Homecoming (1/1)
Nov. 16th, 2009 09:44 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunTitle: Homecoming
Pairing: Angel/Spike/Drusilla
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Coming back from Hell isn't always a release from the torment. Drusilla, Angel and Spike attempt to connect and exorcise their ghosts in the only way they know how. Comics canon compliant through Angel: Aftermath #25. Mild spoilers through the same.
A/N: This was my attempt to bring the kink back. It took a month to write and I got tangled in characterization while I was trying to get their freak on. OH PORN! HOW COULD YOU DO ME THUSLY? The first person to pun that will get an actual PwP of their choosing, subject to my own squicks and ability to write chosen characters/situations.
The air in the city feels different. Her head dips, eyes closing as she listens to the rush and press of a city returned from hell. Her lips twist, an almost smile hidden in the corners of her mouth.
“Oh yeah,” she murmurs to herself. “Yeah. I see you, my love. You thought I’d forgotten but I didn’t. Poor penitent, where has Father Confessor gone?”
Drusilla nods once, face solemn. They’ve been playing at salvation, but it’s never enough. The world has sinned and waits for pardon.
She hums, the familiar tune catching at the back of her throat. She’s had years alone to plan, to grow strong, to mire in the fretful ache of her loss. All the snares are sprung now, the tiny traps of fate unwound. This time, it will all end differently.
Run and catch, run and catch…
*~*~*
The soft footfalls catch his attention, but he doesn’t turn around. The sword in his hands dips, as much of a greeting as he’s willing to give, but his eyes stay focused on the sky. They’ll be back. Maybe in a few minutes, maybe not, but he knows he didn’t send them packing for good.
“They’ll be back,” Spike drawls. “You know that, right? Not likely they’ve buggered off for good.”
“Thanks,” Angel shoots back acidly. “Managed to work that out all on my own.”
Spike snorts, and the sharp click of metal carries across the space between them. The guttering flame of his lighter pops and hisses. Angel brings the sword down in a swift arc, but he doesn’t turn.
“Look,” Spike responds placatingly, “what more could you? They’re bloody angels, Angel. Fist of an angry god and all that.”
“Yeah, didn’t we do that already?” Angel says wearily. “I’m tired and I don’t like you, so I’m gonna give this whole banter thing a miss. So the next time you…”
He stops midsentence, his whole body suddenly alert. Spike meets his gaze, eyes wide and body tense. There’s no noise, no movement, but they can both feel it. Being watched creates an odd sort of heat, a ghostly pressure.
“Time to call it a night,” Angel says softly.
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, voice equally quiet. “Think I’ll join you for a drink.”
Angel scowls, but nods fractionally in agreement. He can’t see the eyes, but he knows they’re there. Spike is almost motionless, barely fidgeting as he scans the shadows. No sense in turning down an extra pair of fists.
The hotel isn’t far and they don’t waste time talking. Angel refuses to admit he trusts Spike. Angel refuses to admit he trusts anyone But he doesn’t bother to cover his flank because Spike is next to him. The odd heat follows them down the street and into the building.
“Lucky your problem children have all gone home,” Spike says dryly. “Last thing we need is Snap, Crackle, and bloody Pop underfoot.”
Angel doesn’t answer. They are problem children, but Spike doesn’t get to make that call. He tosses the sword onto the wide counter and strides up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He can hear Spike behind him, moving at a slower pace. What’s following them won’t be stupid enough to makes its move just yet, but Spike’s thorough when it comes to his own neck. Angel lets slip a small smile. He likes that about Spike. A little.
The hotel isn’t quite empty. He lives here. He works here. People come and go. The building isn’t in disrepair. But the dust barely stirs in the not-empty rooms filled with remnants of unfinished lives.
He walks past those rooms sometimes, stares in at the past and aches for it. Stray perfume bottles, redolent of a lost embrace, and mathematical formulas written in a precise hand muddle up his memory and keep him alone. Decorous neglect hangs over the hotel, over his life.
The soft swish of leather behind him and Angel pushes on, down the hall towards his bedroom. Plenty of weapons there and at least he won’t have to chase the damn thing through the hotel. The fewer rooms they destroy, the better.
As soon as he steps across the threshold into his bedroom, he smells it. Thick and spicy, overlaid with dust and iron, it slides down his throat and into his gut. He doesn’t have to turn around to see the wide, mad eyes boring into him. They dance just under his eyelids, haunting him.
“Dru,” Angel murmurs and hears Spike behind him, an astonished echo.
