The Adventures of Captain Peroxide and Deadboy
The Angel/Spike Zone of the BtVS Writer's Guild
TITLE: Lapsing
AUTHOR: Bridie
FEEDBACK: [email protected]
ARCHIVE: Sure...just let me know where
PAIRING: Angel/Spike
RATING: NC-17 eventually, M/M Slash
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Other people own them...I'm not making any money...just having a little fun.
SUMMARY: Addiction
DEDICATION: For Mouse...who seems to enjoy my dark side.
The first hit sucked him into shock. The next blew
him into orbit. And the next, and the next...they just
kept coming in pulses of hot ice, heat and need
filling the craving. And it had been so long. He'd
held out. He'd been good. Too good.
"Perfect." She'd said the other day, and there'd been
more than a little derision in her tone. The message
clear: perfect isn't right. Perfect...disturbs them.
And at first there's a flash of... burn. Because this
is painful and new again after his absence.
Abstinence. But that's just a moment quickly lost
because there is warmth stealing through his skin.
Sliding along like molten gold. Settling in his belly
like a happy god, laughing.
God. This was god. Flowing into him. Power and
rightness. Sex and food. All prayers answered. His
veins sang with the rightness of it. This is what
he'd been made for. Even if it destroyed him.
And it feels a little like dying. Like skimming along
the edge of darkness and light and just humming there
on the precipice. And he wants to hang in this moment
forever.
Just open up the vein and slip inside. So simple. So
pure. Shaking now with the sanctity of this moment.
Maybe anathema to someone else, but this was his
Holiest of Holies. Head bent in supplication. Hands
wrapped around the offering. Drinking from the
chalice.
The thing slips from his hands. Used. It doesn't
matter. Just an instrument. Unimportant as he sinks
down. Back to the wall. Someone had told him that...
Keep your back to the wall. This isn't what they'd
meant. Smile in the darkness that he owns. Because
this is his...he'd just forgotten.
But there had been reminders. Standing in the
high school hallway. Insisting that they had changed.
Challenged. "Not us...not demons!" Same song,
different Childe, "We're not people! This doesn't end
because you say so. It never, ever ends. It just
goes on and on --". But his Sire's words had healed
him most of all, "You think you're so different now,
but you're not."
True. Not so deep under the surface. He still was.
The demon. Hungry. And the demon was simple. Kill.
Feed. Fuck. Destroy what interferes. It had been
embracing humanity that was difficult. Complicated.
And it's all about becoming more human, isn't it?
Blood on his tongue. Dead body beside him in this
filthy alley, but somehow he's really human right now.
Imperfect.
Choosing. Was this what it was like for Cordelia when
she lied about her job experience at an audition? For
Wes when he kept insisting the Watcher's Council had
not fired him? For Gunn when he said that he could
accept Angel as man and demon? If you believed the
lie, or the rationale behind it, it was suddenly, sort
of...o.k.? Then being human was complex. But do-able.
He could do this.
He can tell Cordy that she looks good on the days when
the visions have her looking haggard beyond her years.
Tell Wes that he's a good leader, that he made the
right decision. Assure Gunn that he understands his
hypocritical reticence to accept that which is unlike
him. Force the words through his lips that he's happy
She's found love in a cardboard substitute for
himself.
So easy.
And the corpse? That was an evil man, intent on doing
unthinkable (except that he himself has done that and
worse) things to some brunette child. He stopped him.
How he stopped him, is not their concern. That's his
choice.
And he should be worried with how right this feels.
How easy it is to tell them that he'd chased off an
attacker. Damsel saved. No one dead.
It's easy, he knows, because it's what they want to
hear. And he can give them that.
Of course he tells himself it was just a lapse and it
won't happen again. But he wakes in the strange
non-light of his shuttered apartment that afternoon
and he can still taste the blood on his mouth.
And it's...good.
So he pushes back the sheets. Pulls his body from the
bed. Walks over to the small refrigerator and pulls
out a packet of blood. And drinks.
Doesn't bother to focus on the lack of taste. Does it
to cover up the other. Because it's not guilt that's
making him do this. It's fear.
What if they keep track of the supplies they buy for
him? Would they have noticed? So he grabs another
bag...walking to the bathroom. Ripping open the bag.
Pouring it into the toilet. Flushing.
Keeping up appearances.
This is safe. They won't know. It only happened the
one time.
Safe as houses, a voice snarks in his mind.
So he walks downstairs towards the human presence and
away from his ghosts.
And this is bad.
Because suppressed for so long, old senses are back.
He'd fed them, and now they are awake again.
And hungry.
Cordelia, all white skin and dark hair. So much bare
skin, and blue veins thrumming in her neck and wrists.
And she smiles at him. Trusts him.
Pausing on the stairway, he stares. A little too
long, and her smile falters.
"Angel?" That warm and comforting scent is changing.
Fear is sneaking in, and he's oddly comforted that he
doesn't want that. Not from her.
Shakes his head and feigns a smile, "Too early for me
to be up. Sorry."
Surprised at how easy these little lies come to him.
Pleased to see her relax again.
Maybe this will work out.
It's two weeks later. And there's a body struggling
beneath him. So sweet.
And he'd meant to snap the neck. His hand closed
around the stubble-rough skin, and he'd felt it.
