Title: Doomed to repeat
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Set: both pre-series and Ats season 5
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon's not mine
I vomited afterwards the first time I was touched by another man - violent retching of bile alone on a cold, ceramic
floor in the dead of night, sobbing to myself wretchedly and crying all the more and the way it made my abused
throat ache.
I didn't have any of my swagger back then, wouldn't have said boo to a goose - and certainly wouldn't say 'no' when
I was approached that night. I was crying in my bed, a quiet snuffling that nonetheless made me shake -
embarassment at crying in front of the other boys rendering me silent and cold in the dormitory that stiffened and
then numbed my extremeties making me shiver.
The boarding school was a large, imposing Georgian building, albeit disordered and befuddled by newer extensions,
awkward, sprawling and confusing. The masters were stern, the other boys loud and raucous. They bumped into me
in the corridor, and disregarded me as they shuffled impatiently during their scolding.
"Isn't this exciting William?". A nod of assertion and a tremulous smile appeased my mother's querulous gaze.
"You're father went here you know - played rugby for the school too". I'll never play rugby - short, slender, so
uncoordinated that I fumble easy catches when we play cricket in the summer. I'm 'pretty', "effete" as my
grandmother once referred to me, someone who passed his best in the eyes of others once I could no longer be
dressed up in a sailor suit for photographs and for walks to be paraded, wide, innocent blue eyes and dirty blond hair
that springs up in ruthless curls. I used to have ringlets when I was smaller - still do sometimes when i've been
caught in the rain.
We see the headmaster, a warm, glowing, comfortable man in a warm, glowing comfortable study. he welcomes me,
gives us both tea and scones and I relax by the glow of the fire. All too soon though, my mother is saying goodbye,
hugging and kissing me in a smothering of plush wool, too much perfume and the smell of make-up. Then she's
gone, leaving me standing in my starchy, itchy new uniform with a trunk that smells of mothballs and is too heavy
for me to carry. I tried this morning and hurt my finger - it's starting to swell painfully now. I worry at the nail and
concentrate on the deepening hue of the bruise.
The dormitory is huge, holds more than I can count. They look at me when I enter with the dormitory leader - a
florid, ample man who pats me on the back and calls me 'son' in an over-friendly manner that smacks of insincerity.
I can't look up when I enter - can feel eyes on me, appraising me just as the boys downstairs had done. I don't like
being stared at, hate the idea of performing - I play the piano well but not even my mother's gentle coaxing can
convince me to play when we have company.
I bustle uncomfortably once i've been shown my bed, arrange, stack, fold - anything to avoid curious eyes. No-one
introduces themself, something i'm glad of now but I know will make me regretful later. When I can find nothing
else to do I change into my pyjama's - ghastly striped items that were bought "with room to grow" and swallow me
up. I want to wash and brush my teeth - can feel the dirt of the day lingering and the taste of that evening's dinner in
my mouth but I don't know where the bathroom is and I falter just as I open my mouth to ask the boy next to me.
So I crawl into bed beneath heavy linen sheets and a red woollen blanket - everyone has one on their beds I notice, a
spot of shocking spot of colour amidst the drabness. And there I lie until the lights go out. Only then do I begin to
cry - the darkness bringing safety and a lonely solace. There are other new boys in the room - if they can't see that
it's me crying then maybe they won't know. I try to be quiet anyway though, worried that sobs will echo.
I don't echo and, heaped under my blanket I'm difficult to spot, but someone sees me anyway, I feel a firm hand
shake my shoulder and whispered words that I can't make out. I can't see the face either - just a silhouette - large
(compared to me), broad. He turns sideways and peering through the gloom I pick out odd details - a turned up nose,
long eyelashes, the gleam of eyes when they hit a patch of reflective light.
The hand on my shoulder shifts, soothingly rubs, awkward and uncomfortably hard in circles. It's easier for me to
relax in the dark - can concentrate on feeling, on the sound of my own nervous, hitching breath. And then the figure
moves and clambers clumsily onto the bed, mattress dipping under the weight and sheets being drawn back form
over me. There's no more fear now then before, apprehension too high already to feel much more than shock as i'm
pressed down under the weight of the boy - boy, certainly because my hands come into contact with puppy fat as I
try to shove him away.