He turns, and she’s there between the two of them and isn’t that familiar? Her dark hair snaps around her, a Medusa’s cascade, alive and dangerous. Her blue dress, the hem damp and rust-colored with drying blood, sways as she rises up on her bare toes, reaching a plaintive hand towards him. He opens his mouth and hears Spike’s voice come tumbling out.
“Drusilla.”
Spike moves forward, a slow, cautious step. Drusilla cocks her head, face shifting into the exotic planes and angles of her demon. Her eyes narrow, teeth snapping quickly together.
“I saw the end of the world,” she growls. “The sun crept in, burning and purifying.”
“Oh bloody hell,” Spike whispers. “Did she—Angel, she must’ve got caught up when L.A. shifted dimensions.”
“But the sun there doesn’t burn,” Angel protests. “Dru, what happened?”
He can’t believe he’s asking, can’t believe he still cares. His feelings for her are some strange mixture of possessiveness and purity, a complex brew of guilt and lust. As much as he longs for the redemption of his soul, he aches for the completion she, Spike and Darla give his demon.
“Snakes don’t burn,” she hisses, vampiric mask dropping away. “Snakes don’t burn. You killed them, Angelus. Again and again you killed them, sticky fingers on broken bodies.”
She leaps on him, fingers extended. Her long nails swipe across his face, pulling a howl of outrage and pain from him. The parallel track marks burn, a heat that travels from his face down to his belly.
He grapples with her, pushing her hands backwards. She squirms, a half-twist that gives her enough leverage to throw him over her head. He lands on his back, temporarily jolted. Regaining his feet, the blood from his scratches runs into his eyes. The world goes filmy, a red haze obscuring his vision.
“Spike!” Angel yells angrily.
“Dru,” Spike says quietly. “Tell me what happened, love. Can’t help unless I know.”
His hands wrap gently around her wrists. Angel watches, seeing but still not understanding. Ever since Dru brought Spike home, when he was William and green as grass, Angel hasn’t been able to stop watching them. Hasn’t been able to understand these two beautiful mad people who were born of him, but have never been anything like him.
He expects Drusilla to turn on Spike, to carry on in her rage. But she collapses under his touch, crumpling against his legs and sobbing softly. Angel stands there, uncertain as he always is in the face of her stormy emotions and unstable mind.
“In the mad house,” she murmurs. “So many people. I couldn’t stop hearing them. They screamed and it was so loud. They came for me. Like in Prague.”
“A mob.” Spike says flatly. “You were attacked by a bloody mob in an asylum?”
She nods, her eyes drifting closed. “I could see you, you know. In the fire and the shadow.”
“In hell?” Angel asks. The loudness of his voice breaks her stillness, and she raises narrow, murderous eyes to stare at him.
“Little hands. Little fingers,” she says coldly. “I see you, Angelus. Every time, I see you. It didn’t matter, though, what I saw or didn’t. You found a way in, didn’t you? Slipping in through the cracks.”
He kneels down, hand reaching for her before he can stop himself. He knows what she’s talking about now. Her hair brushes against his knuckles and he stops. Looks at her.
He can’t think of the right words. She’s been through hell, a real hell full of torment and torture and the death of every single person she ever loved. A hell his actions created. Words? His words can’t make up for what he did.
The soft kiss on his palm startles him. His body twitches lightly at the caress, but he doesn’t pull away. Angel knows what’s coming. These moments, this pattern, are fixed; he couldn’t change it if he tried. That doesn’t make what he’s going to do any better. Doesn’t make it right. But even as he acknowledges the wrongness, his hand winds through the soft strands of Drusilla’s hair, pulling her to him.
“Daddy,” she breathes and the welcome in her voice is both arousing and sickening.
He kisses her lightly, soft teasing licks and nips enticing her to follow him as he stands. His hand is still clutching her hair, dragging her upwards so she follows because she must and not because she chooses to. But it is that precisely that combination of illusory choice and forced compliance that drove him to set up this pattern, to play this game.
Their kiss deepens and he hears her whimper weakly n the back of her throat. The sound sends electric tendrils of lust through his body. His cock hardens, thickening and lengthen as he parts her legs with a muscular thigh.
The soft swish of leather catches his ear and Angel pulls back. Spike’s moving away, his face uncertain. Angel understands. There’s nothing here that’s compatible with the men they are now, the souls and the burdens they bear. This moment, this act, is a remnant of times he wouldn’t reclaim if he could. But Angel doesn’t care right now. Damned if he’s going to let Spike care
Angel reaches around Drusilla’s slender frame, his free hand cupping Spike’s lean face. He drags Spike forward, suppressing a moan as their lips meet. Spike hesitates, his lips rigid and still under Angel’s. As Angel begins to pull back, Spike surges forward, his kiss full of rage and hate and a perverse passion that Angel has sorely missed. He hasn’t had this, them, blood of his blood, in so long. Drusilla writhes between their bodies, lapping at the blood trickling from the scratches on his face.