Life. Blood. Hammering in rage and fear. But this
time was different.
This time he thought as he lowered his mouth, fangs
dropping. This time he knew.
And he savored.
It burned going down his throat. Like whiskey....
only warm and thick.
He could feel it sliding down, then coursing through
his body. Hard hands scrabbling at him, young voice
grunting in shock and pain, and he could feel the
throb of sound against his tongue as he lapped at the
wound and drank. And drank.
This feels so *good*. This body warm and writhing
under him. Hurting.
He's hurting this body, this boy he'd found with blood
on his hands. And it's adding layers to his mind,
wrapping him in a satisfaction he hadn't known was
possible.
A shudder ran through him as he realized the body was
still and already cooling...his lips still pressed
against the torn flesh. With a sigh he shoved the body
from him...used.
And then he heard the sounds of two hands clapping.
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Date: Sat, 26 Jan 2002 13:03:32 -0800 (PST)
Subject: [UCSL] Fic: Lapsing
TITLE: Lapsing Part 2
AUTHOR: Bridie
FEEDBACK: [email protected]
ARCHIVE: Sure...just let me know where
PAIRING: Angel/Spike
RATING: NC-17 eventually, M/M Slash
SPOILERS: None
DISCLAIMER: Other people own them...I'm not making any
money...just having a little fun.
SUMMARY: Addiction
DEDICATION: For Mouse...who seems to enjoy my dark
side.
And then he heard the sounds of two hands clapping.
Spinning low, his eyes focused on the figure at the
edge of the alley.
"Looks like Puppy found some teeth...care to share,
Pet?"
Those were the words he heard falling from carefully
sneering lips. But it was the tone that he
understood.
The words were light, but their expression was low,
feral...hungry.
Angel's body was still held in a low crouch and the
other man's eyes were flickering from his stance to
the body at his feet. Watching...waiting for
realization to dawn.
And it did. The hunter was up, on unsteady legs, back
flattened against the wall, staring at the corpse, but
his senses fastened on the form approaching him.
Cautiously. The smaller man silently moved forward,
waiting for any sudden moves. When none came he slid
forward fluidly, half pinning the larger man against
the wall, one hand hard and flat against the rough
surface.
The other hand. Moving languidly, white fingers,
spider-like ghosting over the still form, never quite
touching.
Until, hovering, the sound of a zipper sounding loud
and obscene in the death quiet. And Angel's body
wasn't his own. It belonged to the dead man on the
ground and the dead man pulling his cock into the
night air.
Angel should have run. He knew this. He was
immortal. A demon. A hundred years older than the
slender creature with clever hands doing that ruthless
thing to him.
But all he could was watch. Knew the blonde demon's
eyes were fastened on his face. Didn't matter. All
that he could focus on was the sinuous motion of skin
on skin.
He stiffened at the low laugh as fingers wrapped more
tightly around his shaft and continued the rough,
familiar pull. Stiffened for a moment, then relaxed.
Trapped.
Surrendered to the need and didn't even move into the
fierce tug on his flesh. Body stilled but focused on
the memory of movement that was happening in the here
and now. No talent, no artifice. It could be his own
hand, but he's aware it's not. It's not his hand
moving angrily, jerking him off.
He won't drive into the tight, demanding fist.
Because maybe, just maybe, if he can keep his hips
from thrusting. Smother the groan that's threatening
to tear his throat from the inside out, then maybe
this isn't happening.
But it isn't a dream. His eyes register the blurring
speed of movement even as his mind denies it and his
body overrides all reason and denial. And he
finishes. Quietly. Remembered moans dying inside
him, trapped with the other ghosts he houses.
Efficiently, the stream is directed away. To the
ground. Disappearing into the dark asphalt with a
thousand other forgotten stains.
And he knows what's expected. Even as he is tucked
away. False closeness of that other body removed from
his side. He does it.
Holds out his hand, a movement pulling the cuff
further from his wrist. Knowing that cold blue gaze
has never dropped from him for an instant. Even as
chilled hands grasp the offering.
Even when steeled points break the skin and the real
euphoria hits. He can't look back. His brain, gone
somewhere, registers the growl of satisfaction and
that somehow manages to sink into his skin. Seep in
from the lips wrapped around the wound. Suckling.
Pulling him back into this place.
And it's such a real fear, this unwillingness to look.
Childish and tangible like the worst fears can be.
Because he knows what he'll see.
The demon. Himself.
And that's too much. He snatches his hand back from
that other reality. Breaking the contact that snaps
him mostly back to where he is. In this dark place.
"No more."
And his demon is laughing at him. Wild blonde hair,
blue eyes snapping into gold and back again,
remarkable cheekbones he's sure are sharp enough to
cut glass. Yes, this is his demon.
"Not by half." The other breathes into his face.
Suddenly close enough that he feels the blood scent
like a caress. "You'll be back." Shifting, to lean
into the visceral assault, and knowing it has moved
on.
There. At the edge of the alley. Still laughing at
him. "And I'll be here."
And when he does lift his head. Allows himself to
focus. The space is empty. There's a dead body at
his feet. And he needs to be somewhere else.
The day after is easy.
He believes those words he uttered to the dead. No
more.
So simple to feel the renewed strength flowing through
him and believe it's just this renewed sense of
purity.