My hands aren't pinned down but they are restrained, strong hands gripping the wrists, thumbs rubbing the pulse
points the same way as the hand rubbed my shoulder. The rest of me is slack underneath, tenses up, stomach
contertinaering as there's warm- no hot- breath on my neck, on my ear, on my face and then dry lips on my own,
noses bumping hard. My lips tighten, sudden anger rendering me resistant and my hands are released. One of his
hands is on my face, uncomfortable pressure on my cheekbone until a thumb presses at the corner of my mouth and
the other hand pinches insistently and painfully, a sharp sting that makes me whimper.
He takes his chance, forces his tongue into my mouth insistently. My eyes are open wide under his assualt, and my
hands hover above my head, not fighting but not quite touching the pillow to aquiesce. One of them is grabbed and
forced down between us to the insistent bulge that's digging me mortifyingly in the hip. I try to draw back, retract as
if he's on fire but today is not my day to be allowed to wilt against others.
It's the same hand that I injured I realise as it's forced down his pyjama bottoms and my fingers catch on the
waistband. It hurts still, the crule grip on my wrist more than the finger - and then i'm touching hard, warm flesh and
coarse hair and tears are threatening to spill. I'm still beneath him and he stops kissing me suddenly, pulls away with
a loud noise that horrifies me. For a moment I think he's going to stop, but no, he's mouthing my neck, sucking,
biting and wispering into my ear, insistent, encouraging words that repel me.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, my hand begins to move - slow, tentative movements that make him pant in
my ear and rub against me. I don't know what i'm doing here - haven't touched myself before and can't think i'm
doing a very good job now. But he'll go away once i've done this for him and i'm determined now - my exploration
and sudden boldness making him gasp.
That perhaps, is my biggest mistake - to seem to aquiesce. His hands ar moving again now, skimming over sensitive,
ticklish sides under my pyjama's, squeezing at bony hips as he rubs and thrusts against me. I'm like a statue under
him, the only thing moving is my hand, movement you can feel and hear rather than see, but I jump when he puts a
hand underneath me, squeezes at my bottom and then slides his fingers down my crack.
I turn my head, can't quite understand why in the darkness, but it makes it easier as probing fingers force into me,
tenseness making me hurt and bleed under his ministrations, pain making me whimper. The noise brings his
attention back to me, my hand stiff from it's rhythmic movements bringing him close. He swells in my hand,
startling me, and then comes, over my hand, into his trousers, sticky, warmth, more pressure from his hand inside
me and a grunt.
He pulls away, pulls out his hand, leaving an aching, horrible wetness where i've bled. My hand falls limply back to
my side, covered with emission. I've stained the sheets i realise as he moves, away, sated into the darkness, footsteps
silent on the wooden floor.
And then i'm running, an awkward, pained stumble that takes me through the door and out into the hallway. It takes
me ten minutes to find the bathroom in the maze of unfamiliar corridors, ten minutes of rising nausea, and the smell
of blood and come. When I finally stutter in, i'm sick in one of the sinks, acid that burns the inside of my nose. Then
I sit on the floor, getting blood on the white tiles, legs an uneasy sprawl on the floor and cry until dawn breaks.
//////////////////////////////////////
Wolfram and Hart often reminds me of that night - endless corridors that lead to nowhere you want to be, cool gazes
of people who'd rather hinder and hurt than help.
Yoy get the feeling that given the option, they too would like to take their pleasure from an innocent, someone who
won't fight or question but will just give in. Pity that they'll never find anyone like that in LA.
But then it's all relative I suppose - we're all innocent compared to some things. You'll have to just ignore me if I get
too existensial - I tend to after a few drinks. Mainly to annoy Angel who is, as far as i'm concerned, completely fair
game. Bastard abused me, beat me up and mocked me for twenty years before he left - and then when he finally
returned he did exactly the same thing again.
I don't believe in karma - poxy zen ideals- but if I did I'd say that Angel's getting a good dose of it here. How'd you
like being an inconsequential plaything huh? Hurts doesn't it? Or maybe Angel's karma is me - which seems unfair
to be honest. Especially since i'm not sure exactly who this joke is on .