Spike ends the kiss abruptly, pulling back to stare at Angel. His hands pull the dress from Drusilla’s shoulders. The fabric sags, trailing down the sinuous curves of her body. Spike follows, tugging the thin material from her breasts to reveal pale pink nipples. He strokes them into pebbled peaks, but his eyes bore into Angel.
His gaze is hooded, wary, and Angel knows why. Spike’s fears are so easy to understand. Almost justified, if Angel stops to think about it. He doesn’t and he won’t, but he knows all the same.
It eats at him, this knowing. It isn’t just born of time spent together. He and Spike had…what? 20 odd years in each other’s company; hardly enough time to say hello. But there’s still a bone deep, blood thick knowledge between them—of scars, of desires, of pain and how to ease it or inflict it. He made and molded both of these beautiful, destructive beings. He knows them.
So he nods once, slowly and solemnly, to satisfy the questions inside those hungry, cautious eyes. He drops his head down to nuzzle Drusilla’s neck, suckling eagerly at her soft flesh. She’s doing her own dance with Spike, her own pleadings and bargaining. It’s silent, but Angel can hear it all the same.
He releases her hair, tugging her towards his bed by her waist. She follows, unresisting. Her blue dress finally drops, a puddle of stained silk on the floor.
Spike takes off his duster. He looks smaller, more vulnerable, without his coat. It’s almost a victory when Spike toes off his boots. Angel won’t examine why. Somehow this, this moment, this thing, is suddenly and surprisingly very important to him. They’ve tried fighting, they’ve tried words, they’ve all fought and hated and schemed and they keep bouncing into and off of each other and nothing works, nothing changes and Drusilla is kissing him, redirecting his mind and his body.
He lets her push him onto the bed, falls underneath her. Her fingers fly across his skin, inflicting little bruises and welts. Angel moans, hips bucking up towards her wet center.
“Always the same,” she says lightly. “Round and round the bramble bush. Do you remember, Angelus, how we
played when we were in tune?”
“I do,” he answers, hands stroking up her pale flanks.
“And you, my wicked? Do you remember? The dancing and the blood, hearts and heart’s desire?” She doesn’t turn to look at him. “But you’re not my wicked lad, are you? You dance to a new piper’s tune.”
Spike walks over, fingers slowly undoing the buttons of his red shirt. He strips it off as he stands beside the bed, letting it drop. Angel watches avidly as Spike pops the top button of his button-flies, as he climbs into bed behind Dru.
“No, love,” and his voice carries all the regret she’s avoided with her gaze. “ ‘M not your wicked lad.”
He dips his head, his hands coming under her arms to hold her breasts. His face shifts, the demon pushing forward. Angel watches, enthralled, as Spike delicately scores her neck. The thick blood wells sluggishly to the surface and Drusilla shivers lightly as Spike dips in his tongue in the thin trickle.The blood beads up, drop after drop sliding down her cool white skin. Spike reaches around, fingers tugging and pinching her puckered nipples.
“Miss me?” he asks huskily and the question is not a casual one.
She doesn’t bother to answer. Angel wonders idly how many times over the decades Dru’s brushed away similar questions, questions Spike can’t stop asking. Her head lolls back onto Spike’s shoulder and her hands dive downwards, teasing and taunting her own glistening sex.
Angel draws his hands away from her, folds them behind his head. As he shifts, her eyes flutter open and she sneers, a quick wicked fold of her lips. She extends her fingers, shiny with her own juices and traces his mouth. His cock, already hard, leaps inside his trousers.
She looks over her shoulder at Spike and he pulls away, unfastening the last of his own buttons, allowing his jeans to drop. Angel inhales, a quick, unbidden gasp that causes Drusilla to laugh.
“You were angry,” she whispers to him, leaning forward to slice her razor sharp nails through the thin silk of his shirt. “ The night I brought him home, you remember? He fought you and fought you, my Spike.”
He remembers and his belly twists, the perverse mixture of regret and lust somehow making him want this more. As Drusilla pushes aside the tatters of his shirt, Angel feels other hands tugging at his pants. He lifts his hips in surprise, allowing Spike to pull the trousers away.