Doubt for a moment. Staring at his wrist, at the
perfection of skin. He hasn't healed this fast since...
Doesn't matter. His skin may have forgotten, but the
sense memory is there. His hand moving up, tongue
flicking out. Willing the sensation to be what he
wants. Needs a scar. Wants something stronger than
the smooth skin he finds and the taste of only
himself.
Drops his arm, allows the feeling to be tucked away in
the back of his mind. Where it belongs. Flushes the
two bags of blood, disposed with the ease of practice.
Nice to relax in Cordelia's company. Actually
listening to her banter with Wes and Gunn.
Reveling in the lack of dark wings beating their
accustomed gloom on him.
The second day was a little trickier.
The vision. The battle. All that he could handle.
It was being trapped in the cab of Gunn's truck on the
way home.
Feeling the triphammer of Wes' heartbeat, still coming
down from the rush of the fight. The smell of the
blood still trickling down Gunn's bicep, just oozing
into Angel's pores.
Every bit of self control focused on his hands digging
into his legs. Because it wasn't them. None of this
raging urge had anything to do with them. This was
just desire. And their buzz, their life were just
sparks, igniting it.
And he knew they were aware of his change in mood.
Knew his own quiet was bringing them down.
Couldn't help it. Couldn't stop for the idle chat in
the lobby. Couldn't bear their eyes on him as he
walked, almost shaking from the need to run, up to his
room.
And by the time he closed his door behind him, he was
trembling. The glass of the decanter clinked
dangerously against the crystal tumbler.
The whiskey which he knew was mellow and rich, and all
things that fine liquor should be, couldn't be tasted
in his mouth. And this made him sob.
And it's such an alien sound. But it's his, and he
cradles the pain in his chest. Nurturing it. Because
there should be pain. Gypsy gift that he's been
wrapping and unwrapping for years now.
No one knows the secret delight he takes in this. But
he has to, has to have *something* to feel.
Brief shudder that it isn't guilt. That although he
remember the words that came out of his mouth, that
there will be more.
And in his room, the shadows grow a little stronger.
Lengthen. Hold him. Nuzzle his ear and ask him
'When?'. The need wants to know when it will be fed
again.
No. He doesn't *have* to do this. It's merely
something the body wants. Something that happens
between today and tomorrow. Can't think. Won't think
about ten years from now. Ten days from now.
Tomorrow night. Because that's too far away.
And it's all locked away inside and it wants to get
out. God help him. Because he wants someone to know.
Wants someone to tell him why he's still in control.
Why he hasn't turned into the monster. Why is he
still a man, with needs. Why he still loves his
friends.
It would be easier the other way.
So much simpler if he just wanted the one life. The
life of the demon. But he wants this life too. The
life of a man. Working towards something.
And the simplest question makes him quake in fear.
What if he doesn't have to choose?
Fingers warmed by friction moving lazily over his
cock. Torturous movement demanding more from him this
time. Each time. Distance closing between bodies,
and cool lips on his ear. "Feel it. Let it go."
Greedy voice pulling his hips forward. Forcing him to
become active. To do more than accept.
Thrusts forward once, then back to stillness. The
reward is a rougher grasp, a stronger pull and those
lips moving in a sibilant hiss, "Good, luv."
It isn't hard to give in. The incentive is those same
lips fastened on his vein and pulling. Dizzy orgasm
of blood and come and lust. It's becoming more
difficult to separate one act from the other.
Maybe he isn't supposed to.
Because that hard honey voice laced with nicotine
drags him further outside himself each time. Not so
detached that his hips aren't moving on their own now.
How many times did it take before he was grunting and
fucking that tight fist with abandon. Borrowed blood
where it *belonged*, his brain empty of his own
thoughts. Possessed by the demon jacking him over the
cooling corpse.
His demon is so persuasive.
The light is blinding in that concealed space as the
words wash over him. "Give it to me." "Come for me."
"You want this." "I've got you."
And he does. So thoroughly caught, but not captured.
Willingly. Doesn't feel like a trap. Too familiar
for that, and his memory catches on something, so he
shuts his eyes.
"Doesn't matter. I can still see you. I'm always
here. Always watching."
And if he were to take the words apart and analyze
them, it's disturbing. So he doesn't. Takes it as
comfort, really. Simpler that way. No reason to
fight it.
It's getting easier. Two lives. But he's in both of
them, so...There's logic in there somewhere.
It's just in the spaces in between it's frightening.
In the hotel lobby it's warm with human life and
laughter soaking into his skin like forgotten sunshine
would. Conversation so easy. If they marvel at the
change, they aren't saying so. They accept him as
they always have...only now they seem to enjoy him.
Strange comfort here.
Stranger comfort in confined spaces.
And it's odd how all those dark alleys and dim
doorways have become the brightest places in his
universe. How now when he goes home he feels
overwhelmed by the shadows of well-lit spaces. So
all the lights are on. Constantly.
Sits staring. Lies sleeping. Doesn't matter. It has
to be bright. Helps carry him back to those moments.
Moments that are consuming him without leaving him
empty. And how is that possible?
Human blood just singing through him. He feels like
he must glow with it, but still they don't say
anything.
His shaft so hard and drooling and *ready* when the
demon pulls it out. He expects the sardonic look,
amusement at his more than evident need. But it
doesn't come.