I don't like him - I make it a point of never sleeping with anyone whose company I actually enjoy, because, c'mon -
where's the fire and passion in that? I've slet with a lot of men since that night at the boarding school - took Darla's
advice and used to pose as a rent boy too. That way, she told me, you could catch them unawares whilst they were
pawing at you. That was always sweet - the moment they realised they'd been had, that there would be no pleasure
tonight.
And then when I got my chip I took it up for real - couldn't kill, needed money for blood. When you're desperate you
fall back to what you're good at - and this being Sunnydale, there were a fair few people who were up for it, let me
tell you.
And then of course, there's Angelus. and now Angel. You mock him for multiple personality disorder in public, but
to be fair you've got one too - not exactly like him, his is to do with the Demon, or so he claims. William's in there
somewhere, buried, surfacing, in charge, depends on how much effort you want to put in that day. And William?
Well, he's a needy whore - that's his default setting once you became a vampire.
I know that Angel's realised that's why i'm still here - attached? To Wolfram and Hart? Don't make me laugh! No,
i'm staying for him, because just as I did that night in the dormitory, i'll do what's necessary. Angelus realised that
early, used it to his advantage: got something horrific that I wouldn't want him doing to Dru? Then i'd offer myself
up for it instead. It wasn't valiant...or noble...i've never been those...it was just necessary.
And what does Angel need? Well, I thought Cordy might do it. Thought her death might act as a slap in the face for
him, get him going. But no, he sits there, signing forms, slumped in that huge office of his, bathed in filtered
sunlight.
And he'll do it til it kills him.
I don't like Angelus - would spread my legs, would scream, would degrade myself if I had to. Even grew tol enjoy it
eventually once i'd discovered that I too could mainpulate and charm. And I don't think I like Angel either - can't say
hate, because that will put me off what i'm about to do for him.
It's not a seduction, I don't work that way. No, it's more of an offering, something to make him see...something to
make him feel. Does that sound familiar? It's not like with Buffy, i'm sure...she was complete, at peace, he has so
much more to do.
I wait until after hours, when he's upstairs in his apartment, smell of microwaved pigs blood wafting under the door.
No sound though.
I doesn't knock, don't ever knock, think Angel would drop dead if I did. The man himself is sitting on the sofa,
slumped as ever, drinking blood from a white mug, implacable and expressionless.
He studies me with a practiced look of resignation and disdain - I suspect he tries out different expressions when i'm
not there so they're perfected in time for my arrival.
"Spike"
"Hello, sugar Daddy". He hates that, used to love it - the 'daddy' thing way back when he was evil. I can remember
that, legs sprawled, neck bared, beneath him whilst he tries out all his little kinks. Let's see if I can't get that man
back...
"I've told you - don't call me that. It's creepy and embarassing and..." A raise of my eyebrow shuts him up - reminds
him that i'm one of those people who he can never hide from -can lie to me, can run away as he so often does, but he
can't hide.
"What are you doing here? Do you not get to annoy me enough during the day?"
"There's a group of vamps attacking people in a club down the road - separating them off from the crowd and killing
them outiside. Was planning on going alone but then I thought...well...I thought..." It works like a charm - knew
there was nothing so powerful as admitting to my own failings to get Angel's attention.
"You want help?"
"If you like" He knows thats as much as he'll ever get out of me, accepts it as an offer, is already reaching for his
coat. I haven't got mine on - it's not a good idea considering what i've got planned for tonight.
We stop off in the office on the way down for him to grab a weapon. I think the plan's already working - he's
motivated, he's active, he's as bossy as hell.
I ignore him in the car, sneaking a glance every so often- his face is set in 'grim determination' mode. It's as much as
I can do to suppress a smile.
"So...have you got a plan?" He's asking me. This is new.
"Well, I was thinking that i'd go in, lure myself a vamp and then come out here. Then once, they're busy you step in
and kill 'em"
"Whilst they're busy?" He's blank for a moment before he realises what and I mean and he sneers at me, unable to
stop himself. "Oh".
/////////////////////////////////////////
Twenty minutes later, I'm entirely sure that this is the best plan ever. I managed to pick myself up a vamp (horrible
big bloke in a sparkly disco shirt that made my eyes water). I got him out here, he got busy (to be honest, i'm not
entirely sure whether he knew I was a vampire and just thought that I was up for a screw).
