The unholy scream shatters the perfect silence that had once been my office. The pen in my hand slips, scoring the portrait I had been drawing
Great, now my sister's face has a *moustache*.
It's the fourth time in the last half hour I've been interrupted this way.
With an exasperated sigh, I screw up the drawing and toss it in the trash.
Hmm... that one was interesting. I wonder how it's goin--
No, no I don't. I have work to do. I don't have time to lounge about in my
Mmmm.. I just remembered -- he doesn't wear underwear...
No, no, no. Work. Important. Focussed. Work.
My finger brushes against the edge of the folder. I need to work on it. I
"Pick it up. UP. The opposite of down, you Irish cockjaw!"
-- upstairs to see what the *hell* is going on.
I tidy up the file and place it neatly at the corner of my desk, before
The Hyperion is silent. A few lights shine dimly, illuminating the stairs to
Spike dwells in room 404; two floors above mine. I guess when I said he had the whole hotel to choose from, I didn't think he'd take me quite so
Or more accurately; "Come on, Angel, y'don't expect me to live in a shoebox like you, do ya?"
What I think he meant was that he didn't want to live in a shoebox *with*
His room is the benchmark by which pigs set their standards. Spike's time occupying this 'living space' varies. Sometimes he spends days on end holed up in there -- usually during the World Cup, test matches and that 72 hour Baywatch marathon on Fox with the cable connection he thinks I don't know he's stealing.
Other times, he won't spend a day in there for weeks. Whether it's because he's succumbed to his wanderlust (read: trouble-making), or because he spends the nights with me. Even though he has the enviable talent of being one of the most annoying and irritating creatures that has ever graced the earth, I don't mind at all when he does. His cool, hard body pressed up against mine in the early hours of the morning makes the room -- and the world -- not so empty.
In the end, we both enjoy our privacy as much as our time together. And we have come to a unique understanding. I don't pester him about cleaning it up, and he doesn't make me spend the night there. Because as I've patiently explained to him, there are a few other places I would rather go to sleep.
Hell, for instance.
I walk silently up the stairs. Contrary to popular
belief, I do *not* creep. I just happen to be naturally stealthy, and don't purposely stomp from one end of the hotel to the other to 'create atmosphere'.
The roar of a television crowd brings me out of my musings, and Spike's
Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn'tve put the effort in and found Dru a nice, dumb, mute to turn.
Flickering blue light spills into the hallway. I walk to the door, carefully
Spike sits (and I use the term loosely) in an old battered recliner. He is
I check my chin. Not drooling? There's a first...
"In or out." His voice jars me out of my reverie.
"Uh, what?" Angel in a word: eloquent.
"In or out? Lurking is not an option."
"I don't lurk," I say defensively, an automatic response.
He spares me a glance, tearing those beautiful blue orbs away from the TV, telling me without words in the two seconds he looks at me what a goddamn liar I am.
"I'd forgotten what a quiet night at home is like with you around," I say as I step into his room, avoiding the piles of junk. His jaw tightens almost
"Don't much care for the crypt lifestyle anymore," he says bluntly. "Quiet
A sharp stab of sorrow and -- what else -- guilt lances through my stomach. Number 2 on the list of things not to talk about.
He haven't spoken of Sunnydale since... yeah.
Change the subject, change the subject.
"What are you watching?" It's the best I could think of, given the
Spike sighs, the distaste on his face no longer brought on by me. "A
"Really?" My interest is piqued. Not that I think there is an *actual*
"Not when the massacre's happening to *my* team, genius," He growls -- whether at the screen or at me, I'm not sure -- and shifts in the chair.
So I have a few-track mind these days. Sue me.
"Rugby?" I query. I'm fairly sure that's what it is. Seems awfully familiar.
Personally, I think he just likes saying the word 'massacre' again.
"I mean, what the *hell* is happening out there? The might of Britain is
"Actually, wallabies are marsupials, close relatives of the kanga-" He
Gah, wrong focus.
"It just *does*." He comments with firm conviction before adding "This is
Excuse me? What am I being accused of now? In Spike's mind, I am the
I sigh. "Why this time?"
He was expecting the question, because before I even have the syllable of 'time' out of my mouth, he's launched into a tirade.
"You and your goddamn country, that's why! Stupid potato-fuckers, you're ruining a perfectly good team..."
My eyes widen noticeably, though I think it's the only outward sign of my
"And exactly how have I and my goddamn potato-fucking country crushed the might of Britain?"
