Summary: Sex. Little angst, not much.
Disclaimer: Not mine. The boys belong to JW.
Note: Apologies given to Jessica and Kita, whose drunk Spike fic was many planes above mine. ;)
I am so angry I think my eyes might explode.
My fist is itching for something wooden to smash through his black heart. Is it not enough that I invited him to live with me? Is it not enough that I give him food, shelter, and the occasional fuck?
Well, more than occasional.
But he's done it now. He crossed that fine line that he loves to dance around so much.
I deal with finding his filthy magazines under the mattress. I deal with him wearing the same disgusting clothes for three days in a row. I deal with him drinking the last bag of blood and waving me away impatiently when I hold the empty plastic up accusingly.
I can only stare in disbelief at his mussed blond head that happens to be sticking out over the disheveled bedclothes. His hair is going every which way, the unruly waves curling messily over themselves and the pillow.
The fact that he looks like the Angel Gabriel in sleep does not crack the icy anger one bit. Spike looks innocent while he's got a human heart in his hands and a mouthful of entrails.
I was not even this angry the time I came home to find him chasing Cordelia around the apartment while he was in full gameface, with her wearing only her underwear and a shredded shirt, and him singing "Glory to the King" at the top of his lungs.
*She* was probably this mad, though. Even though he had pouted and claimed he was only teasing her after I cuffed his head.
No, what he's done this time can never be undone. If we both live to be one thousand years old, I will not forget how furious I am at him right this minute.
He's drunk, my idiot childe is.
On... MY... Irish... whiskey.
My four-hundred-dollar bottle of aged Irish whiskey. Which is gone now.
It's not the actual whiskey itself, though my mouth is practically watering just at the thought of the warm silky taste of it. It's the fact that it was a gift, a gift I received well over five years ago, and not only is the whiskey gone but the giver of it is too.
*That's* what's making me so mind-numbingly angry.
I pad across the wood floor, avoiding the plank that creaks. The element of surprise is important.
Spike has the precious bottle clutched in one hand, his long fingers curled around the neck. As I get closer, I can see that there is a single drop hovering on the lip, trembling there. The clear brown liquid taunts me with that one drop.
I grab the coverlet, yank it off of him, and stare down in distaste. He's fully dressed, for God's sake, his Docs leaving black streaks on the 300-thread count sheets. His trademark t-shirt has stains: a drop of old blood here, a cigarette burn there. I reach down and take hold of his shirt in my fist.
"Get up!" I howl in his ear, dragging him to a sitting position.
The bottle falls to the floor and breaks, enraging me even more.
Spike comes to with a shake of his head and a startled, "What the fu--"
He doesn't have time to finish his sentence because I'm pulling him out of bed, ignoring his yelp of pain when his ass hits the floor. I know the dimwitted hamster on the wheel inside his brain has finally started running when we crunch across the broken glass.
"Now, Peaches," he wheedles as I drag him by the arm across the room, "I would have saved you some, but there was really only enough for one..."
"Quiet!" I turn and bark in his face. I can still smell the whiskey on his breath, and his blue eyes are overly bright.
He's a slobbering lush, that's what he is, and he needs some sobering up.
His expression turns sullen when I yell. He doesn't like it when I yell. I think I'll yell some more.
When we reach the bathroom, he grabs on to the doorjamb but his coordination is off. Oh, imagine that, his balance is off after drinking A WHOLE FUCKING BOTTLE of my liquor. It's easy for me to pry his fingers away from the door and yank him into the bathroom.
"Angel--" he starts, in that slinky low purr of a voice.
"SHUT UP!" I practically throw him into the little room, and he goes reeling into the tile wall. With a groan, he slides to the floor and stares up at me through unfocused eyes.
"Wha'd ya go and do that for?" he mumbles, rubbing the back of his head. "That hurt, you big ol' stupid motherfu--"
My warning growl makes him snap his mouth shut. But he continues to glower.
I kick the door closed and give the cold water faucet in the tub a jerk. The shower comes on full force, hitting the plastic curtain, and Spikes looks suspiciously at the bathtub.
He hiccups once, then giggles idiotically. "You gonna take a shower? Good. You stink. You stink of that crappy, fruity hair shit that gets all over the fucking pillows. And that cologne? Jeeeeeesus, Angel, that shit ain't worth the bottle you put it in -- oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you sure as bloody hell ain't puttin' me in that water, you goddamn pussy!"
But it's too late, and I feel a glimmer of satisfaction as I heave his dead weight into the ice-cold spray and plant my fists firmly on his chest.
Spike sputters under the onslaught of water, his white-blond hair turning a soft, golden honey color as he's thoroughly soaked. My knees hurt from kneeling on the tile, but I don't care.
"Sober up, you *stupid* idiot." I give him a good punch in his solar plexus and that ceases his struggling momentarily.
He glares balefully up at me while cold water streams over his cheeks, running rivulets down his jaw and turning his eyelashes into little points.
I want to lick the water off his face.
No, I don't! I want to beat the death out of him and throw him onto the Los Angeles freeway!
So why, then, why do I feel myself softening even as I struggle to remain angry at this stubborn, willful childe? Why does the sight of him, fully clothed and soaking wet, make the perpetual darkness inside of me recede just a little?
Angry for not being angry, I begin to haul him out of the tub.
Never should have let my guard down. William was not nicknamed "the Bloody" for nothing.
With a grunt, he rises unsteadily to his knees and slaps his hands to my chest. Tightening his fists around my shirt, he gives one good tug and manages to heave me up and over the side of the bathtub, ensuring that both of us get entirely soaked.
And, god *damn* it, this shirt is suede.
He's grinning maniacally now, his eyes a little less hazy, and I know the alcohol is wearing off. "Oh look," he says in a falsely apologetic tone, "the pansy's hair is getting wet."