But anyway, he was getting a little bit friendlier than I really wanted and I was just starting to wonder whether
Angel had either buggered off home or was jacking off in an alleyway, when the vamp suddenly powdered,
wandering hands, disco shirt and all, and there's Angel standing in front of me and looking more pissed off than i've
ever seen him.
"Enjoy that did you?"
"Why, did you? What took you so long?" He's fuming now, rage making him shake.
"Why is it Spike, that instead of staying at home tonight, I agreed to come help you and watch you get felt up by
some '70's throwback?" Bastard...
"Well...Angel...didn't see you offering yourself up in the name of the good fight!" Is he laughing at me?
"That's because instead of fighting out here...prostituting myself...i'm doing far more good up in my office"
"Good?! You think that you're doing good?" Okay, my voice should never be that squeaky when i'm trying to make
a point, "You're not doing any good up there! Don't you see? That's why I brought you down here tonight - to make
you see!"
He regards me scornfully.
"Good job", and then he turns to leave.
Something in me just snaps. Okay, so its not as if I really need any motivation to hit Angel - its practically a hobby-
but this is borne out of my own failure, my frustration at his complete ineptitude.
"Angel?" His nose makes a satisfying cracking sound when he turns and I punch him. The noise almost makes the
whole damn day worthwhile. He reels and then recovers, snapping back round in game face and backhanding me
into the alley wall.
Ow...there's blood dripping down from my forehead and I think i've just tasted brick. He stalks over to me and leans
down, fury making him bold and grabs my head, manages to tear out tufts of hair when I yank away. I don't pull
away again, don't need to, just stare up at him as he stills, hand still clutching my hair.
We both watch as he drops it to the floor, as it lands in the mess of the alley that i'm currently spread out on.
"Sorry"
"No you're not"
"Well...no" He offers me his hand to pull me up, is satisfyingly shocked when i yank him down instead, hard enough
to twist his shoulder and certainly hard enough to bring him down heavily on top of me. I've been here plenty of
times over the years, a sliver of unbreakable glass under the heat of a kiln. Hell, i've been under him like that.
He remembers that, knows it, doesn't know what to do, rests anxiously above me on his knees, restless, unsure. And
for part, I wait.
There are those who say that Angel is unfathomable, unknowable, but i've neverr thought so. Not til now.
But then he makes up his mind. I'm poised to run here, to just leave and never come back if he makes a quip about
us lying in an alley looking suspicious and leaves. But he doesn't.
He leans forward to capture my mouth in a hard, bruising kiss that he follows up with an intrusive tongue, and, okay,
yes, I may have moaned and wrapped my arms around his neck.
There's no foreplay, may be another day but not today, not when this is about bringing him back. He's rough, large
hands groping over hips, back and bottom hard enough to leave marks and make me whimper.
He likes that, always has done, it makes him groan, makes him harder, makes me feel that much more confident
about this.
And confident is a hard thing to be when you're shoved facefirst up against an alley wall with a horny, (supposedly)
celibate man trying to fuck you dry. I get preparation, fingers covered in saliva that make me shudder, shiver and
tense as he pushes them in, other hand stroking my back, pointless breath a puff and hitch on the back of my neck.
I tilt my head back, can see him out of the corner of my eye, can feel him as he unzips his trousers, pushes against
me, holding me up, nuzzling and biting with human teeth.
And then the fingers are gone and there's a bigger pressure, cock, being forced in, and i'm moaning and spreading
but I don't care. Hands holding my chest, propping me up, because my legs are like jelly, nipples hard as he palms
them through my tshirt, stabbing pain in my gut as he thrusts, pain dulled but not gone as slides against my prostate.
I'm fisting myself now, cock painfully hard and rubbing against brick when Angel thrusts, my hand heavy, head
light. He's paying attention to me, thrusting in the perfect place, teeth vicious against my throat, and i'm coming
hard, over my hand and against the wall, reeling and gasping. I came first - before Mr Celibate, i can't quite believe
it, but he soon follows me over, I make him follow me over, clench and grip around him until we're both buckling to
the ground, and there's a muffled scream in my ear, and cold wetness where we're joined.
We sit there and regard each other for the longest time. Just as my patience wears thin he smiles at me, a genuine
smile with a hint of danger.
"I'm glad I chose to help you tonight. It's been...enlightening"
"Any time, mate". Necessary evils...