Exchange of bodily fluids. The phrase jumps in his
mind. Because clinically, that's the description of
this nocturnal routine. That bothers him.
He wants to think about that. But there's no time.
Vision. Wes and Gunn are gone, working at Anne's
shelter. Just Cordelia. Tears streaming down her
face, but not from pain.
"Children. He's hurting them. They're just
kids...Angel..."
"What is he?"
"Human." Disgust and anguish, and he holds her for a
moment. Wants to tell her he knows what dwells in the
dark places, and they don't all have horns or claws...or
fangs.
It's enough. Her sorrow is more than enough for him
to understand.
He leaves. Finds the warehouse. No children. Just
men. Humans.
Editing the celluloid. Packaging up the shipment for
deliveries to those whose needs this fulfills.
There's a fine spray of blood across the white screen
flickering with the images of small hurt bodies.
Stops the noise of tiny cries and screams by crushing
another body into the projector. Shuts off the
hammering in his brain by viciously sinking teeth in
and just...gorging. No reason not to.
These...things...were just taking up space.
But feeding this way...off *them*...he feels almost
filthy. Knows it's ridiculous. Silly superstition
that their blood is anything other than sustenance.
He can't really be tainted by their evil. And even if
he could, he has enough of his own.
But the need to be cleansed is there. The ache to be
pure is so strong he groans.
"Angel?"
He turns, and almost laughs at the look on the blonde
demon's face. Confusion. No...wariness.
And he does laugh. This makes the demon step back.
Which is wrong. Closing the distance between them is
the most important thing in the world right now. So
he moves.
Stands there. Waits for the ritual to begin.
But that 'want' voice inside his head should be quiet.
Stilled with blood. It isn't. Vague urges becoming
more distinct.
Stops the hands reaching for his belt. Grasps them.
Hard. Pulls that body up to his. Just breathing in
the scent.
Lets one hand loose to snake up the body pressed in to
his, fingers moving through harsh hair, cupping the
skull. Tilting his own head...just so. Making the
offer apparent.
No hesitation in the tongue lapping strong against his
neck. Full body shiver as lips are laid to skin and
just suck. Audible sigh as razor fine teeth sink in.
Just enough to open the flow. And he's beyond content
to have that tongue lap against his jugular. Have
those sharp hips rock against him. That body so hard
against him and needing.
And it's almost like a key slipping into a lock. Not
quite, but so close. Ghosts and memories straining
against the confines he's built up. Chink in the
armor.
With a gasp, that mouth is pulled from his skin and
he's looking into dazed eyes, blue again. Lips ruddy
with his own blood, parted slightly as if he can't
quite shake the disbelief. Blinking once.
Then a slow, hard slide down the length of Angel's
body until the smaller demon is kneeling. Hands
growing more facile as the belt is undone, the fly
unzipped. Still no pretense as the pale face leans
forward and just nuzzles against the dark curls, the
shaft almost caressing along one cheek.
There is a look of surprise on the younger man's face
as he pulls back. He's been here before...but that was
a lifetime and a soul ago. Surprise, but not
confusion. One hand to his mouth and he licks broadly
across the palm, using his own slick to pull the
foreskin down, bare the shaft to his tongue. Slow
drag of teeth and lips up the length.
"Please..." The word whispered above him is enough, and
with one lick across the tip, he is sucking the man
into his blood-warm mouth. Cheeks hollowed with
suction, fist moving over the base. And this isn't
about seduction. Never was.
Finally those hips working with him. Thrusting into
his mouth. Fucking his throat. One hand spared to
cup the heavy sack, fingers pressing down rubbing
against that sweet smooth spot. All movement frantic
before the pulse of come pushing down his throat.
Pulling back, just to catch some in his mouth, then
sucking in again to swallow against the slowing throb.
Angel's hands in his hair, yanking him upright staring
at his mouth, looking as though he's about to speak
then thinks better of it and licks. His head bent
over the blonde, tongue pressing against lips, then
plunging in. Tasting and taking. Angel's arms
wrapped around the smaller man and feeding on his
mouth. Eyes shut tight because if he opens them he
knows the light will blind him.
One arm dropping to move between them, pressing a
large hand against the erection straining against the
other man's jeans. Startled by the sudden hiss and
even more abrupt absence of the body in his arms.
That he wants there. That he wants.
The wariness is back in those blue eyes. His demon is
backing away again. The growing distance almost a
painful *thing* growing in Angel's chest. Searches
for the words, some charm to tie his demon to him, but
the blonde keeps moving.
Such an eerie tone to the voice tonight as a careful
mask slips over his face, "Just remember. I'm
watching."
As if that were enough.
Nothing seems to be enough anymore. Not the time
spent with his friends. Not the hours spent fighting
the good fight. Only too much time in between.
It's being alone that he can't stand. Makes him
over-think. The memory of light leaving him exposed,
laid open. Available to all his desires that hover
over him anxiously. Waiting with him.
He knows when he has to go out again. Things become
vague....diluted life, and he's struggling against
shadows even as he stares into the now-bare 100-watt
bulb.
Blinks back against the shadows and remembers. I'm
watching you...always there...is he? Watching now?
It helps to think that. Because as much as he needs
to presence of those humans in his life, this need
goes deeper. So much older. So much a part of him.
