Author: Green
Title: Nestled Belonging
Pairing: A/S
Rating: R (I think)
Disclaimer: Is this really necessary? Does anyone think I could claim to own Spike and Angel, or get paid for this?
Feedback: beingagreenmother@yahoo.com (my first m/m that I have actually completed, so PLEASE r/r)
Summary: Spike visits his Sire's room at the Hyperion.
***
He waits for hours, watching from a nearby rooftop while rain pelts him relentlessly. It drives into his skin like needles, and he thinks he can feel the cold of the drops down in his bones. He cups his hand artfully over his cigarette and takes a long drag, but it's raining so hard that he can't save it. A fat drop somehow finds the cherry and it goes out with a hiss. He watches as the AI team rushes out, as he expected would happen sooner or later, and then he waits another twenty minutes in the downpour. He wants to make sure no one will be a witness to his depravity.
He sneaks in, silent, even though he knows for a fact that he's alone. His boots leave wet footprints on the lobby floor, and ordinarily there would be the squeak of rubber as he strode across the marble, but now he creeps inaudible, deathlike. The Hyperion is empty, but still he feels ashamed and lost, so he's noiseless in his quest. He heads straight for *his* room, knowing where it is simply by relying on his senses and his intuition.
Inside the suite it is still and closed and intimate. There are hints here and there of *him*, a few books of obscure poetry, cufflinks on top of the dresser. There are framed pictures, and he is there with his friends, the ones he lets close to him now. They are smiling and cheerful, and he is jealous, almost insanely so. He well remembers the joy of being close to him.
He turns and buries his face in the unmade bed. Breathes in the scent, *his* scent, heady and powerful. The smell of his hair, his sweat, his blood, his cum. Its everywhere, and he yanks harshly at the sheets and blankets, pulls them around him, but its too loose, too soft and too far away. It isn't enough.
It's never enough.
He gets up and manically peels the soaked clothes away from his skin. He feels like a madman, stripping down to nothing, but he's naked now, feeling desperate and *needing*.
He wraps his Sire around him again, a burgundy cotton cocoon of bittersweet odors. The sheets are cool against his skin, just like he was, that last time. He can still feel him there, burrowed deep and thrusting deeper while he bit into his shoulder, tearing the skin and flesh. He remembers the still warm borrowed blood trickling down, slippery between them. He can still feel the moment in the afterglow where he felt such peace and rightness as his Sire licked the wounds with a gentle tongue.
Lately, he's been losing himself in someone else, someone warm and feminine, small and distant. Everything that Angelus wasn't, and he knew he was blacking out his desire with a different obsession. When he was deep inside her, he would think, "He's been right here, right in this spot where I am now..." and the thought made him come that much faster, harder.
He pulls the covers so tight around his skin that its constricting him, and if he needed breath he wouldn't be able to gain it.
He thinks of Angelus, of a cruel twist of a smile, and of possession. Of being possessed. Once there had been a place for him in the world, a bed that held a spot just the right size for his slender body. It was a true place, a real place. Nestled between Dru, who talked of faeries dancing on the rosebuds, and Angelus, who showed him how to pluck the heart out of a pixie while you were still buried inside her. Right there, he felt he belonged. There was frenzied, violent joy in that place between sugar dreams and choking salt, and he relished it.
He didn't belong anywhere, now, and all he wanted was to go back. Back to when it was good, before the chip, before the soul, before Darla took him away that time... when she knew they were getting too close. The jealous bitch.
He had fit perfectly, and he whispered, yelled, and screamed his love for Drusilla, but it was Angelus that held him there in that bed, held him down. Beat him, cursed him, fucked him until he was torn and bleeding and weeping... then kissed him. Smooth and soft and moist kisses that made him melt, that made the welts and sores and burns and deep aching cuts feel like little love bites, little pats and taps, like tough love with poetic justice. There was truth behind the brutality, and tenderness in the pain, there was a simple pleasure to be found in it all.
He shakes now, sobs into the redblack darkness that strangles and traps him. They are great heaving, choking tears that melt across his face and are absorbed into the fabric. He rolls off the bed somehow, falls to the hard floor. He bends himself within the chrysalis, into a fetal position, and the cotton is pulled so tight around his body that it feared tearing.
How long he remains, he doesn't know. Spent and weary at last, he somehow unrolls himself. With slow and deliberate movements he slips out of his Sire's distinctive scent, knowing that he has left his own. He remakes the bed with salt and loneliness and despair, leaves behind the aura of desolation. Hopes that one day, years from now, Angel might remember. Might come back to him.
He dresses slowly in the sodden clothing, wanting to linger here, in this place of unbearable sorrow and comforting redolence, but he has to get back. Back to a place he doesn't belong, where his angry passions go unsated and tenderness is never thought of. To be with someone who will never even want to own him, tame him, not the way he needed to be owned. Needed to be loved.
He leaves nothing behind but his tears, but they are enough. Perhaps Angel will understand why he had to come, why he had to drive all this way to just *be* here. He wishes he could be privy to his thoughts. Wishes he could be here to gauge his reaction, when he comes in from the rain and senses that his Childe had been home, if only for a little while.