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Angel/Spike
Set: both pre-series and Ats season 5
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon's not mine
I vomited afterwards the first time I was touched by another man - violent retching of bile alone on a cold, ceramic
floor in the dead of night, sobbing to myself wretchedly and crying all the more and the way it made my abused
throat ache.
I didn't have any of my swagger back then, wouldn't have said boo to a goose - and certainly wouldn't say 'no' when
I was approached that night. I was crying in my bed, a quiet snuffling that nonetheless made me shake -
embarassment at crying in front of the other boys rendering me silent and cold in the dormitory that stiffened and
then numbed my extremeties making me shiver.
The boarding school was a large, imposing Georgian building, albeit disordered and befuddled by newer extensions,
awkward, sprawling and confusing. The masters were stern, the other boys loud and raucous. They bumped into me
in the corridor, and disregarded me as they shuffled impatiently during their scolding.
"Isn't this exciting William?". A nod of assertion and a tremulous smile appeased my mother's querulous gaze.
"You're father went here you know - played rugby for the school too". I'll never play rugby - short, slender, so
uncoordinated that I fumble easy catches when we play cricket in the summer. I'm 'pretty', "effete" as my
grandmother once referred to me, someone who passed his best in the eyes of others once I could no longer be
dressed up in a sailor suit for photographs and for walks to be paraded, wide, innocent blue eyes and dirty blond hair
that springs up in ruthless curls. I used to have ringlets when I was smaller - still do sometimes when i've been
caught in the rain.
We see the headmaster, a warm, glowing, comfortable man in a warm, glowing comfortable study. he welcomes me,
gives us both tea and scones and I relax by the glow of the fire. All too soon though, my mother is saying goodbye,
hugging and kissing me in a smothering of plush wool, too much perfume and the smell of make-up. Then she's
gone, leaving me standing in my starchy, itchy new uniform with a trunk that smells of mothballs and is too heavy
for me to carry. I tried this morning and hurt my finger - it's starting to swell painfully now. I worry at the nail and
concentrate on the deepening hue of the bruise.
The dormitory is huge, holds more than I can count. They look at me when I enter with the dormitory leader - a
florid, ample man who pats me on the back and calls me 'son' in an over-friendly manner that smacks of insincerity.
I can't look up when I enter - can feel eyes on me, appraising me just as the boys downstairs had done. I don't like
being stared at, hate the idea of performing - I play the piano well but not even my mother's gentle coaxing can
convince me to play when we have company.
I bustle uncomfortably once i've been shown my bed, arrange, stack, fold - anything to avoid curious eyes. No-one
introduces themself, something i'm glad of now but I know will make me regretful later. When I can find nothing
else to do I change into my pyjama's - ghastly striped items that were bought "with room to grow" and swallow me
up. I want to wash and brush my teeth - can feel the dirt of the day lingering and the taste of that evening's dinner in
my mouth but I don't know where the bathroom is and I falter just as I open my mouth to ask the boy next to me.
So I crawl into bed beneath heavy linen sheets and a red woollen blanket - everyone has one on their beds I notice, a
spot of shocking spot of colour amidst the drabness. And there I lie until the lights go out. Only then do I begin to
cry - the darkness bringing safety and a lonely solace. There are other new boys in the room - if they can't see that
it's me crying then maybe they won't know. I try to be quiet anyway though, worried that sobs will echo.
I don't echo and, heaped under my blanket I'm difficult to spot, but someone sees me anyway, I feel a firm hand
shake my shoulder and whispered words that I can't make out. I can't see the face either - just a silhouette - large
(compared to me), broad. He turns sideways and peering through the gloom I pick out odd details - a turned up nose,
long eyelashes, the gleam of eyes when they hit a patch of reflective light.
The hand on my shoulder shifts, soothingly rubs, awkward and uncomfortably hard in circles. It's easier for me to
relax in the dark - can concentrate on feeling, on the sound of my own nervous, hitching breath. And then the figure
moves and clambers clumsily onto the bed, mattress dipping under the weight and sheets being drawn back form
over me. There's no more fear now then before, apprehension too high already to feel much more than shock as i'm
pressed down under the weight of the boy - boy, certainly because my hands come into contact with puppy fat as I
try to shove him away.