The bed dips again. Spike’s hands wrap securely around Drusilla’s slender hips, lifting her up and holding her over Angel’s erect cock. Her sparse, damp hair brushes against the tip of his erection and he inhales, a quick reflexive gasp he can’t suppress. Her hips rock, a dip-sway that pushes her forward and she sighs, a short sharp noise that flutters her inner walls around the head of his cock.
He thrusts into her core, instinct and desire snapping his control. Her body contracts around him, a physical protest that doesn’t match her welcoming moan. Her fingers creep up her belly and around her breasts, swirling lightly around stiff, aching peaks. Spike’s fingers sidle through hers and his touch is rougher. She whimpers and Angel reaches up to brush his fingers across her dark, swollen nipples.
“More,” she demands, hips dancing in tune with her own rhythm. “Spike, more.”
Spike smiles, and in that smile Angel reads a hundred threats and promises. It’s shy William and the Slayer of Slayers and every moment in between and since and none of that matters when he feels the tips of Spike’s cock nudging his sac. Angel stops thrusting, his hands holding Dru’s hips as Spike slides slowly into her already full cunt.
It’s sheer torture for all of them. Dru’s body spasms, alternately rejecting and welcoming the new intrusion, and Angel can only lay there, his body wracked with sensation. The combination of Dru’s tight moist channel and the slip slide of Spike’s hard cock against his own are pushing him slowly over the edge.
When Spike is finally seated inside, he stares down at Angel. This is going to be a short fuck. It’s too much, too old, too new, too too and Angel closes his eyes, his hand sliding up Dru’s thigh to find her clit. She squeals at the first light touch, but she doesn’t move and he’s grateful. He circles her erect nub, alternating between rough tugs and light flicks. He can feel her first orgasm trembling through her belly and thighs, and he opens his eyes to watch her come.
She’s biting her lip, eyes sightless and body still. He can feel her, pulsating around him, squeezing the two cocks inside her and suddenly she shakes. The force of her orgasm almost pushes them out of her body. She’s coming, a clear sticky juice gushing from her cunt. Her copious cum drips down his shaft, drenching him and he shivers as Spike’s sac slides across his.
He has to move, can’t not move. Spike’s hand covers his and it’s all the encouragement he needs. He thrusts and groans, the added pressure and sensation of rubbing and sliding against Spike’s cock ratcheting up his need. His whole body taut, tense with the need to come, Angel fights to keep his eyes wide. He wants to watch, to stare at the dance of erotic beauty above him. Drusilla is braced above him, her face screwed tight in pained pleasure. Spike holds her up, a strong sinewy arm curled around her belly, biting his lip to keep back the moans Angel suddenly longs to hear.
Angel shifts, awkwardly pulling his torso up off the bed. He reaches his hand between their joined bodies, worming his fingers through the tight vee of Dru’s thighs. Soft, tight globes bounce tantalizingly off his fingertips and he smiles. He pulls back slightly and his fingers flick out-thwack!-against the firm skin of Spike’s sac. He does it again, and that little bit of pain pushes Spike over the edge. His blue eyes go sightless and he lets out throaty moan, his hips thrusting faster and faster. Angel smiles, his hands pulling back to hold Dru’s hips, trying to stay seated inside her. He feels the first thick spurt of Spike’s come wash over the sensitized head of his prick and now it’s his to turn to moan, low and shuddery.
He’s flying now, fingers and mouth busy with the bodies of the few people who can still lay claim to any part of him. Their skins are fragrant with his scent, his need, and his skin tingles with the slightest brush of their bodies.
Later, when he’s alone, he’ll regret this. He’ll hate himself for his weakness, for his animal lust and need. Later, Spike will make him pay for this moment of closeness. There will be subtle taunts, cold looks, and at least one attempt to out-Champion him. Later he will curl up in this bed, filled with self-loathing and desire, and taunt himself with stolen memories of their fucking. But that’s for later.
Pairing: Angel/Spike/Drusilla
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Coming back from Hell isn't always a release from the torment. Drusilla, Angel and Spike attempt to connect and exorcise their ghosts in the only way they know how. Comics canon compliant through Angel: Aftermath #25. Mild spoilers through the same.
A/N: This was my attempt to bring the kink back. It took a month to write and I got tangled in characterization while I was trying to get their freak on. OH PORN! HOW COULD YOU DO ME THUSLY? The first person to pun that will get an actual PwP of their choosing, subject to my own squicks and ability to write chosen characters/situations.
The air in the city feels different. Her head dips, eyes closing as she listens to the rush and press of a city returned from hell. Her lips twist, an almost smile hidden in the corners of her mouth.