Spike's lip twitches at my use of his phrases. A good cuss always made him laugh, anyway. It disappears soon enough and he's back down to business.
"Because, it's not the British Lions playing the Australian Wallabies..." he
He sighs exasperatedly. "It's the British *and* *Irish* Lions, you
Still wearing Angel Has No Idea face. Oh good, he's decided to enlighten me.
"The fucking Irish kicked up a fucking stink about having fucking Irish
I'd show my offence, but he doesn't need any more ammunition, and I never (consciously) paint a bullseye on my face.
Of course, I don't need to even say anything for it to magically appear
He tsks softly. "Personally, I just think the whole episode is
Spike seems a bit calmer now, I think it's safe to open my mouth. "I still
My erstwhile childe turns towards me in his chair. "You're Irish."
Translation: I'm Irish when it suits his argument to pin things on me.
He snorts. "S'pretty obvious, isn't it?"
Judging from my blank expression, obviously not.
Spike begins to number things off on his fingers. "Check out the football
"It *isn't* Spike," I remind him.
"Details, details." He dismisses with a wave of his hand, attention and
"Why do you watch this, anyway?"
He snorts at my question. It is just one of those thousands of things deemed 'too stupid to give Angel an answer', like when I ask him why I find his Docs in the freezer downstairs. But, to my surprise, Spike actually tries to explain himself.
"It's pure skill, mate. The blokes that play have to be in pretty top-notch
Oh, okay. I have to admit, it's nice to see him fired up about something
Sure enough, he has a tent pole in his pants. And I don't think it's one of
"Spike, a hardon doesn't count as personal growth," I gesture to his
"Lucky for you then, eh?" he quips, turning and eyeing my problem area which has been giving me trouble with standing still for the last five minutes.
What? It's not like I ever *claimed* I was perfect.
I want to defend myself but can't seem to. One; because there's nothing to defend and Two; he's already forgotten me in favour of the game again.
There's nothing much else for me to do than just stand there as he gets
Goddamnit, I keep him around because I love how he makes me feel wanted. If he doesn't want me -- then what?
I look down at Spike, all ready to tell him he can jerk off to as much
I just have the greatest desire to find out what that specific patch of skin
What? No. I was angry with... something. I don't quite remember what, but it had something to do with my boy and the way his tongue is running over the blunt edges of white teeth and oh *god* I need to get laid.
I manage to drag my eyes up from his legs to find him still watching the
Spike feels my gaze (has all along) and looks up at me. The biggest irony in existence is the way he can turn those baby blues into the most soulful pools of innocence that it would make lifelong virginal nuns weep with envy.
"Something the matter, Angelus?"
Ohhh, he's so good... but then again... he had a great teacher.
Hang on, since when did *he* become the king of the Unassuming Seduction (tm)? I've been doing that most of my souled and unsouled existence. I'll be damned (again) if he's going to beat me at my own game...
With a confidence and a resolve I don't really feel inside, I tear my eyes
"Nope. Mind if I watch the game?"
His eyebrow raises a fraction, but he just shrugs non-committally.
I sit down on the bed not a foot away from him and become absorbed in the game. And you know... he's right about some things... it does kind of get the blood pumping. I'm not attracted to any of these guys -- always had more of a thing for shorter, unnatural blonds, myself -- but there is an excitement and a primal energy I just can't help but be sucked into.
Oh yeah, pants kinda tight and uncomfortable in all the right places.
I shift on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving the set. My peripheral
Payback time, boy.
When my tongue comes out to moisten my lips ever so slightly as I lean
When a small appreciative noise rumbles in my throat, that makes his teeth grind.
When my hand strays across the fabric of my thigh, creeping closer and
His growl arcs up over the tinny roar of the television crowd. With the
"I'll show *you* personal growth," he hisses before clamping that insolent mouth down over mine. He tastes like potato chips, cherry pop tarts and O neg. And I have to say, it's delicious. Don't knock it unless you've tried it.
I tear my lips away from his with considerable effort. "Do you mind? I was watching the game,."
"Nothing makes you horny but *me*," he says with quiet, deadly conviction, before attacking my mouth once again.
His left hand is fisted in my hair, the right tearing at my shirt. It's not
He drags his lips down over the hard column of flesh still encased in my
The small part of my brain not totally focusing on the sensations he's
But you know what? Fuck it. It doesn't matter as long as he keeps doing what he's doing. Because if he stops, I'm going to kill him.