My hands aren't pinned down but they are restrained, strong hands gripping the wrists, thumbs rubbing the pulse
points the same way as the hand rubbed my shoulder. The rest of me is slack underneath, tenses up, stomach
contertinaering as there's warm- no hot- breath on my neck, on my ear, on my face and then dry lips on my own,
noses bumping hard. My lips tighten, sudden anger rendering me resistant and my hands are released. One of his
hands is on my face, uncomfortable pressure on my cheekbone until a thumb presses at the corner of my mouth and
the other hand pinches insistently and painfully, a sharp sting that makes me whimper.
He takes his chance, forces his tongue into my mouth insistently. My eyes are open wide under his assualt, and my
hands hover above my head, not fighting but not quite touching the pillow to aquiesce. One of them is grabbed and
forced down between us to the insistent bulge that's digging me mortifyingly in the hip. I try to draw back, retract as
if he's on fire but today is not my day to be allowed to wilt against others.
It's the same hand that I injured I realise as it's forced down his pyjama bottoms and my fingers catch on the
waistband. It hurts still, the crule grip on my wrist more than the finger - and then i'm touching hard, warm flesh and
coarse hair and tears are threatening to spill. I'm still beneath him and he stops kissing me suddenly, pulls away with
a loud noise that horrifies me. For a moment I think he's going to stop, but no, he's mouthing my neck, sucking,
biting and wispering into my ear, insistent, encouraging words that repel me.
Despite this, or perhaps because of it, my hand begins to move - slow, tentative movements that make him pant in
my ear and rub against me. I don't know what i'm doing here - haven't touched myself before and can't think i'm
doing a very good job now. But he'll go away once i've done this for him and i'm determined now - my exploration
and sudden boldness making him gasp.
That perhaps, is my biggest mistake - to seem to aquiesce. His hands ar moving again now, skimming over sensitive,
ticklish sides under my pyjama's, squeezing at bony hips as he rubs and thrusts against me. I'm like a statue under
him, the only thing moving is my hand, movement you can feel and hear rather than see, but I jump when he puts a
hand underneath me, squeezes at my bottom and then slides his fingers down my crack.
I turn my head, can't quite understand why in the darkness, but it makes it easier as probing fingers force into me,
tenseness making me hurt and bleed under his ministrations, pain making me whimper. The noise brings his
attention back to me, my hand stiff from it's rhythmic movements bringing him close. He swells in my hand,
startling me, and then comes, over my hand, into his trousers, sticky, warmth, more pressure from his hand inside
me and a grunt.
He pulls away, pulls out his hand, leaving an aching, horrible wetness where i've bled. My hand falls limply back to
my side, covered with emission. I've stained the sheets i realise as he moves, away, sated into the darkness, footsteps
silent on the wooden floor.
And then i'm running, an awkward, pained stumble that takes me through the door and out into the hallway. It takes
me ten minutes to find the bathroom in the maze of unfamiliar corridors, ten minutes of rising nausea, and the smell
of blood and come. When I finally stutter in, i'm sick in one of the sinks, acid that burns the inside of my nose. Then
I sit on the floor, getting blood on the white tiles, legs an uneasy sprawl on the floor and cry until dawn breaks.
//////////////////////////////////////
Wolfram and Hart often reminds me of that night - endless corridors that lead to nowhere you want to be, cool gazes
of people who'd rather hinder and hurt than help.
Yoy get the feeling that given the option, they too would like to take their pleasure from an innocent, someone who
won't fight or question but will just give in. Pity that they'll never find anyone like that in LA.
But then it's all relative I suppose - we're all innocent compared to some things. You'll have to just ignore me if I get
too existensial - I tend to after a few drinks. Mainly to annoy Angel who is, as far as i'm concerned, completely fair
game. Bastard abused me, beat me up and mocked me for twenty years before he left - and then when he finally
returned he did exactly the same thing again.
I don't believe in karma - poxy zen ideals- but if I did I'd say that Angel's getting a good dose of it here. How'd you
like being an inconsequential plaything huh? Hurts doesn't it? Or maybe Angel's karma is me - which seems unfair
to be honest. Especially since i'm not sure exactly who this joke is on .
