Spike is whimpering.
Despite his exhaustion, the soft signals of his Most Favoured's distress cut through Angel's sleep like a hundred tiny swords, snapping him immediately to full alertness.
Thunder pounds on the roof of the Hyperion as a late winter storm rages over Los Angeles, drowning out the normal sounds of the city night. But when nature's fury abates for a brief moment, he hears it again -- a tiny sniffle and a pathetic mewl from beside him, muffled by the bedclothes. Angel turns over slowly and wraps his arm around the younger vampire's waist.
"Hey... what's wrong?" he whispers, tapping a brief, soft kiss to the nape of Spike's neck.
"Nuthin'. Lemme be," he snaps, and pulls away. Angel can hear tears in his voice, and moves closer once more.
"Spike... it's just thunder. It won't hurt you."
The blonde shrugs him off with a curse, and burrows deeper into his pillows.
Another thunderbolt crashes, and Spike yelps, then cries harder. Angel sighs and reaches for him again, pulling the smaller man into the shelter of his arms. Of all the many surprising things there were to know about his Childe, still the most surprising of all, it seems, is his pure terror of thunderstorms.
"It's okay, Will. I'm here. I won't let anything hurt you," he promises, pulling the boy tightly against his chest. Spike burrows closer still, but doesn't relax, lying there quaking like an army of Slayers is after him.
Angel reaches a gentle hand down, tucking a finger under Spike's chin to raise his gaze. Eyes the shade of the very storm that scares him stare up, full of irrational terror and shame-inducing tears. The expression shreds something in his heart... it's so rare to see his boy afraid... vulnerable. Usually so tough and arrogant, spitting in the face of dangers that would turn most creatures to quivering puddles of mush, to see him now shiver and cry makes half of Angel want to hold him... and the other half want to kill something for frightening him. He chooses a gesture somewhere in between, leaning down and kissing the trembling lips.
The contact stirs something not quite so soft in the elder vampire. He sweeps his tongue deep into Spike's liquorsweet mouth, willing the fear out of him as if he might drink it. So like the last kiss of prey, the flavor of that apprehension. And knowing that it comes from this fierce, dangerous creature... this beautiful monster and tender child of his own making... it's even more delicious. Angel's blood hums instantly with hunger.
Spike dives frantically into the embrace, as if he too is thinking that his Sire, the Great Hunter, might know how to devour his fear and make it vanish. He knows full well that it's stupid to be afraid of a little storm, when they are at the top of the food chain, but he can't help it. Storms were bigger, even, than them. They were vampires... immortal, sure... but Mother Nature still had Her finger on the strands of their existence, and thunder only stood as a reminder that immortality was a relative concept. If he got hit by lightning, he would still burst into flames and be left nothing but a pile of ash turning to mud in the rain.
Another cursed frailty that had followed him to the Other Side.
But with Angel's mouth against his, that most familiar tongue sweeping his palette, his teeth... those huge, strong hands cupping and stroking his face...
Well, frankly, Mother Nature could fuck right off. The lightning can't get him, as long as Angelus is near.
Angel turns Spike gently onto his back, listening to the fire growing in his blood as it rushes straight to his groin, hardening him instantly against Spike's smooth, cool skin.
He personally loves thunderstorms, and this is exactly why. Thunder is loud and full, and makes the Earth thrum with rage and power, just as his desire for his Childe makes his body pound with delicious need. Lightning lights the sky with flame, like the heat of passion... like the blinding white light of orgasm. And the rain... the sweet drops wash the world away and create it anew, just as making love to this pure, simple, beautiful being beneath him always refreshes his weary soul.
He lets his mouth and hands wander, spreading comfort and want in equal measure over every perfect marble inch of his lover... the concave shadow of cheekbone... the sharp angle of jaw. He laves long and lazily at the thick veins that never pulse, and feels a shiver of his own to hear Spike's tears turn to blissful sighs. Angel smiles to himself... there's nothing better than a storm to make his boy forget about a storm.
