"What did you expect, Spike? A welcome party? Word's out - you've been making war on the demon world."
"War?" Whispered on a breath of pain; mind already shutting down.
"With the slayer. You kill other demons, and the rest of us don't hold with that. Still, if I see you around here again I'll be inclined to break that code. Do you understand?"
He nodded, painfully, rolling onto his back to look up at his assailant through bloodied eyes that were swelling closed, even as he tried to focus them. Vaguely, he noticed a hand waving somewhere near his head and he rolled his eyes toward it; recognised it as his own though he couldn't feel a connection to it. He heard the demon turn and walk away from him; heard a door open and close. He let out a soft groan as the pain began to hammer at his skull.
He knew he had to get up and away before someone or something with less compunction, came by and finished him. No way could he defend himself. He'd be lucky to make it back to his crypt before the sun took him. He went through the motions of rising, but realised the only movement his damaged body was making, was in his head. What the fuck did it matter anyway? It was all too hard. Too fucking hard! He was never going to get rid of the sickly stench of fear and humiliation that clung to his body.
He sensed a shadow fall across him. He peered through the slits his eyes had become; tried to sniff the air but his nose wasn't working. Broken he supposed. He began to draw breath to speak but the sharp pain that lanced through him as his lungs filled and moved his chest, spoke of damaged ribs and it stilled his voice. The hammering in his poor, abused brain gathered into one long, deep pain that echoed through his body.
The world began to spin about him and his fingers clutched desperately at the ground, to hold himself still. The night began to close in on him, suffocating where there was no need for air, and he heard the sounds of it fade. Into nothing.
The dark figure stared down at the leather clad body for a moment, undecided, then bent and lifted the unconscious vampire from the ground, slung the body over one shoulder and turned to leave the alley.
…
He came to, suddenly; surrounded by water, hot against his naked flesh. His eyes opened, searching for answers to unformed questions; his mind slipping into fight or flight. His arms moved and knocked against walls that were too close. White. The walls of his prison were white!
Above him, a hand reached toward him. Panic, fueled by memories of pain and torture and impotence, drove him to movement. Legs and arms thrashing to gain purchase on a slippery surface, he launched his body up toward the menace hanging over him; the demon driving him with the strength of the supernatural, bent on survival. His face rippled and changed and he roared as he broke the surface of the water, driving straight up and at his assailant. So quick in his movement that he was out and sprawled on top of the other, before either knew what was happening.
He smelt blood. His demon screamed to be fed; to replenish what was needed to heal. His teeth sank, into the soft flesh, through skin and thick tendon, angling for the jugular. His fangs pierced the walls of the vein and blood gushed into his mouth and slid down his throat. A veil of red descended over his sight, as he growled and sucked and worried at the wound he'd made in the throat beneath him. His demon began to thrash in an ecstasy of wanting, and pushed him hard, to pull in the thick, viscous liquid.
The magic of it swirled through his dead veins, sparkling and tingling, sending life back into his body; renewing the contract with the demon that gave him existence. The sensuous carnality of the feeding infused him; synapses crackled and sparked and passed tiny electrical messages between neurons and cells, waking them, charging them to grow and repair. The tiny hairs on his skin straightened to gather in every nuance of the air around him. He was vampire. He had been dead and now, he was not.
Broken bone and flesh groaned in pain and delight, sending messages of wanton pleasure racing to nerve endings; reaffirming his purpose in this life he'd long ago chosen. Great gulps of fluid filled his mouth with every pull of his jaws. Ribs that were shattered, realigned themselves in preparation for healing; muscles that were torn began the process of repair; flesh that was sunken and empty, filled.
The body under him groaned, not in pain but in pleasure; in lust. Its cock, sheathed by material, filled, lengthened and hardened, under Spike. His own cock had begun the same process, as his frenzied feeding slowed to sensual sucking and licking; the tactile sensation of another body twisting beneath him, setting his own magically alive nerves, alight.
He began to thrust against the other body, his naked cock rubbing on the material of the other's slacks, snaking alongside the other man's cock. His mind was fogged by the pleasure of the feed and the sensuality of the man's clothing rubbing on his writhing, naked flesh. He withdrew his fangs from the throat and threw his head back to roar his renewal; the satiating of a primal need so old and basic morphing into another, equally as old and basic. He bellowed his ecstasy aloud, hearing his lust and hunger echo around him.
His movements became more frantic, with need and want. Fire coursed through his veins, raced along just under his skin, his body a pulsing sensation of feeling. His hand moved between himself and his victim, to fist his own cock; to pull at the flesh that was burning him; to run his fingers across the weeping slit and drag the fluids down his rigid length; to finger his own sac, kneading the heavy balls within, pushing them hard into his body and then pulling them back out and down. He wanted, he needed.