“Oh yeah,” she murmurs to herself. “Yeah. I see you, my love. You thought I’d forgotten but I didn’t. Poor penitent, where has Father Confessor gone?”
Drusilla nods once, face solemn. They’ve been playing at salvation, but it’s never enough. The world has sinned and waits for pardon.
She hums, the familiar tune catching at the back of her throat. She’s had years alone to plan, to grow strong, to mire in the fretful ache of her loss. All the snares are sprung now, the tiny traps of fate unwound. This time, it will all end differently.
Run and catch, run and catch…
*~*~*
The soft footfalls catch his attention, but he doesn’t turn around. The sword in his hands dips, as much of a greeting as he’s willing to give, but his eyes stay focused on the sky. They’ll be back. Maybe in a few minutes, maybe not, but he knows he didn’t send them packing for good.
“They’ll be back,” Spike drawls. “You know that, right? Not likely they’ve buggered off for good.”
“Thanks,” Angel shoots back acidly. “Managed to work that out all on my own.”
Spike snorts, and the sharp click of metal carries across the space between them. The guttering flame of his lighter pops and hisses. Angel brings the sword down in a swift arc, but he doesn’t turn.
“Look,” Spike responds placatingly, “what more could you? They’re bloody angels, Angel. Fist of an angry god and all that.”
“Yeah, didn’t we do that already?” Angel says wearily. “I’m tired and I don’t like you, so I’m gonna give this whole banter thing a miss. So the next time you…”
He stops midsentence, his whole body suddenly alert. Spike meets his gaze, eyes wide and body tense. There’s no noise, no movement, but they can both feel it. Being watched creates an odd sort of heat, a ghostly pressure.
“Time to call it a night,” Angel says softly.
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, voice equally quiet. “Think I’ll join you for a drink.”
Angel scowls, but nods fractionally in agreement. He can’t see the eyes, but he knows they’re there. Spike is almost motionless, barely fidgeting as he scans the shadows. No sense in turning down an extra pair of fists.
The hotel isn’t far and they don’t waste time talking. Angel refuses to admit he trusts Spike. Angel refuses to admit he trusts anyone But he doesn’t bother to cover his flank because Spike is next to him. The odd heat follows them down the street and into the building.
“Lucky your problem children have all gone home,” Spike says dryly. “Last thing we need is Snap, Crackle, and bloody Pop underfoot.”
Angel doesn’t answer. They are problem children, but Spike doesn’t get to make that call. He tosses the sword onto the wide counter and strides up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He can hear Spike behind him, moving at a slower pace. What’s following them won’t be stupid enough to makes its move just yet, but Spike’s thorough when it comes to his own neck. Angel lets slip a small smile. He likes that about Spike. A little.
The hotel isn’t quite empty. He lives here. He works here. People come and go. The building isn’t in disrepair. But the dust barely stirs in the not-empty rooms filled with remnants of unfinished lives.
He walks past those rooms sometimes, stares in at the past and aches for it. Stray perfume bottles, redolent of a lost embrace, and mathematical formulas written in a precise hand muddle up his memory and keep him alone. Decorous neglect hangs over the hotel, over his life.
The soft swish of leather behind him and Angel pushes on, down the hall towards his bedroom. Plenty of weapons there and at least he won’t have to chase the damn thing through the hotel. The fewer rooms they destroy, the better.
As soon as he steps across the threshold into his bedroom, he smells it. Thick and spicy, overlaid with dust and iron, it slides down his throat and into his gut. He doesn’t have to turn around to see the wide, mad eyes boring into him. They dance just under his eyelids, haunting him.
“Dru,” Angel murmurs and hears Spike behind him, an astonished echo.
He turns, and she’s there between the two of them and isn’t that familiar? Her dark hair snaps around her, a Medusa’s cascade, alive and dangerous. Her blue dress, the hem damp and rust-colored with drying blood, sways as she rises up on her bare toes, reaching a plaintive hand towards him. He opens his mouth and hears Spike’s voice come tumbling out.
“Drusilla.”
Spike moves forward, a slow, cautious step. Drusilla cocks her head, face shifting into the exotic planes and angles of her demon. Her eyes narrow, teeth snapping quickly together.
“I saw the end of the world,” she growls. “The sun crept in, burning and purifying.”
“Oh bloody hell,” Spike whispers. “Did she—Angel, she must’ve got caught up when L.A. shifted dimensions.”
“But the sun there doesn’t burn,” Angel protests. “Dru, what happened?”