Blood.
It's not the blood making him hard right now. It's
the thought of those blue eyes, watching him. Knowing
him.
Brown eyes open and staring ahead at the ghosts he
conjures up. Large hands moving from the arms of the
chair to his thighs. Willing the vision to be
reality.
He finds if he stares at the light long enough it's
not his hands pulling his cock. Hands wet with spit
because that tongue had been...
Blunt fingernails shifting up his throbbing length
where teeth had been. His hips lifting with rough
thrusts into tight fist that should be a throat.
Blinded eyes searching for that elusive burn only
captured at another's touch. His touch.
His taste. And for a moment he had both. Enough to
carry him through this moment. Enough for the
brilliance to flair in his brain and burn out doubt as
he came in his fist. Shaking with momentary rapture.
It's when he's coming down...when his brain clears for
a moment...starts to really *think*. Brow furrowed in
confusion, because he'd wrapped his arms around that
smaller figure, thrust his tongue into that mouth and
devoured what he could find of himself there.
Frozen in that snapshot, and realizes. The demon
never moved in response. Blonde hair, taut muscle,
blue eyes....never pressed back in that last embrace.
And he's angry suddenly, that those arms weren't
clutching him. Fierce flash of memory, and that
tongue hadn't pressed against his....hadn't taken
anything back. Except blood...and semen.
Next time....the kill is fierce and quick...expedient
as he can be in the half-euphoria of life bursting on
his tongue. Doesn't even have to turn to know the
other is there. Scent on the air a little like
desperation, and that's oddly....pleasing. Smiling as
he does turn and catches the smaller body quickly.
Aggressive use of his larger weight to cover and push
forward, still smiling.
Expecting a struggle. Anticipating force. Not
disappointed. Grunt of surprise though as the
aggression is moved into him and not away.
Mouth snarling up to meet his in a frenzy of tongues
lashing and lips pressed together in a fury of need.
Wonderfully those arms wrapped around him, and that
terrible empty space between Angel and the rest of the
world is gone. Vanquished in the bruise of
leather/denim clad muscle contending for maximum press
against him.
This time no protest when his hand moves between their
bodies, making space for his target. Some alchemy of
sex has their cocks free in his large hand. Come
slippery and gliding with each jerk, between the
thrust of both hips.
Rocking over-sensitive flesh, so smooth hard and warm
since that's where all life and movement are hovering.
Waiting for it.
His blonde demon's lips sliding from his with a final
suck and lick. Blunt teeth growling along jaw,
cheek, throat. Savage tear of ivory now, something
like a whine as slimmer hips ram up. Hands grabbing
at dark hair, pulling that thick neck down to just
suckle and thrust, allowing Angel to hold on and pray,
his head bowed in something like supplication. Hand
moving in a soft liquid blur.
Both growling toward the frantic moment. It's fierce
and hallowed and it belongs. To him.
And he thinks with what's burning in him right now he
won't see shadows for days. Can wrap it up inside the
way he's still desperately holding this body against
him. For a very long time.
His demon disagrees, but the voice isn't harsh.
"Enough."
Sticky disengage. Captures the slow smile on the
blonde's face and burns it into his retinas.
Souvenir. Until next time.
This time Angel's brave enough to ask, "You're
watching?"
Wins him a laugh, "Always."
Just enough to keep him safe a while longer.
He brings Cordelia ice cream, staying up late and
listening to her stories. Tucking her into a spare
bedroom because she'd fall asleep driving home.
Watching her sleep. Head turned just so and he can
see the pulse beat gently at her elegant throat.
Beautiful. He loves the life thrumming through her.
Loves what it brings him. Her friendship, loyalty,
overly brutal honestly. Closes the door and walks to
his own room.
Asleep himself within moments. Smiling. Only one
light left on.
It's like that for days. Not that he doesn't think
about it. Wants it. Plays back the images in his
brain. His own fingers press in remembered place on
his flesh where the other had touched. Craves to have
that body with him. Under him. Around him.
Finally sinking in that wanting isn't enough. That's
not how it's done. This dance has a delicate virtue
to it, and wanting just sullies it. It has to be
need.
So he is patient. Moving through his life with a
vigor borne of living blood and animal lust. His two
lives merging in these moments. He'll wait because
his demon is watching and waiting with him.
Here. Now. The need is all the ghosts and fears
inside him. Begging to be let through the walls.
Devouring him with such sweet pain. Need making him
hard and fast. Little delight or vengeance in the
kill because it is simply what must be. A means to an
end.
Gently laying the body on the ground. He's a
half-life away from being complete.
Turning. Nothing.
No one.
Slow spin as his eyes search. Scanning for what he
knows must be there. Should be there. It was
something like a promise, wasn't it? "I'm watching."
"Always."
Repeating the words like a mantra. Belief and need
keeping him there. Waiting.
It's almost dawn and something hurts so deep down
inside of him he wants to scream. He waited. He
needed. Wasn't that enough?
Almost blind by the time he stumbles into his room.
Darkness close around him and crushing.
So he talks to his shadows. Cajoling, begging. Just
a rest from the whisperings of need crawling along his
skin. It feels like ill omens scratched along his
flesh.
Foretelling nothing.
He mourns the loss of light, tries to calm the rising
panic. Succeeds for a moment, and that's enough.