He felt his mind slip away on a flood of sensation, so long denied him. His face shifted, bones moving, skin rippling into smooth, as fangs and ridges withdrew. Dark lashes fluttered as his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hung open in a silent scream of completion. Thick, sticky ropes of liquid shot from his cock, spread across his stomach and the other's clothes, as he continued to thrust and slide against the body beneath him. His need intensified with this first release and he growled low and deep, mouth and face returning to a grimace of effort, as he pushed harder; seeking, seeking more.
Under him, the other writhed in unison, head back, fully exposing the long, thick, alabaster neck, marked by two bloody holes that seeped glossy, dark liquid; mouth open in a yawning moan of matching desire and lust; teeth glinting in the muted light that surrounded them.
Strong arms encircled his waist, pulling him in hard against the solid, thrusting body that sought its own pleasure. In a moment, their positions were reversed and Spike found himself on the bottom, with the much larger figure pinning him to the floor, as a large hand snaked down between them, to tug at the clothes that separated flesh from flesh.
His mind swirled; his mouth worked, jaw opening as mindless desire filled him. The freed cock rubbed against his, and a meaty fist took both cocks in hand and pulled and slid them together, rolling the hoods, mixing liquids, sliding down to stroke engorged sacks and then back up to push at the underside of weeping, bulbous heads, before repeating the action. Over and over. He wanted to scream his need, his pain, to the world.
His legs were pushed wide but he didn't register the meaning until a digit pressed against his long unused hole. He moaned his surrender, his legs flopping wider as the finger pressed in to explore the dark depths of his body. He moaned again, willing the intrusion on, pushing hard into the sensation, seeking more, clenching and releasing as he tossed his head back and forth on the smooth floor beneath him. Another finger joined the first and he inhaled, clenching down for a moment before letting go and thrusting his hips up to meet the hand pushing down between his legs.
Yes! The word echoed inside his head. Yes, please. Want me. Someone, please want me enough to have me. Want me enough to fill me and make me scream. Please. Let me know I still have a place. Yes, yes, yes! The fingers withdrew and his spiral plummeted. He felt something inside him begin to shatter and then, suddenly, the world filled with pain and burning; longing and self-hate; shame and self-pity.
He needed to be needed. He needed to be not alone. He needed someone to just want him. Just for a little while. He needed the pain, to know that he still existed. Then it wasn't pain but sweet, pure pleasure that spoke of promises past; of a life much simpler in the living, of a time when everything was want, take, have and he was a king.
His eyes flew open as he heard the telltale shift of bone and cartilage, looked up to see dark brown change to golden. Looked up to see… Sire. He screamed his release to the night; screamed his losses to the bastards that stole them. He threw his head back and roared his sorrow and desire and was rewarded with the prick of fangs and the orgasmic drawing of blood.
His body roared to life, every nerve ending a pulse under his skin. His cock continued to throb its release onto his belly. He felt the slipperiness of it as his Sire's body moved over him, pressing that great cock, further and further into his channel, rubbing across the sweet spot within. The pull of his blood matched the thrust of the organ, deep within his body. The demon within him uncurled and screamed its freedom. He was redeemed and renewed. The tension from the battle to simply exist, unfurled and released, as he let someone bigger and stronger carry it for him, for just a little while.
As the blood was drawn from his jugular, his bowels were filled with other fluids and a wave of peace came over him. The fangs at his throat were withdrawn and a rough tongue licked gently at the wounds there. His cock lay dormant on his belly, softening, spent. The body over him relaxed into him and then gently withdrew, lifting off and away; the heavy cock that had filled him so completely, withdrawing from his body, leaving him empty, again. Bereft, alone.
A lump swelled in his throat. The pain of a long ago belonging glowed brightly, deep within his heart, igniting memories of rejection and loss, that still, after all these decades, bewildered and devastated. Then strong arms reached down, folded around his shoulders and raised him to his knees; held him there against the body that had held him like that, more than a century ago.
"Will, my sweet boyo." He wasn't sure if he really heard the words, the lilt of the brogue, or if they were echoes from a past life. He brought his arms up, threw them around that body that had once been his everything, buried his face in the hard belly and let the heavy weight in his chest, go.
"Sire." He whispered the word into the hard muscle under his cheek. He felt the tears slide down his face; felt them wash away the fear and humiliation he'd suffered. Just for a little while he could let go and have his Sire take care of him. Just for a little while he could rest and be silent. Be safe. He felt a hand stroke through his hair, felt the other pull him in close; hold him tight. He felt family. He felt home.
…