He can’t believe he’s asking, can’t believe he still cares. His feelings for her are some strange mixture of possessiveness and purity, a complex brew of guilt and lust. As much as he longs for the redemption of his soul, he aches for the completion she, Spike and Darla give his demon.
“Snakes don’t burn,” she hisses, vampiric mask dropping away. “Snakes don’t burn. You killed them, Angelus. Again and again you killed them, sticky fingers on broken bodies.”
She leaps on him, fingers extended. Her long nails swipe across his face, pulling a howl of outrage and pain from him. The parallel track marks burn, a heat that travels from his face down to his belly.
He grapples with her, pushing her hands backwards. She squirms, a half-twist that gives her enough leverage to throw him over her head. He lands on his back, temporarily jolted. Regaining his feet, the blood from his scratches runs into his eyes. The world goes filmy, a red haze obscuring his vision.
“Spike!” Angel yells angrily.
“Dru,” Spike says quietly. “Tell me what happened, love. Can’t help unless I know.”
His hands wrap gently around her wrists. Angel watches, seeing but still not understanding. Ever since Dru brought Spike home, when he was William and green as grass, Angel hasn’t been able to stop watching them. Hasn’t been able to understand these two beautiful mad people who were born of him, but have never been anything like him.
He expects Drusilla to turn on Spike, to carry on in her rage. But she collapses under his touch, crumpling against his legs and sobbing softly. Angel stands there, uncertain as he always is in the face of her stormy emotions and unstable mind.
“In the mad house,” she murmurs. “So many people. I couldn’t stop hearing them. They screamed and it was so loud. They came for me. Like in Prague.”
“A mob.” Spike says flatly. “You were attacked by a bloody mob in an asylum?”
She nods, her eyes drifting closed. “I could see you, you know. In the fire and the shadow.”
“In hell?” Angel asks. The loudness of his voice breaks her stillness, and she raises narrow, murderous eyes to stare at him.
“Little hands. Little fingers,” she says coldly. “I see you, Angelus. Every time, I see you. It didn’t matter, though, what I saw or didn’t. You found a way in, didn’t you? Slipping in through the cracks.”
He kneels down, hand reaching for her before he can stop himself. He knows what she’s talking about now. Her hair brushes against his knuckles and he stops. Looks at her.
He can’t think of the right words. She’s been through hell, a real hell full of torment and torture and the death of every single person she ever loved. A hell his actions created. Words? His words can’t make up for what he did.
The soft kiss on his palm startles him. His body twitches lightly at the caress, but he doesn’t pull away. Angel knows what’s coming. These moments, this pattern, are fixed; he couldn’t change it if he tried. That doesn’t make what he’s going to do any better. Doesn’t make it right. But even as he acknowledges the wrongness, his hand winds through the soft strands of Drusilla’s hair, pulling her to him.
“Daddy,” she breathes and the welcome in her voice is both arousing and sickening.
He kisses her lightly, soft teasing licks and nips enticing her to follow him as he stands. His hand is still clutching her hair, dragging her upwards so she follows because she must and not because she chooses to. But it is that precisely that combination of illusory choice and forced compliance that drove him to set up this pattern, to play this game.
Their kiss deepens and he hears her whimper weakly n the back of her throat. The sound sends electric tendrils of lust through his body. His cock hardens, thickening and lengthen as he parts her legs with a muscular thigh.
The soft swish of leather catches his ear and Angel pulls back. Spike’s moving away, his face uncertain. Angel understands. There’s nothing here that’s compatible with the men they are now, the souls and the burdens they bear. This moment, this act, is a remnant of times he wouldn’t reclaim if he could. But Angel doesn’t care right now. Damned if he’s going to let Spike care
Angel reaches around Drusilla’s slender frame, his free hand cupping Spike’s lean face. He drags Spike forward, suppressing a moan as their lips meet. Spike hesitates, his lips rigid and still under Angel’s. As Angel begins to pull back, Spike surges forward, his kiss full of rage and hate and a perverse passion that Angel has sorely missed. He hasn’t had this, them, blood of his blood, in so long. Drusilla writhes between their bodies, lapping at the blood trickling from the scratches on his face.
Spike ends the kiss abruptly, pulling back to stare at Angel. His hands pull the dress from Drusilla’s shoulders. The fabric sags, trailing down the sinuous curves of her body. Spike follows, tugging the thin material from her breasts to reveal pale pink nipples. He strokes them into pebbled peaks, but his eyes bore into Angel.
His gaze is hooded, wary, and Angel knows why. Spike’s fears are so easy to understand. Almost justified, if Angel stops to think about it. He doesn’t and he won’t, but he knows all the same.
