does, I can only handle one at a time. I frown at Spike Number Two to stay put - he'll get his turn; stamina's my middle name. Besides, half a millenium of celibacy does wonders for one's refractory period, not to mention standards. I'd fuck a goddamn... well... I'd fuck Spike.
My nails dig deep gouges along his lean and muscled shoulders and the brilliant flare of the blood spins my head much more than any alcohol ever could. I bend over his chest, find his left nipple on the third try, and bite messily around the tiny nub of hard flesh. I'm so blessedly drunk and combined with the double vision, my aim just isn't what it use to be.
Which could make the next step of this little romp more than a bit tricky, what with me suddenly having two dicks and all. But since he seems to have two places to put 'em too, I guess it's a match made in Heaven.
In fact it reminds me of a demon I fought back in...
Ow! Damnit!
Spike winds his legs around my waist and my ribs are caving in. Apparantly, he has mistaken himself for a chastity belt. He's glued to me like Cordelia to David Nabbit's misplaced wallet, and thank the gods I don't need to breathe.
I slip a hand around his thighs and find his balls. I squeeze. Hard. He lets go.
"Arsehole!" he snarls around his fangs. "Not fair."
Fair... Vampire... Wrestling match... Naked Twister... Destruction of my property... No. Not connecting the dots, here.
Shutting him up sounds like a good idea. Leaning forward, I smash my mouth to his and rip his lips open with my teeth. More blood.
I groan into the kiss.
I'll never get the stains out of the wood floor.
~~~
Blood's flowing down my throat, not just my blood, cause I can give as good as I get. My senses are rioting, muscles jumping. What did I do in a former life that only this hulking idiot is able to have this kind of an effect on me? I really wanna know. Who the fuck did I piss off? And why didn't I just kill them?
I arch off the floor and manage to free my hands. My wrists are slippery with all the blood we've spilled and my Sire's understandably distracted at the moment. Yeah, I'm that good. My hands find purchase on both his nipples and twist viciously. The Soul-Filled Wonder likes that so much he purrs softly and starts grinding his pelvis against mine. The lazy rhthym leaves a bit to be desired...
I'm more of a Sex Pistols kind of guy. Allow me to demonstrate.
I suck on his tongue like there's no tomorrow. My dick is so hard it hurts now. He mutters something like 'moreschpikemore'. Obviously, his mum did not teach him not to talk with his mouth full. He tastes like whiskey and sex, and eternity and me and would you believe it but his tongue throbs between my lips.
I moan into the kiss.
Not that that stops me from my next plan. I wedge a knee between his stomach and mine. His eyes widen; foggy, confused and bloodshot.
Too late.
I flatten the sole of my left foot against his solar plexus and send him sailing over my head. Fuck, but I love preternatural vamp strength. He crashes into the sofa. Sounds painful. I grin, but he gets back to his knees more quickly and gracefully than someone so thoroughly huge not to mention wholly plastered has any right to. I'm still sprawled on the floor myself, pistol at the ready - ain't I just the witty one tonight - engorged and weeping. My blood boils inside my veins and I feel warm. I hate it that he can still make me feel all warm. I wonder if he feels all warm?
I struggle to my feet, but I never quite make it upright.
He's coming back at me like a charging bull, slavering, showing his teeth like the goddamn alpha male of the pack.
Hey, dream on, Sire.
This is one arse you're not gonna...
~~~
His ass is mine.
I still feel like I've got a concussion the size of Texas but I don't see two of everything anymore. Shame really, cause this pale, gorgeous ass deserves a twin.
Spike seems to have trouble getting to his feet and I'm not gonna waste that rare opportunity. I scramble up with moderate success, grab him by the back of the neck and throw him over a table. Not allowing him the chance to find his bearings, I drape myself over him. My superior weight pins him to the table and I strike, burying my fangs in the slope joining his shoulder and neck to discourage resistance on his part.
All right, that's utter wishful thinking on my part.
The determined little prick still bucks and twists like a madman, growling low in his throat. I'm gorging on his blood again and my brain is sloshing around my skull. The vodka in his veins sizzles with the whiskey in mine. I really shouldn't mix drinks like that.
I'm gonna have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.