Barely.
Adequate, so he can straighten up, blink his eyes and
see the room. Knows the blindness is just the mirage
shimmer of desperate need. Shoves the fear to the
back, remembers who he is. He can do this.
Survive another day.
Because tomorrow will be different. It has to be.
The next day was so different. So many different
kinds of wrong he could feel the hysteria bubbling up
in his throat. Willed the constriction of his muscles
to hold back whatever sound wanted to erupt. Scream
or sob. Instead, settling himself in his room to wait
out the storm of thoughts raging in his brain.
Random thought patterns. It's just another dilemma.
Doesn't mean he has to address it. Doesn't mean he
*has* to listen to these voices. His inner dialogue,
waging a silent war between man and monster, his
salvation and his addiction.
And above this quiet roar of thought is his demon.
Telling him he can't control it doesn't need to. His
own voice sounding loud in the empty room, "But what
if they find out?"
Words hanging in the air.
What if Cordelia gets a vision...about *him*? It's a
little late for that now, though, so is it really a
concern? Why haven't any of the bodies turned up in
the police reports that Gunn pulls each day? Why
isn't Wesley suspicious of his physical changes? He's
stronger, heals faster, surely a man with Wesley's
training would ferret out the truth. Surely.
So many rules broken. There must be a price to be
paid.
Unless. Unless what he's doing isn't so wrong. His
prey have all been so evil. So dark. He can smell it
on them. Has smelled it on himself. It almost
makes...sense. What if it's his right to visit
retribution using his demon?
His demons. Because he wasn't alone in this until
last night.
His demon broke the promise. Ruined the intricate
pattern. Sudden anger at being left alone with this
desire. At being forgotten. That's what's eating at
him....the demon had promised to be there. Always
watching. And he wasn't. He can't feel the presence
now like he knows he should be able to. Knows he's
alone. And there's a frightening freedom in that.
Loss of conscience, with the soul intact.
So...human.
Ancient pride stirring in him. Righteous rage at
being lied to. At being abandoned. Full stop of the
voices in his head. He stands.
Realizing that payback is the mother of all bitches.
Knowing that he has been taught a lesson. Shown to
feel what it's like to be left alone when your world
is nothing but different levels of need. Wonders what
that other felt at being deserted so many years ago.
Suspects it was a more frantic thing for such a young
one. But he is not young. Hasn't been young or felt
young for such a long time. He's a long way from
frantic.
Not desperate at all, really. That would imply some
sort of question, an uncertainty about what is going
to happen. There is no doubt. He is going out again.
Tonight. And it isn't about hunger - it's only been
hours since his last kill.
In defiance he'd sucked down two bags of cold blood,
daring the old habit to restore order to his universe.
It hadn't. But if it had, only he would have known.
Just another secret to cosset and hold dear. Lock in
the box for his mind to play with.
There's only one goal in mind right now. To get
through the afternoon with a minimum of contact.
Flashing Cordelia a smile that he knows goes nowhere
near his eyes when she knocks timidly and opens his
door. Just checking on him. Cringes at the spark of
something in her eyes, but she doesn't voice whatever
concern she feels. He's able to slip past her
interrogation, with a weak excuse and a gesture at the
daylight seeping through the dark shades. Bolt his
thoughts and body away in his room.
Wanting and waiting. And a little too focused. On
sunset.
Dusk usually sidles up to him, like something familiar
and welcome...an old friend, always the same. An
agreeable handshake. Tonight it's a crack across his
back and an unvoiced command.
Time to prove that he doesn't need the demon. That he
hasn't forgotten. Show that the lesson he has learned
is that the rules are irrelevant.
And *that's* what missing. He could rationalize all
of *this* if he only knew the rules. He can feel a
bit of hysteria rising up like bile at that thought.
Shoves away the need for rationale. Pushes it back
down in favor of the hunt.
This is the hunt. His hunt. Not looking for blood
this time. Looking for lust. For the pure animal joy
of culling the herd. Something pretty. Something
small. Something blonde.
And there she is. Shivering. No...crying. And those
tears sliding down her cheeks make him want to lick
them off. Savor them. Put more of them there, and
just hold that head by its' shining ringlets. Like a
doll. Made to be broken.
Did he make a sound? She looks up, startled by
something. Realizes she's wandered from the party
raging a few doors down. Aware now, perhaps of the
vulnerability she presents. She starts to walk, but
not back to whatever heartbreak she'd found in that
well-lit house. No, she moves away, towards the
darkness. Little lost lamb.
He follows. Slowly. Her scent catching him, so easy
to pick out that sweet sad aroma from all the others
moving through the night air. He wonders if he grabs
her, tilts her head just so, looks down...will her eyes
be blue? He can hope.
Allows himself the deliberate pleasure of making a
noise. So he can share with her. Let her know,
without allowing her to see. Needs her to know this
is his dance. Slow smile as her breath catches in her
throat and she turns, seeing nothing in the shadows,
but looking all the same.
But she knows. And starts to run.
The smell of adrenaline pumping through her body
assaults him like a slap, and he grins into it.
Following the trail of sweat and tears, images of
drinking that from her first flashing through his
brain. First...and then the utter sweetness of breaking
through delicate skin to pure blood laced with fear
that *he* put there. For no other reason than because
he could. Proof of life without his demon.