I don't like him - I make it a point of never sleeping with anyone whose company I actually enjoy, because, c'mon -
where's the fire and passion in that? I've slet with a lot of men since that night at the boarding school - took Darla's
advice and used to pose as a rent boy too. That way, she told me, you could catch them unawares whilst they were
pawing at you. That was always sweet - the moment they realised they'd been had, that there would be no pleasure
tonight.
And then when I got my chip I took it up for real - couldn't kill, needed money for blood. When you're desperate you
fall back to what you're good at - and this being Sunnydale, there were a fair few people who were up for it, let me
tell you.
And then of course, there's Angelus. and now Angel. You mock him for multiple personality disorder in public, but
to be fair you've got one too - not exactly like him, his is to do with the Demon, or so he claims. William's in there
somewhere, buried, surfacing, in charge, depends on how much effort you want to put in that day. And William?
Well, he's a needy whore - that's his default setting once you became a vampire.
I know that Angel's realised that's why i'm still here - attached? To Wolfram and Hart? Don't make me laugh! No,
i'm staying for him, because just as I did that night in the dormitory, i'll do what's necessary. Angelus realised that
early, used it to his advantage: got something horrific that I wouldn't want him doing to Dru? Then i'd offer myself
up for it instead. It wasn't valiant...or noble...i've never been those...it was just necessary.
And what does Angel need? Well, I thought Cordy might do it. Thought her death might act as a slap in the face for
him, get him going. But no, he sits there, signing forms, slumped in that huge office of his, bathed in filtered
sunlight.
And he'll do it til it kills him.
I don't like Angelus - would spread my legs, would scream, would degrade myself if I had to. Even grew tol enjoy it
eventually once i'd discovered that I too could mainpulate and charm. And I don't think I like Angel either - can't say
hate, because that will put me off what i'm about to do for him.
It's not a seduction, I don't work that way. No, it's more of an offering, something to make him see...something to
make him feel. Does that sound familiar? It's not like with Buffy, i'm sure...she was complete, at peace, he has so
much more to do.
I wait until after hours, when he's upstairs in his apartment, smell of microwaved pigs blood wafting under the door.
No sound though.
I doesn't knock, don't ever knock, think Angel would drop dead if I did. The man himself is sitting on the sofa,
slumped as ever, drinking blood from a white mug, implacable and expressionless.
He studies me with a practiced look of resignation and disdain - I suspect he tries out different expressions when i'm
not there so they're perfected in time for my arrival.
"Spike"
"Hello, sugar Daddy". He hates that, used to love it - the 'daddy' thing way back when he was evil. I can remember
that, legs sprawled, neck bared, beneath him whilst he tries out all his little kinks. Let's see if I can't get that man
back...
"I've told you - don't call me that. It's creepy and embarassing and..." A raise of my eyebrow shuts him up - reminds
him that i'm one of those people who he can never hide from -can lie to me, can run away as he so often does, but he
can't hide.
"What are you doing here? Do you not get to annoy me enough during the day?"
"There's a group of vamps attacking people in a club down the road - separating them off from the crowd and killing
them outiside. Was planning on going alone but then I thought...well...I thought..." It works like a charm - knew
there was nothing so powerful as admitting to my own failings to get Angel's attention.
"You want help?"
"If you like" He knows thats as much as he'll ever get out of me, accepts it as an offer, is already reaching for his
coat. I haven't got mine on - it's not a good idea considering what i've got planned for tonight.
We stop off in the office on the way down for him to grab a weapon. I think the plan's already working - he's
motivated, he's active, he's as bossy as hell.
I ignore him in the car, sneaking a glance every so often- his face is set in 'grim determination' mode. It's as much as
I can do to suppress a smile.
"So...have you got a plan?" He's asking me. This is new.
"Well, I was thinking that i'd go in, lure myself a vamp and then come out here. Then once, they're busy you step in
and kill 'em"
"Whilst they're busy?" He's blank for a moment before he realises what and I mean and he sneers at me, unable to
stop himself. "Oh".
/////////////////////////////////////////
Twenty minutes later, I'm entirely sure that this is the best plan ever. I managed to pick myself up a vamp (horrible
big bloke in a sparkly disco shirt that made my eyes water). I got him out here, he got busy (to be honest, i'm not
entirely sure whether he knew I was a vampire and just thought that I was up for a screw).
