Couldn't, Wouldn't (1/1)
Sep. 27th, 2008 02:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Spike/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do what he craved. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, push his way into the sleep lax body and celebrate the death of a Slayer. But this was his doing, his web of death and destruction woven with glee and he was well and truly caught in it.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
clawofcat for her CoSoRanOb challenge. The prompts were: Spike and any character exceptXander or Lindsey, red, explosions, and a technological device. For those who are curious, the bona fides for the technological device used in this story can be found here.
The noise deafened him, the subsonic booms of the explosions scraping against his raw emotions, threatening to drive him mad. He could feel Darla’s eyes boring into him, cataloging every flinch and tremble. He wished, not for the first time, that he could claw the soul from his body. He felt it as a physical thing, an entity that roiled and rolled under his skin, slipping just out of his reach every time he tried to grab hold of it.
The city burned around them, the stink of ash and putrid flesh settling on his skin. He bristled, unable to stop himself. He longed to be clean and being here, now, made him feel unclean. Every scream, every body he passed by left its mark on him. Tainted him somehow, in a way he couldn’t quite understand.
His gaze was caught by a couple, arms entwined and moving leisurely, almost strolling, through the chaos of a world gone to hell. He stared, fighting to keep his face impassive. The face was familiar: innocent blue eyes and a devil’s own smile. But seeing it streaked in bright red blood almost brought him to his knees.
He’d done that. Taken innocence and perverted it to his own ends. As he listened to the bluster and bravado, he could only see the desperation of a boy’s need for approval. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, give it. Couldn’t bear to shatter the pride and pleasure on that sweetly hopeful face.
“I guess this makes you one of us,” he acknowledged coldly.
Later, when the screams had quieted to dull moans and pleas for help, mercy, water, he stood staring at the silent form laid out in a stolen bed. He didn’t know whose bed it had been, only that they were now dead and rotting somewhere in this house. The lad on the bed had helped to kill them, dropping their lifeless bodies like so much trash.
“Gonna come in?” The voice, filled with sleep, seduced him from his doorway perch.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do what he craved. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, push his way into the sleep lax body and celebrate the death of a Slayer. But this was his doing, his web of death and destruction woven with glee and he was well and truly caught in it.
“Have a wee surprise for you,” he murmured, fingers brushing gently over tightly budded nipples.
The soft intake of breath pulled an unwilling smile from him. He loved to make Spike breath, loved the feeling of power it gave him. The soul hadn’t taken that from him, at least.
He spread a thin layer of petrolatum over the thick knob protruding from the round metallic wand. The machine was bulky, noisy, and almost comically unsuitable for fucking. He’d bought it almost a year ago, amused at the novel idea that anyone would require some piece of metal to do their screwing. Now he was grateful for the distance it placed between them.
He pushed Spike over, face and belly down. No point in playing coy now, pretending to a need for teasing touches or gentleness. Spike had likely been hard since the first drops of Slayer blood touched his tongue. Nothing between them had ever been gentle.
He suddenly had an aching desire to erase that, an ache that encompassed his entire existence. But tonight wasn’t meant for that. Sorries and sorrow had no place in this act; he tucked them away as he pushed the thick knob into Spike, forcing it past the tight ring of muscle that pulsed and flexed against the intrusion.
As soon as the thick rubber was fully seated, he pushed down on the round button. As it sank into the handle, the machine shuddered to life, the loud droning buzz almost drowned out by the surprised shout that escaped from Spike’s lips. His head popped up, back arching.
Limned in the moonlight, the expression of Spike’s face captivated him. The whitewashed paleness of his skin, the almost bruise color of the shadows made by his lashes, the perfect round o of his full lips; all elements of some erotic portrait he itched to paint. He stared, desperate to engrave the details in his memory.
He pulled on the vibrating machine, sliding almost out of Spike’s body and pushing it forward again. Spike stiffened, reaching around to pull roughly at his dripping prick. One more tug and push, this one angled slightly upward to apply the stimulating vibration to the round nub nestled there.