Spike's growls course through me, the erotic sound heading straight for my cock. It's been wayyy too long. I can't believe how much I missed this. If anyone would have asked me yesterday if I'd missed this... Oh hell, I'd have denied it and it would have been a huge goddamn lie. Who do I think I'm kidding? It's much harder to lie to yourself when you're smashed. Urgent Note to self: stay sober around blondes with fine asses.
I rip my underwear away with one hand and my erection springs free. I rub myself against Spike's ass, not trying to penetrate him yet. I just want to mark him with my scent, I just want his coolness to pacify the raging fire in my cock.
I just want this to last.
There's no insults now, no name calling. Spike fights, but he'll submit to the dominant one. He's fair game that way.
Exactlly how stupid am I again?
I wrap myself around him, knotting my arms around his biceps and chest. Each muscle bulges against the restraint. Suddenly he bites my wrist, ripping though flesh and tendon. I think I glimpse bone. I yelp.
Recovering what's left of my wits, and snarling back at him, I free one hand and grab my own cock at the base. I guide myself between Spike's asscheeks, probing blindly at his entrance.
I slide inside of him with a victorious grunt. Oh gods I'd forgotten...
My eyes close and I inhale... anger and lust and blood, sweat... and Oh gods, I can't believe I'd forgotten what this feels like... How could I have forgotten?
Cool and soooo tight. No lubrication.
I'm developing a new fondness for naked Twister.
I open my eyes and smile.
I'll thank Spike in the morning.
If he doesn't kill me first.
~~~
Fuck, I'm bleeding. Blood's dripping between my legs. My flesh is tearing. Sonfoabitch is pounding me into the table and the edge digs into my waist. Ok, so it feels realllly fucking good, but I would douse my own cock in holy water before I'd share that little fact with him.
Hate, companionship and sex. Best combo in the world. It's been waaayyy too long. I'm going to explode. No. Literally. The wanker's pinning my hands to the table now and I can't even get to my own dick. Fucker, it's the last time I let him get his hands on a bottle.
Or maybe I wanna make sure he's wasted from now on... He always did have a hard time mixing control with controlled substances...
Shit. I can't handle complex thought processes like that right about now. My cock chafes against the wood and I thank the gods for quality crafted wood furnishings without small splinters. I want... I need... Nope. No way the Big Bad is gonna beg - to be licked, sucked, tugged - and it's not like he's gonna stop until he comes, anyway, soul or no soul.
I push back against him, full to bursting. One of his hands still crushes my swollen wrists together. The other flicks at my nipples. The room starts to spin; I need more booze. My legs are starting to buckle, dragging my cock down the old oak tabletop.
Angel twists his hips clockwise and my pelvis follows the movement. I see stars. I think I just mewled. His fangs leave my shoulder and I know he's close to coming. The friction back and front feeds the blaze in my groin. My eyes roll back in my head, I can't take much more of this.
There's not enough booze in the world to dull this sweet agony. Much too long... it's been much too long... And at this point, I'm almost blind. Which is fine. The vision behind my eyelids is a curious mixture of the current state of affairs and future revenge scenarios, and what else would I wanna look at?
Besides, it's not like I'm gonna cooperate with him... No... it'll be a friggin cold day in --
"Ahhhhhh..."
Angel's hand draws away from my nipples and I can't repress the moan torn from my chest. He stills suddenly - the mother fucker. His palm comes down on my ass, hard, and... it stings! Godamn fucking Pouff is giving me a spanking, cock twitching inside my sore ass, and I can't help myself, I shudder - sending a ripple through my muscles which clench around him involuntarily.
Angel knows me too bloody well.
I haven't come, but my ass tightens around him anyway. His grip around my wrists becomes a grinding and a gurgle dies in my throat.
"Angel..."
He comes. Big shiver against my back, a wail in my hear. A small sob.
That's all my Sire wanted from me. His name falling from my torn lips as he pumped down my arse.
All right.
Round Two.
I wait.
He slumps against me, drained by his orgasm and muddled by the alcohol. His hold slackens. That's all I was waiting for.
I know Angel really well, too.
I whip around and punch him full in the face. Gods, but I love that sound. And his expression of dazed wonderment has me in stitches.
And he very conveniently falls down to his knees at my feet.
~~~
I'm still hard. Spike just knocked me on my ass and my first thought is that I'm still hard. Have I mentioned the curious side effects of five hundred years of celibacy? And alcohol...? I can't really tell the ceiling from the floor at this point, and when I look - up (?) - Spike towers over me, laughing his sexy ass off, in full game face.