But anyway, he was getting a little bit friendlier than I really wanted and I was just starting to wonder whether
Angel had either buggered off home or was jacking off in an alleyway, when the vamp suddenly powdered,
wandering hands, disco shirt and all, and there's Angel standing in front of me and looking more pissed off than i've
ever seen him.
"Enjoy that did you?"
"Why, did you? What took you so long?" He's fuming now, rage making him shake.
"Why is it Spike, that instead of staying at home tonight, I agreed to come help you and watch you get felt up by
some '70's throwback?" Bastard...
"Well...Angel...didn't see you offering yourself up in the name of the good fight!" Is he laughing at me?
"That's because instead of fighting out here...prostituting myself...i'm doing far more good up in my office"
"Good?! You think that you're doing good?" Okay, my voice should never be that squeaky when i'm trying to make
a point, "You're not doing any good up there! Don't you see? That's why I brought you down here tonight - to make
you see!"
He regards me scornfully.
"Good job", and then he turns to leave.
Something in me just snaps. Okay, so its not as if I really need any motivation to hit Angel - its practically a hobby-
but this is borne out of my own failure, my frustration at his complete ineptitude.
"Angel?" His nose makes a satisfying cracking sound when he turns and I punch him. The noise almost makes the
whole damn day worthwhile. He reels and then recovers, snapping back round in game face and backhanding me
into the alley wall.
Ow...there's blood dripping down from my forehead and I think i've just tasted brick. He stalks over to me and leans
down, fury making him bold and grabs my head, manages to tear out tufts of hair when I yank away. I don't pull
away again, don't need to, just stare up at him as he stills, hand still clutching my hair.
We both watch as he drops it to the floor, as it lands in the mess of the alley that i'm currently spread out on.
"Sorry"
"No you're not"
"Well...no" He offers me his hand to pull me up, is satisfyingly shocked when i yank him down instead, hard enough
to twist his shoulder and certainly hard enough to bring him down heavily on top of me. I've been here plenty of
times over the years, a sliver of unbreakable glass under the heat of a kiln. Hell, i've been under him like that.
He remembers that, knows it, doesn't know what to do, rests anxiously above me on his knees, restless, unsure. And
for part, I wait.
There are those who say that Angel is unfathomable, unknowable, but i've neverr thought so. Not til now.
But then he makes up his mind. I'm poised to run here, to just leave and never come back if he makes a quip about
us lying in an alley looking suspicious and leaves. But he doesn't.
He leans forward to capture my mouth in a hard, bruising kiss that he follows up with an intrusive tongue, and, okay,
yes, I may have moaned and wrapped my arms around his neck.
There's no foreplay, may be another day but not today, not when this is about bringing him back. He's rough, large
hands groping over hips, back and bottom hard enough to leave marks and make me whimper.
He likes that, always has done, it makes him groan, makes him harder, makes me feel that much more confident
about this.
And confident is a hard thing to be when you're shoved facefirst up against an alley wall with a horny, (supposedly)
celibate man trying to fuck you dry. I get preparation, fingers covered in saliva that make me shudder, shiver and
tense as he pushes them in, other hand stroking my back, pointless breath a puff and hitch on the back of my neck.
I tilt my head back, can see him out of the corner of my eye, can feel him as he unzips his trousers, pushes against
me, holding me up, nuzzling and biting with human teeth.
And then the fingers are gone and there's a bigger pressure, cock, being forced in, and i'm moaning and spreading
but I don't care. Hands holding my chest, propping me up, because my legs are like jelly, nipples hard as he palms
them through my tshirt, stabbing pain in my gut as he thrusts, pain dulled but not gone as slides against my prostate.
I'm fisting myself now, cock painfully hard and rubbing against brick when Angel thrusts, my hand heavy, head
light. He's paying attention to me, thrusting in the perfect place, teeth vicious against my throat, and i'm coming
hard, over my hand and against the wall, reeling and gasping. I came first - before Mr Celibate, i can't quite believe
it, but he soon follows me over, I make him follow me over, clench and grip around him until we're both buckling to
the ground, and there's a muffled scream in my ear, and cold wetness where we're joined.
We sit there and regard each other for the longest time. Just as my patience wears thin he smiles at me, a genuine
smile with a hint of danger.
"I'm glad I chose to help you tonight. It's been...enlightening"
"Any time, mate". Necessary evils...