*end*
Title: Nestled Belonging
Pairing: A/S
Rating: R (I think)
Disclaimer: Is this really necessary? Does anyone think I could claim to own Spike and Angel, or get paid for this?
Feedback: beingagreenmother@yahoo.com (my first m/m that I have actually completed, so PLEASE r/r)
Summary: Spike visits his Sire's room at the Hyperion.
***
He waits for hours, watching from a nearby rooftop while rain pelts him relentlessly. It drives into his skin like needles, and he thinks he can feel the cold of the drops down in his bones. He cups his hand artfully over his cigarette and takes a long drag, but it's raining so hard that he can't save it. A fat drop somehow finds the cherry and it goes out with a hiss. He watches as the AI team rushes out, as he expected would happen sooner or later, and then he waits another twenty minutes in the downpour. He wants to make sure no one will be a witness to his depravity.
He sneaks in, silent, even though he knows for a fact that he's alone. His boots leave wet footprints on the lobby floor, and ordinarily there would be the squeak of rubber as he strode across the marble, but now he creeps inaudible, deathlike. The Hyperion is empty, but still he feels ashamed and lost, so he's noiseless in his quest. He heads straight for *his* room, knowing where it is simply by relying on his senses and his intuition.
Inside the suite it is still and closed and intimate. There are hints here and there of *him*, a few books of obscure poetry, cufflinks on top of the dresser. There are framed pictures, and he is there with his friends, the ones he lets close to him now. They are smiling and cheerful, and he is jealous, almost insanely so. He well remembers the joy of being close to him.
He turns and buries his face in the unmade bed. Breathes in the scent, *his* scent, heady and powerful. The smell of his hair, his sweat, his blood, his cum. Its everywhere, and he yanks harshly at the sheets and blankets, pulls them around him, but its too loose, too soft and too far away. It isn't enough.
It's never enough.
He gets up and manically peels the soaked clothes away from his skin. He feels like a madman, stripping down to nothing, but he's naked now, feeling desperate and *needing*.
He wraps his Sire around him again, a burgundy cotton cocoon of bittersweet odors. The sheets are cool against his skin, just like he was, that last time. He can still feel him there, burrowed deep and thrusting deeper while he bit into his shoulder, tearing the skin and flesh. He remembers the still warm borrowed blood trickling down, slippery between them. He can still feel the moment in the afterglow where he felt such peace and rightness as his Sire licked the wounds with a gentle tongue.
Lately, he's been losing himself in someone else, someone warm and feminine, small and distant. Everything that Angelus wasn't, and he knew he was blacking out his desire with a different obsession. When he was deep inside her, he would think, "He's been right here, right in this spot where I am now..." and the thought made him come that much faster, harder.
He pulls the covers so tight around his skin that its constricting him, and if he needed breath he wouldn't be able to gain it.
He thinks of Angelus, of a cruel twist of a smile, and of possession. Of being possessed. Once there had been a place for him in the world, a bed that held a spot just the right size for his slender body. It was a true place, a real place. Nestled between Dru, who talked of faeries dancing on the rosebuds, and Angelus, who showed him how to pluck the heart out of a pixie while you were still buried inside her. Right there, he felt he belonged. There was frenzied, violent joy in that place between sugar dreams and choking salt, and he relished it.
He didn't belong anywhere, now, and all he wanted was to go back. Back to when it was good, before the chip, before the soul, before Darla took him away that time... when she knew they were getting too close. The jealous bitch.
He had fit perfectly, and he whispered, yelled, and screamed his love for Drusilla, but it was Angelus that held him there in that bed, held him down. Beat him, cursed him, fucked him until he was torn and bleeding and weeping... then kissed him. Smooth and soft and moist kisses that made him melt, that made the welts and sores and burns and deep aching cuts feel like little love bites, little pats and taps, like tough love with poetic justice. There was truth behind the brutality, and tenderness in the pain, there was a simple pleasure to be found in it all.
He shakes now, sobs into the redblack darkness that strangles and traps him. They are great heaving, choking tears that melt across his face and are absorbed into the fabric. He rolls off the bed somehow, falls to the hard floor. He bends himself within the chrysalis, into a fetal position, and the cotton is pulled so tight around his body that it feared tearing.
How long he remains, he doesn't know. Spent and weary at last, he somehow unrolls himself. With slow and deliberate movements he slips out of his Sire's distinctive scent, knowing that he has left his own. He remakes the bed with salt and loneliness and despair, leaves behind the aura of desolation. Hopes that one day, years from now, Angel might remember. Might come back to him.
He dresses slowly in the sodden clothing, wanting to linger here, in this place of unbearable sorrow and comforting redolence, but he has to get back. Back to a place he doesn't belong, where his angry passions go unsated and tenderness is never thought of. To be with someone who will never even want to own him, tame him, not the way he needed to be owned. Needed to be loved.
He leaves nothing behind but his tears, but they are enough. Perhaps Angel will understand why he had to come, why he had to drive all this way to just *be* here. He wishes he could be privy to his thoughts. Wishes he could be here to gauge his reaction, when he comes in from the rain and senses that his Childe had been home, if only for a little while.
*end*