I know I haven't seen him in a while, but I really can't remember Spike ever being that tall.
Makes me queasy.
His cock hovers in front of my nose, angry and purple. Dripping with pre-come.
I think my last functioning neurons finally decide to fire because I understand now what he has in mind and I try to scramble backwards. He's too fast though. Or I'm too slow. Or, with my damn luck, this is some kind of divine retribution. Whatever.
Man, he looks unbelivably pissed off. I may be in trouble.
He yanks my hair and jerks my face closer to his thick length. My mouth has to be open on a round 'oh', because he fits perfectly between my lips. Instinctively, I relax my muscles and flatten my tongue roughly against his cock. He pushes forward, crude and punishing. He hits the back of my throat and my nose ends up buried in his coarse, dark curls.
I growl instinctively behind my breastbone. He jumps.
I would grin if I could.
But that would be a moot point anyway, cause I can't even keep balanced up on my knees. The stranglehold on my hair tightens. I moan in protest, but he ignores me. I push against the smooth, unyeilding, alabaster columns of his thighs.
And then...
And then Spike performs a move that would leave Newton wanting, and aren't I glad that vampires are sometimes able to defy gravity, because we somehow flip, and... turn, or twist slightly backwards... I'm gonna be airsick soon, and wouldn't that just be a riot? I doubt Spike would see the humor in that situation though, so I refrain.
You would think that the boy would have the decency to be grateful.
But whatever he did, I end up sitting with my back against the couch, and him looming over me, his knees bent on either side of me, braced against the cushions. My neck is bent painfully backwards, arms twisted above my head, shoulders almost wrenched out of the sockets.
And believe it or not through all this his cock stayed in my mouth.
One of us is really quite talented.
Spike begins to rock restlessly, fucking my mouth. My lips swell around him, my tongue scrambles to keep up with his length. When I don't perform to my Childe's exacting standards, Spike pulls agonizingly on my aching arms. I arch off the couch but his thighs close around my neck, holding me in place.
My lips break and my blood begins to flow around his cock.
~~~
It's the sight of Angel bleeding around me that brings me to the edge. I pump faster, harder. Neither the alcohol nor the years have dulled his skilled tongue and the tension builds up quickly between my balls. It's a wonder I've lasted so long after being fucked into the table and denied release.
And oh gods, I'd forgotten how good... ooh god... How could I have forgotten...?
I stare at my Sire, supine underneath me, eyes tightly shut, blood flowing down his chin, and the spectacle of my hard cock disappearing between his lips is my total undoing.
I howl.
Which is when my knees choose to give up on me and I collapse on top of him and the couch, my cock still inside his eager mouth. I feel him struggle to swallow, nursing my cock like he nursed his liquor bottle earlier. The flutters congregate in my groin like flies on acid and all right... that's it. My brain's had more than enough. I keel over backwards, landing on my sore ass.
Angel drops like a graceless rutting stag next to me.
We just sit there, staring at eachother stupidly for what seems like an eternity.
Fuck.
I need a fag.
~~~
Omygod... this did not happen... this did not happen... this did not... I'll open my eyes and it will be some crazed First induced dream...
"Hey, broodboy, ya got any more decent booze in this final bastion of foofy decor?"
Omygod... this happened.
So I open my eyes and he's grinning at me, still gloriously, shamelessly naked, blood dried on his legs, and caked on his chest and chin, purple bruises already healing to a pale blue... that dirty smirk, once and once for all time, my complete and total undoing.
"Spike--" I start, wiping my own blood off my lips, but he's walking toward the kitchen, tugging open cabinets and banging pantry doors closed in his quest for more alcohol. My boy was never much one for basking in the afterglow.
I wonder if wolves bask in afterglow. I wonder if I could get any stinking drunker. I wonder if drunker is a word.
He shouts at me from the kitchen, "You're gonna have to get rid of half this shit, mate, or there's not gonna be enough room for my stuff."
I choke on my own saliva.
Then he's next to me again, bottle in one hand, cigarette in the other, and I look down at him, and now I wonder...
Do I want to kill him or fuck him again?
He grins one more time, and drops a surprisingly tender kiss on the only non-bruised portion of my chest...
And I decide to decide tomorrow.
End.
~~~
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