I lunge for his throat with one hand but he ducks to the left and I wind up smashed against his chest, nose to nose.
He smirks, a flash of white teeth.
Yep, I'm hard.
So is he, though.
He loves confrontation. He can make a whole sexual thing out of it.
Suede shirt, off. A button pops and rolls down the drain. I don't care.
Spike, still grinning and smelling slightly of fine whiskey.
Pants unzipped, little harder to discard than the shirt. Have to peel them off while standing.
One yank to the neckline of Spike's already battered shirt sends it on its way to cotton heaven. It falls away and he pulls his muscled arms out of the sleeves.
Why? Why is it like this between us? Mostly violent, battling for domination. Until the very end, that is. There's never any question at the end who will submit, only because that's a rule older than the devil himself.
He pops the button fly on his jeans but I push down hard on his shoulders and he goes sliding down the end of the tub to land flat on his back between my legs.
"Open," I hiss, grabbing his chiseled jaw and forcing his mouth.
He does, but the flare of his nostrils tells me to be careful. "*No teeth*," I command him, "or I'll yank your fangs out and use them as toothpicks."
The softness of my voice tells him I mean what I say, and he retracts his fangs.
Ohhhhhhhhhh, *God*, the inside of his mouth feels magnificent as I slide my cock in, and I have to close my eyes and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning it out loud.
I've had a lot of head in the past two centuries. All right, maybe not so much since my soul was so thoughtfully returned to me. But before then...
Before then, my days and nights were one big Bacchanal festival, with enough drinking, whoring, and blood to satisfy the greediest of sexual conquerors. I had a lot of women, and a few men when it struck my fancy. And I had a *lot* of blow jobs.
But nothing is like Spike.
He's a master at blowing me. And well he should be, he's done it enough. He knows what I like, for example, right now he's ooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh...*God*!
If he sucks any harder he's going to leave stretch marks.
My eyes flutter open as I feel his hands creep to the vee between my legs and rest lightly on either side of my dick. His lips are red with the friction and his wet hair is slicked back and he looks like he's thoroughly enjoying what he's doing.
Well, you enjoy doing what you're good at.
Damn him, he always turns it around, always takes his punishment and makes it into his own pleasure.
I'm envious of the lightheartedness it must take to do that.
I continue to thrust, his mouth is warm by comparison to the icy water. Slow, downward strokes, and then a quick withdrawal. He's keeping his teeth out of the way. Smart boy.
His hands edge closer to the base of my cock, and one encircles it with thumb and forefinger. I watch as he removes the other hand and places it on his own swollen penis, gripping it tightly and matching the rhythm he's making with his mouth.
Good, let him jerk himself off. I'm sure as shit not going to do it for him.
Like he even fucking cares, anyway. Spike tossing off is a sight I've walked in on all too frequently. He must do it once a day, at least, and it doesn't matter if we've had sex or not. He just does it, and likes it.
And he's liking it right now, circling the tip with his thumb and jerking his shaft roughly while he continues to suck as hard as inhumanly possible on me.
Is *this* why I never stay mad? Or is it something else?
Is it the flash of rebellion I see in his eyes? Is it the howl of protest he gives when I turn off the Spice channel and make him watch Arts and Entertainment? Is it the way he has no regard for anything and everything that's mine?
Or is it the way he turns into me while he's asleep, heaving a deep breath like he used to do while he still lived?
And, Christ, I can't think about that anymore because the telltale tingle in my balls is traveling, and I'm starting to grip his slick hair between my fingers and pump just a little bit harder into his eager mouth, and he's giving it all he's got. To himself, too, because he growls around me and jerks a little, and I know he's coming.
Ohhh, *shit*, this feels good.
This feels so damn good, and I'm about to...yesssssssssssss...
Like a trooper, he swallows it all and then licks his lips for more. He even gives the tip of my cock a final squeeze, and greedily swipes his tongue across it.
I can't stay balanced on my knees any more in this damn hard tub, and I get to my feet. He ignores the hand I hold out to him.
I shut off the water and grab a towel. I throw a clean one over his head while he's struggling to peel off his jeans. He snorts and throws it on the floor.
Leaving the bathroom reminds me of why I became so furious when I first saw him. The shards of glass still lie glittering next to the bed.
He comes out and sees me looking. "Oh, Lordy, ya big bloody poof. I'll buy ya another stinkin' bottle of that swill."
It's not another bottle that I want. I want *that* one, the one he drank, and the one that broke.
I don't answer. He will not understand the significance of that bottle. It will go completely over his empty blond head and he will only laugh at me in that infuriating way of his.
Careful not to step on the glass, I get a broom and dustpan from the closet and silently sweep up the mess. He watches me dump it into the wastecan. I crawl into bed without another word.
Silence from the doorway.
Then, a rustle of sheets as he climbs in. "You don't even like to drink," he says tentatively.
I present him with my back.
"Aww, fer chrissakes, Angel. I said I'd get another one." He acts disgusted.
I turn to my back and stare at the beamed ceiling. "You can't."
"Sure, I saw 'em at that fancy-shmancy liquor and tobacco store we were at in--"
"It was a gift from Buffy," I interrupt tiredly. There, it's out. I said it.
There is a very long, pregnant pause. "Always love's bitch, ain't ya."
Then he turns over and goes immediately to sleep.
Some time in the middle of the night, I wake. Perhaps it was the emptiness beside me that did it. In any case, I hear sounds.
A thud. Muffled, "Fuck all!"
Then, a rustling, and an opening and closing of a drawer.
A whisper of sheets as he crawls back in beside me. Our eyes meet and he glares. "What? I had to piss."
In the morning, a crumpled paper bag sits on my bureau.
There is broken glass inside.
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