It eats at him, this knowing. It isn’t just born of time spent together. He and Spike had…what? 20 odd years in each other’s company; hardly enough time to say hello. But there’s still a bone deep, blood thick knowledge between them—of scars, of desires, of pain and how to ease it or inflict it. He made and molded both of these beautiful, destructive beings. He knows them.
So he nods once, slowly and solemnly, to satisfy the questions inside those hungry, cautious eyes. He drops his head down to nuzzle Drusilla’s neck, suckling eagerly at her soft flesh. She’s doing her own dance with Spike, her own pleadings and bargaining. It’s silent, but Angel can hear it all the same.
He releases her hair, tugging her towards his bed by her waist. She follows, unresisting. Her blue dress finally drops, a puddle of stained silk on the floor.
Spike takes off his duster. He looks smaller, more vulnerable, without his coat. It’s almost a victory when Spike toes off his boots. Angel won’t examine why. Somehow this, this moment, this thing, is suddenly and surprisingly very important to him. They’ve tried fighting, they’ve tried words, they’ve all fought and hated and schemed and they keep bouncing into and off of each other and nothing works, nothing changes and Drusilla is kissing him, redirecting his mind and his body.
He lets her push him onto the bed, falls underneath her. Her fingers fly across his skin, inflicting little bruises and welts. Angel moans, hips bucking up towards her wet center.
“Always the same,” she says lightly. “Round and round the bramble bush. Do you remember, Angelus, how we
played when we were in tune?”
“I do,” he answers, hands stroking up her pale flanks.
“And you, my wicked? Do you remember? The dancing and the blood, hearts and heart’s desire?” She doesn’t turn to look at him. “But you’re not my wicked lad, are you? You dance to a new piper’s tune.”
Spike walks over, fingers slowly undoing the buttons of his red shirt. He strips it off as he stands beside the bed, letting it drop. Angel watches avidly as Spike pops the top button of his button-flies, as he climbs into bed behind Dru.
“No, love,” and his voice carries all the regret she’s avoided with her gaze. “ ‘M not your wicked lad.”
He dips his head, his hands coming under her arms to hold her breasts. His face shifts, the demon pushing forward. Angel watches, enthralled, as Spike delicately scores her neck. The thick blood wells sluggishly to the surface and Drusilla shivers lightly as Spike dips in his tongue in the thin trickle.The blood beads up, drop after drop sliding down her cool white skin. Spike reaches around, fingers tugging and pinching her puckered nipples.
“Miss me?” he asks huskily and the question is not a casual one.
She doesn’t bother to answer. Angel wonders idly how many times over the decades Dru’s brushed away similar questions, questions Spike can’t stop asking. Her head lolls back onto Spike’s shoulder and her hands dive downwards, teasing and taunting her own glistening sex.
Angel draws his hands away from her, folds them behind his head. As he shifts, her eyes flutter open and she sneers, a quick wicked fold of her lips. She extends her fingers, shiny with her own juices and traces his mouth. His cock, already hard, leaps inside his trousers.
She looks over her shoulder at Spike and he pulls away, unfastening the last of his own buttons, allowing his jeans to drop. Angel inhales, a quick, unbidden gasp that causes Drusilla to laugh.
“You were angry,” she whispers to him, leaning forward to slice her razor sharp nails through the thin silk of his shirt. “ The night I brought him home, you remember? He fought you and fought you, my Spike.”
He remembers and his belly twists, the perverse mixture of regret and lust somehow making him want this more. As Drusilla pushes aside the tatters of his shirt, Angel feels other hands tugging at his pants. He lifts his hips in surprise, allowing Spike to pull the trousers away.
The bed dips again. Spike’s hands wrap securely around Drusilla’s slender hips, lifting her up and holding her over Angel’s erect cock. Her sparse, damp hair brushes against the tip of his erection and he inhales, a quick reflexive gasp he can’t suppress. Her hips rock, a dip-sway that pushes her forward and she sighs, a short sharp noise that flutters her inner walls around the head of his cock.
He thrusts into her core, instinct and desire snapping his control. Her body contracts around him, a physical protest that doesn’t match her welcoming moan. Her fingers creep up her belly and around her breasts, swirling lightly around stiff, aching peaks. Spike’s fingers sidle through hers and his touch is rougher. She whimpers and Angel reaches up to brush his fingers across her dark, swollen nipples.
“More,” she demands, hips dancing in tune with her own rhythm. “Spike, more.”