Spike shuddered, thick curses flowing from his lips as his cock pulsed and spat. Droplets of semen fell onto the duvet, a pitter-patter of sticky rain. The heavy brine scent permeated the room, teasing at his nose and stirring his groin. He could feel his arousal growing and he hated it.
He pulled the machine from Spike’s now lax and sated body with an almost indecent haste. He’d deluded himself into thinking the metal and rubber would keep him from enjoying this, keep him clean. Nothing he did or touched would ever be clean.
He leapt from the bed, striding out of the room without touching or looking at Spike. He couldn’t, wouldn’t. But he wasn’t fast enough to escape the sound of his name, floating on a soft sight.
“Angelus.”
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do what he craved. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, push his way into the sleep lax body and celebrate the death of a Slayer. But this was his doing, his web of death and destruction woven with glee and he was well and truly caught in it.
A/N: Written for
clawofcat for her CoSoRanOb challenge. The prompts were: Spike and any character exceptXander or Lindsey, red, explosions, and a technological device. For those who are curious, the bona fides for the technological device used in this story can be found here.The noise deafened him, the subsonic booms of the explosions scraping against his raw emotions, threatening to drive him mad. He could feel Darla’s eyes boring into him, cataloging every flinch and tremble. He wished, not for the first time, that he could claw the soul from his body. He felt it as a physical thing, an entity that roiled and rolled under his skin, slipping just out of his reach every time he tried to grab hold of it.
The city burned around them, the stink of ash and putrid flesh settling on his skin. He bristled, unable to stop himself. He longed to be clean and being here, now, made him feel unclean. Every scream, every body he passed by left its mark on him. Tainted him somehow, in a way he couldn’t quite understand.
His gaze was caught by a couple, arms entwined and moving leisurely, almost strolling, through the chaos of a world gone to hell. He stared, fighting to keep his face impassive. The face was familiar: innocent blue eyes and a devil’s own smile. But seeing it streaked in bright red blood almost brought him to his knees.
He’d done that. Taken innocence and perverted it to his own ends. As he listened to the bluster and bravado, he could only see the desperation of a boy’s need for approval. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, give it. Couldn’t bear to shatter the pride and pleasure on that sweetly hopeful face.
“I guess this makes you one of us,” he acknowledged coldly.
Later, when the screams had quieted to dull moans and pleas for help, mercy, water, he stood staring at the silent form laid out in a stolen bed. He didn’t know whose bed it had been, only that they were now dead and rotting somewhere in this house. The lad on the bed had helped to kill them, dropping their lifeless bodies like so much trash.
“Gonna come in?” The voice, filled with sleep, seduced him from his doorway perch.
He couldn’t, wouldn’t, do what he craved. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, push his way into the sleep lax body and celebrate the death of a Slayer. But this was his doing, his web of death and destruction woven with glee and he was well and truly caught in it.
“Have a wee surprise for you,” he murmured, fingers brushing gently over tightly budded nipples.
The soft intake of breath pulled an unwilling smile from him. He loved to make Spike breath, loved the feeling of power it gave him. The soul hadn’t taken that from him, at least.
He spread a thin layer of petrolatum over the thick knob protruding from the round metallic wand. The machine was bulky, noisy, and almost comically unsuitable for fucking. He’d bought it almost a year ago, amused at the novel idea that anyone would require some piece of metal to do their screwing. Now he was grateful for the distance it placed between them.
He pushed Spike over, face and belly down. No point in playing coy now, pretending to a need for teasing touches or gentleness. Spike had likely been hard since the first drops of Slayer blood touched his tongue. Nothing between them had ever been gentle.
He suddenly had an aching desire to erase that, an ache that encompassed his entire existence. But tonight wasn’t meant for that. Sorries and sorrow had no place in this act; he tucked them away as he pushed the thick knob into Spike, forcing it past the tight ring of muscle that pulsed and flexed against the intrusion.