Sudden frown. Game over already? Because she darted
in misdirected fear down a blind alley. Hardly fair,
but he's smiling as he finally steps out of the
shadows. Lets her see the face of her romancer.
Gratified as his human countenance lulls her for a
moment.
"It's all right. You're safe. No need to cry."
Words uttered as he moves closer to her. Closing in.
Her momentary sense of security shattered as he
presses in closer. A wild leap in her pulse and he
wants to thank her for the gift. A whimper escaping
her lips as his arms move around her.
"Shhhh....I'm going to make those tears go away. Trust
me..." Grin of pure delight playing over his face as
she falls silent. Almost limp now in his arms.
Surrendering. And isn't that what prey should do?
So fascinated with studying her acquiescence, almost
in love with the bend of her neck as she slumps
against him. Doesn't notice the approach until it is
too late.
Sudden snarl of rage from him and a shriek from the
girl as she is torn from his embrace. The roughness
of the movement enough to startle her into motion as
she finds the energy to bolt down the alley.
He won't turn. Won't look. This isn't the way it's
supposed to be. He wanted to control it, just this
once he tells himself.
"Not gonna happen, ducks. Wasn't meant to be...jes'
accept it and we can move on."
"You weren't there." The words dragged from him,
feeling like bits of glass tearing him on their way
out. Sounding just as rough.
"S'okay. I'm here now. Look...let's get ya home.
We'll talk there. Get ya inside...get ya straight. No
worries. Come on then."
Lets himself be pulled along. Like a child. Needing
guidance. Needing home. And somehow, for some reason
that he can't quite yet fathom, this demon. No, his
demon is offering him both.
The hotel is empty. Cool marble echoing their
footsteps back at them, and he realizes how much like
a mausoleum this place is. Never noticed that before.
Steady movement until they both sit in his room.
Watching each other like the reflections they will
never have again. He's just going to wait for the
other to speak. Waiting. It is after all, what he's
good at these days.
"Ya wanna know why I wasn't there last night."
Response too obvious to be spoken.
"Was there."
That wasn't the expected answer. Of course none of
this is really anticipated. Least of all sitting in
his room across from this....from *him*.
"Was there. Didn't want ya to see me. Was angry."
Voice quiet, calmer than he feels, "Why?"
Nothing calm in the agitated response. "Ya think this
has been easy for me? Think I don't wish for simpler
times. Hell, I look at you an' I see *his* face. Not
blaming you, jes' saying....miss me Sire."
Deafening silence suddenly springs to meaning in his
mind. Suppresses the need to put his hands over his
ears to stop it.
Curses inwardly at his need to know. "Why did you
come back then? Why bother to stop me? Would have
thought you'd enjoy seeing me brought low like this.
You know what would have happened after, I couldn't
have -."
Interrupted. "S'like you said...things change. Can't
go back, can only go forward. An' right now I need
you sane, need you willing. Need your blood. It's
still Sire's blood, innit? So that's it. Two
leashes...I hold yours you hold mine...need a yank every
once in a while, don't you? We'll be safe as houses.
S'okay...I'm here."
And he is here. Out of the chair. Moving closer.
"This isn't a history lesson, *Angel*." Stress on the
name, right where he needs it. "We aren't going
back...this is new."
Slim body, still looking for all the world like a boy,
crouching between his knees.
"So that's it. I watch your back....an' you watch
mine."
Slow shake of the dark head in disbelief.
Sigh of exasperation from the demon covered by a move
forward. Hands sliding up powerful thighs, face
tilted up.
"Ya've believed in curses and divine power fer so
long....why stop now? Still got the soul, right?
Still got yer human pets. Still fightin' the good
fight. So....you must be doing all right. Why fight
it?"
Futile wish of a plague on his past self for teaching
this creature so well. Because the argument makes
sense. And those hands are moving slowly back and
forth, inching closer to his groin.
"Soul's safe with me, pet." Cool hand pressing
against the bulge in his pants. "No chance of ya
forgettin' who you are with me, is there?"
The cracks in his personal walls getting wider all the
time. Because he wants this. Wants to let it go.
Wants both lives. Needs the demon to keep him safe.
As promised.
Lips whispering up towards his mouth. "Take it...don't
be a fool. S'all I've got...an' ya need it...don't ya?"
Yes. Reaches out with both hands to grab, pulling
that lithe body up to straddle him, yanking that head
down to feed on that canny mouth. Allows his tongue
to test his memory, sliding across teeth he knows,
opening wide and just licking across the palate. Lets
out a growl at the hard grind of hips.
Blonde head pulls away, laughing...triumphant. Leaping
backward and running toward the large bed. Throwing
himself and landing on his back only an instant before
Angel follows. Settling on the smaller form with a
satisfied grunt. No hesitation as he shreds the
clothing from both of their bodies. Finally able to
make one continuous lick from hip to neck, nibbling at
the vein sluggishly pulsing there. Tiny smile of
satisfaction that he'd caused that stimulus.
Wider grin as legs part beneath him. Slender hips
canting up so hard flesh rubs together and the
resulting gasp is gathered up in Angel's mouth and fed
back in hard thrusts of tongue. Eager suckling
pushing his hips painfully against those below him.
Rough gasp.