Right now, he's peeled my trousers and boxers down over my hips and is heavily breathing into my lap, making all my hairs quiver. Yes. *All* my
With a sharp tug, the rest of my clothing is gone. He looms over me like
Oh, that's me.
Hands come down, balancing his weight on my thighs, as his mouth slowly engulfs my erection.
Lucky, lucky me.
There's not much to be aware of. Only my cock and his mouth and the intense *feeling* of pleasure, of contact and of his name being ripped from my throat.
Well, I think it's his name. I hope he knows I was trying to say his name.
He releases me, but I catch the dark promise in his eyes. He's not finished. I'm not finished.
*We're* not finished.
Spike has amazing hands. Amazing because they are lightening fast and yet somehow linger in all the right places. Right now one is creeping up over the skin of my hip, and the other traces the lines of the muscles in my leg, running down behind my thigh to my knee -- oh fuck, how can he make touching the back of my *knee* sexy?! -- all the while licking and sucking on the smooth skin just underneath my navel.
I feel warm breath as he laughs. I know what he's thinking. I do *not* have a little Buddha belly! But if reprimanding him means making him pissed enough to stop, I'm gonna let it slide.
He stretches out to blanket my body with his own, each delightful muscle, curve and ridge pressing down on my own. His own arousal is pressed to my stomach, still encased in jeans. I can only begin to moan as he licks the line of my jaw and the underside of my chin.
Then those hands start to work again... they travel down my torso, slip
"Sp.. please Spike...," I manage to bite out, hands desperately tugging at
My pleas are lost to his ravenous kiss. There's noise of shuffling, or
Spike laughs huskily at me again. He loves making me lose it and groan like a rutting bear. I don't care. I never care. Until afterwards, of course.
But right now, I'll fuck any grizzly that comes along.
Spike growls, not unlike a bear himself, and I feel a hysterical giggle
"I hope you find this just as amusing, pet," he bites out, before thrusting
My back arches up off the mattress, and he takes the opportunity to hook an arm around the back of one of my knees. I don't know which one. There is no left or right, there is only sky at dusk blue eyes, and white fangs piercing pink lips, and ragged breathing... and that... and that... oh, and that too...
He doesn't talk. He doesn't have to. All we have to do is feel. Limbs smack together as bodies collide, and there is no speech, no language. Nothing except him in me, of me.
No words when I come. Not even his name. Just a scream that he will read all he wants into.
The world is a blond blur of movement. He moans desperately, so close. He leans close to my face, perspiration pooling at his temples. Spike is the most beautiful when he is here -- in the moment. There are no taunts and no ulterior motives. There's just him and me and he is just so... beautiful.
I wrap a hand around the back of his head and bring his lips down to my own. Fangs gnash together and sweet blood explodes on my tastebuds. The essence of his being fills my mouth. He bites my tongue, my lips, whatever flesh he can, and he tastes me. A sublime moan escapes him one more time, and he peaks.
We stay together for a while, before, with a sardonic smile, he comes to lie a headspan above me. I fling an arm around his waist and rest my head on his shoulder. Gradually, the sounds of shouting worm their way back into my head. I look up blearily at the TV to see the announcers raving about what a wonderful game was played.
"Who won?" I ask.
"Who cares?" he answers. I'd have to concur.
I put my head back down and lodge it under his chin.
Mmm.. combined with the arduous work day and the nice bouts of Spikercise, I just want to sleep. Sleep is good. I'm comfortable, it doesn't take long before I start to doze.
Something wakes me up, though. It's a word. Possibly a name. Oh, it's my name.
"Angel," Spike's voice is unusually subdued, even a little serious. Ut oh,
"Angel," he repeats. "You never sleep in my room," It's a reminder and --
"I know," I say, yawning.
His 'Why?' is plainly etched on his face.
"You're in here, aren't you?"
His 'Dur' is now plainly etched on his face.
"If you're in here, it's not so bad."
There's a twinkle of happiness in his eyes, although his mouth only twitches at a smile. Nothing more, nothing less.
He shifts to make himself more comfortable, curled around me, before
Just before I drift off, though, a thought occurs.
"What?" he asks grouchily, almost asleep himself.
"When's the next Rugby game?"
I feel his smile, even though I can't see it.
"There's another one tomorrow."
"Good." I reply. "Now shut up and let me sleep so I've got the energy to
He is still chuckling when I finally drift off into slumber.