As soon as the thick rubber was fully seated, he pushed down on the round button. As it sank into the handle, the machine shuddered to life, the loud droning buzz almost drowned out by the surprised shout that escaped from Spike’s lips. His head popped up, back arching.
Limned in the moonlight, the expression of Spike’s face captivated him. The whitewashed paleness of his skin, the almost bruise color of the shadows made by his lashes, the perfect round o of his full lips; all elements of some erotic portrait he itched to paint. He stared, desperate to engrave the details in his memory.
He pulled on the vibrating machine, sliding almost out of Spike’s body and pushing it forward again. Spike stiffened, reaching around to pull roughly at his dripping prick. One more tug and push, this one angled slightly upward to apply the stimulating vibration to the round nub nestled there.
Spike shuddered, thick curses flowing from his lips as his cock pulsed and spat. Droplets of semen fell onto the duvet, a pitter-patter of sticky rain. The heavy brine scent permeated the room, teasing at his nose and stirring his groin. He could feel his arousal growing and he hated it.
He pulled the machine from Spike’s now lax and sated body with an almost indecent haste. He’d deluded himself into thinking the metal and rubber would keep him from enjoying this, keep him clean. Nothing he did or touched would ever be clean.
He leapt from the bed, striding out of the room without touching or looking at Spike. He couldn’t, wouldn’t. But he wasn’t fast enough to escape the sound of his name, floating on a soft sight.
“Angelus.”
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no subject
on 2008-09-27 06:23 am (UTC)This was achingly beautiful.
no subject
on 2008-09-29 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-27 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-29 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-27 02:09 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-29 12:22 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-27 04:43 pm (UTC)It had never occurred to me that Angel would have been this uncomfortable seeing the carnage of the Boxer Rebellion. We know morally his soul balked against it, but you beautifully convey his physical disgust, too, as though the very place is a disease that makes him itch all over. Those physical aspects of self-loathing make this story feel very personal and voyeuistic as we're brought into Angel's own personal hell and how he now views Spike through his ensouled eyes.
I love how you capture their intimacy even through the morbid details of the dead and dying. There are so many descriptive lines that I loved. You used my weird prompts brilliantly.
The machine was bulky, noisy, and almost comically unsuitable for fucking. He’d bought it almost a year ago, amused at the novel idea that anyone would require some piece of metal to do their screwing.
Great Angel POV on this. It's fun because it also deeply entrenches this piece in a very specific time period in world history. Adds to the atmosphere, not to mention the hot-factor. Those old vibrators practically looked like archaic torture devices, lol.
his cock pulsed and spat. Droplets of semen fell onto the duvet, a pitter-patter of sticky rain.
I just really like the way to described this. Thought I would point it out. Believe it or not, I actually sat and thank about how sex toys enhance/decrease intimacy. You become one-stepped removed physically, but like all other machines and devices, they also become an extension of ourselves, attachments that we take on and take off as necessary. I'm writing a fic right now that also deals with a sex toy, so my brain went to the meta side of things. How does it affect a couples sexual dynamic? Probably really depends on the couple, the object in question and what/how it's used. I love it when I start turning this stuff over.
Beautiful job. And you wrote it so quickly, too! Even when something is short, I sit on it for days. Slowest writer ever.
no subject
on 2008-09-29 12:27 am (UTC)I enjoy writing for prompts because I'm a schoolgirl at heart. I do well with assignments, especially ones that have clearly defined parameters. I can write a ten page paper in under a week once I get started. Overcoming the initial inertia? Yeah, that's something different.
I'm glad you enjoyed it, hon. Hopefully your computer will get fixed soon!
no subject
on 2008-09-27 08:27 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-29 12:27 am (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-29 05:53 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2008-09-29 06:10 pm (UTC)Glad you enjoyed it, hon!