"Ya need it, don't ya? Need to be in me...want ta fuck
me hard, don't ya, luv?"
The truth of the words slamming in to him. Suddenly
frozen.
Muttered curse below him, "Not a chit, Angel. Ya
can't hurt me." Arms pulling him down mouth trailing
his jaw. "C'mon, give it t'me good. Want ta feel
that thick cock o' yours in me hole."
Swift mouth on his, teeth bruising his lips until he
opens then pulled into that wet place. Wounding teeth
and tongue sucking, biting, as strong legs wrap around
him. Imprisoned by that body and mouth. No choice.
And he does want it. Wants to bury himself so deep in
tight flesh that he can't find a way out. Wants to be
taken in and remade. Needs to be whatever his demon
wants him to be.
And he can. Can adapt. Can survive. As long as the
blood in this creature writhing beneath him calls to
him. Forever. Can't be denied. Won't renounce this
blood tie, because the demon's given it all back to
him...only wants *this* in return.
Only too willing to give in, his body trembling from
the lust in the voice wrapping around his mind as
tightly as the fist claiming the stiff flesh between
his legs.
"Put it in me, dammit! Gimme what I need, Angel!"
Yes. He's pushing those willing knees up, exposing
the puckered bud clenching beneath the silky sac.
Reaching to gather the wetness on the shaft bobbing
angrily over rippled abdomen. Looks up to almost
angry blue eyes and he urges two fingers in, watches
in fascination as azure snaps to gold and back again.
One syllable pushed out between clenched teeth.
"More!"
Three fingers shoulder tensing as he drives his hand
forward, crooking his fingers ruthlessly just...there.
Hips bucking wildly under his hand. Pays to know your
demon well.
"Hell...Bloody hell! Do me! Now, Angel -- ah...god, just
fuck me, man!"
Stretching himself over that body, concentrating as
legs wrap around him again. Wet, aching and poised
over that hole looking so small against his hardness.
Heels digging into his back and he falls forward with
the first thrust. Deep. Holding.
Wants to talk, needs to tell the demon how good this
feels. How right. Coming home and finding everything
just as you left it. Manages to open his mouth against
the collarbone underneath and suck as he trembles.
"Please..." Such a keening sound coming from the mouth
moving against his ear. Puffs of cool breath speaking
more need. "Move...ya git....move!"
Pulls back, pulls almost out, pulls a gasp from the
body beneath him. Slams back in.
"Fuck, yeah!" Fingers digging into large shoulders,
cock lying stiff and hard between them, drooling and
red. "C'mon...touch me...jack me...fuck me...harder, dammit!"
Body bent to the demands of the demon. Tattooed flesh
flexing with each thrust into that tight hole and each
and pull on swollen flesh. Driving himself into that
haven of grasping muscle. Ramming in his own need
manifested in this fierce mating.
Cry of near pain as muscles grip him tight and cool
fluid pulses over his hand. Surrender to the orgasm
wrenched from him by the demon beneath him. Feels his
own wetness spilling inside, slicking that wonderful
place. Never wants to leave. Wordless appeal as he
bends his head, seeking that mouth on his neck.
Soft whimper at the teasing licks. Knows the demon is
smiling, can feel it on his skin. Ready to beg for it
as the vein rips under those fangs. Silent tongue
pressing into the ragged hole and his cock just
twitches in final agony in that tight dark place.
He'd give more if he had it, settles for crouching
above the body, and letting the other suck greedily at
his neck. Lets hands grip his hair tightly and hold
him in place. So good to let go.
Finally just a gentle lapping at the savaged skin and
he gently pulls out, drops beside, lies on his back.
Almost wants to ask, but doesn't have to as that cool
body leans into his. Turns to see blue eyes looking
intently at him.
"Good ta let it out, innit? Bit of a wild ride ya
gave me. Needed a good seein' to."
"I was just thinking - "
In the blink of an eye his mouth is stopped by a
tongue, pushing in, demanding his attention. Gives it
willingly. The demon pulls back, smirking.
"S'not allowed, pet. No thinking. I gotcha. Yer
safe."
Body curled against his, lips nuzzling at the healing
wound. He likes this. Like a key fitting a lock. He
can almost hear the quiet snicking sound of something
opening, but he wants to sleep. Eyes shutting
drowsily.
"You're watching."
"Yeah...brought ya home, gonna watch over ya. Always
here."
It's good to feel like this at last. Harbor. Home.
Protected. He falls into sleep. Dreaming of nothing.
----------------------------------------------------
His eyes slowly open. A strange smile spreading
across his face at the feel of a familiar body pressed
to him. Displaced sense of being here before and yet
this being completely new. Further disoriented at the
images of the past few weeks playing back in his head.
Sudden frown at that. Too much pain. Too much
darkness.
But that's gone now. Replaced by the sureness that he
is exactly where he belongs. Stronger than he's been
in....forever. Happier than he has any right to be.
Looks down to see blue eyes blinking back
sleep...regarding him. The demon answering his smile,
"'Morning, Angelus.".
His own demon finding voice and answering, "Missed me
that much, boy?"
Hard smile as the blonde pulls himself over the larger
body. Rubbing himself against him, sniffing deeply
then purring into the offered throat, "What can I say?
Yer my addiction."
"Clever clever lad."