Spike smiles, and in that smile Angel reads a hundred threats and promises. It’s shy William and the Slayer of Slayers and every moment in between and since and none of that matters when he feels the tips of Spike’s cock nudging his sac. Angel stops thrusting, his hands holding Dru’s hips as Spike slides slowly into her already full cunt.
It’s sheer torture for all of them. Dru’s body spasms, alternately rejecting and welcoming the new intrusion, and Angel can only lay there, his body wracked with sensation. The combination of Dru’s tight moist channel and the slip slide of Spike’s hard cock against his own are pushing him slowly over the edge.
When Spike is finally seated inside, he stares down at Angel. This is going to be a short fuck. It’s too much, too old, too new, too too and Angel closes his eyes, his hand sliding up Dru’s thigh to find her clit. She squeals at the first light touch, but she doesn’t move and he’s grateful. He circles her erect nub, alternating between rough tugs and light flicks. He can feel her first orgasm trembling through her belly and thighs, and he opens his eyes to watch her come.
She’s biting her lip, eyes sightless and body still. He can feel her, pulsating around him, squeezing the two cocks inside her and suddenly she shakes. The force of her orgasm almost pushes them out of her body. She’s coming, a clear sticky juice gushing from her cunt. Her copious cum drips down his shaft, drenching him and he shivers as Spike’s sac slides across his.
He has to move, can’t not move. Spike’s hand covers his and it’s all the encouragement he needs. He thrusts and groans, the added pressure and sensation of rubbing and sliding against Spike’s cock ratcheting up his need. His whole body taut, tense with the need to come, Angel fights to keep his eyes wide. He wants to watch, to stare at the dance of erotic beauty above him. Drusilla is braced above him, her face screwed tight in pained pleasure. Spike holds her up, a strong sinewy arm curled around her belly, biting his lip to keep back the moans Angel suddenly longs to hear.
Angel shifts, awkwardly pulling his torso up off the bed. He reaches his hand between their joined bodies, worming his fingers through the tight vee of Dru’s thighs. Soft, tight globes bounce tantalizingly off his fingertips and he smiles. He pulls back slightly and his fingers flick out-thwack!-against the firm skin of Spike’s sac. He does it again, and that little bit of pain pushes Spike over the edge. His blue eyes go sightless and he lets out throaty moan, his hips thrusting faster and faster. Angel smiles, his hands pulling back to hold Dru’s hips, trying to stay seated inside her. He feels the first thick spurt of Spike’s come wash over the sensitized head of his prick and now it’s his to turn to moan, low and shuddery.
He’s flying now, fingers and mouth busy with the bodies of the few people who can still lay claim to any part of him. Their skins are fragrant with his scent, his need, and his skin tingles with the slightest brush of their bodies.
Later, when he’s alone, he’ll regret this. He’ll hate himself for his weakness, for his animal lust and need. Later, Spike will make him pay for this moment of closeness. There will be subtle taunts, cold looks, and at least one attempt to out-Champion him. Later he will curl up in this bed, filled with self-loathing and desire, and taunt himself with stolen memories of their fucking. But that’s for later.
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on 2009-11-16 08:55 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-17 07:04 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-16 03:31 pm (UTC)In any case, I can see I have to read the comics.
This story is beautifully done, and unremittingly sexy.
I bow.
L
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on 2009-11-17 07:08 am (UTC)Thank you very much. I'm so glad you enjoyed it.
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on 2009-11-17 02:22 pm (UTC)L
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on 2009-12-11 11:33 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-11 12:54 pm (UTC)Moving often doesn't, in my experience.
L
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on 2009-11-16 05:15 pm (UTC)I really, honestly, really enjoyed this you know. Terrific work!
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on 2009-11-17 07:22 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-16 07:15 pm (UTC)This line is poetry, no, not just this line but the whole is so beautiful and precise and evocative, you are a talented writer and thank you for sharing your gift
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on 2009-11-17 07:23 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-17 03:00 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-17 07:23 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-17 06:27 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-17 07:24 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-11-25 07:54 pm (UTC)You also convey Spike's thoughts so well through his dialogue. The moment when he and Angel break off their kissing and preliminary foreplay with Dru and Spike hesitates with his unspoken question to Angel was fantastic.
The description of Angel and Spike's kiss was also excellent, and Angel's thoughts that spending 20 years together with Spike was 'barely enough time to say hello', as well as the closing paragraph, were brilliant.
The description of the threesome was very intense, passionate and vivid- this is one of my favorite things you've written, and that is saying a lot.
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on 2009-12-11 11:36 am (UTC)I'm so so glad you enjoyed this. Your critique really means a lot to me and thank you so much, hon!