He continues his journey, intent to distract Spike by pushing all of his most sensitive buttons. He runs blunt teeth down the length of his First Made's still jugular... over his Adam's apple, nipping lightly at the bulge there until his actions elicit a deep moan from below.
Then, he moves on. Tongue in the hollow of Spike's throat... flickering across the thick clavicle, from shoulder to shoulder. Down, tracing the sternum over quiet heart, and over, flicking his left nipple to pebble point, then sucking it gently for a moment before biting down.
A shudder ripples through Spike. "Uh, Christ, Angel..." His hands wind into his Sire's hair, abrading his scalp as his fingers are lost in thick, soft sable. Angel moans in return, and repeats the same attention to Spike's other nipple, and the cycle begins again.
Spike has a very different feeling about the lightning Angel sparks in his body than for the one outside. This fire, this consumption, is something he craves... spends half his damn unlife trying to get more of. As his Sire's mouth continues downward, licking that sweet burn over each of his ribs, between each cut in the muscle of his abdomen, and finally dipping into his belly button, he lets everything slip away.
This is their
eternal dance... Angel's soft mouth nibbling and sucking his hip bones...
Spike's lean hands smoothing down his broad back, his waist, and coming
to rest finally on his rear, squeezing. Angel grunts, driving his
hips unconsciously into the mattress, the smooth sheets caressing his already
oversensitive erection almost to the point of making him come on the
He takes his boy's throbbing member firmly in hand, and gives it the same sort of attention he is imagining for his. Angel can almost feel each touch against his own skin... slow circles of gentle tongue around its base, where the curls end, and swirling upward, spiraling trails up the turgid length. He closes his lips tightly over the bulging head at last, and can't help but moan as he starts to suck.
"Aaaaaangellllll..." Spike groans, hands reflexively clutching at his shoulders, fingertips gripping skin just that much too tightly... giving him just that much pain, and Angel's moan becomes a growl that eases out of him before he even knows it's coming.
Angel loves taking Spike into his mouth... loves the way his penis jumps and pulses like a living thing as he devours it whole. It's almost like the end of a hunt... taking the victim... taking it all, taking it deep, and sucking the life out of it. Feeling its head jerk against the back of his throat, like a final death paroxysm as he swallows it.
"Oh, Christ... Angel... fuck!" Spike cries out, so loudly that Angel can feel it vibrate in the groin beneath his lips, "That's so fucking good. Suck it... Angel... ohgodyeah."
Angel opens his eyes and looks up the Adonis landscape to see Spike's face... the shadows of lust, blue eyes open half-mast, watching, and it turns him on even more to see the expression of bliss waxing there.
Their affair... the sex... it's all wrong, and all right. A vice he can't foreswear, twisting their roles... half demon, half-human, and Angel wouldn't have it any other way. Flesh and blood, nails and fangs. The storm outside and the boiling in his veins, the slurping of his mouth around Spike's cock. It's so animal, so base and feral, it's almost as good as a kill.
He releases Spike from his mouth and ascends his body, rubbing their forms full-length together until he reaches those eyes. The blue flashes with gold as the demon surfaces with the power of the rut, and Angel feels a wolfish grin steal across his mouth as he leans in to claim his Childe's.
There's fang, now... a nick against Spike's tongue, and the smaller man shivers as Angel sucks the drops away. It's so good, like this... so good to be a demon, to be the whelp as his Master begins to snarl softly, grinding his crotch into Spike's own, their raging cocks rubbing together even as their tongues tangle in the blood that wells from tiny, only half-accidental wounds.
He wants to be the fledgling in this... wants the loss of control. No... beyond just loss, he wants his power *taken*, ripped from him, and sometimes, like tonight, he wants it so badly, he could explode from it, and he begs.
Angel loves it when Spike begs. When he trembles and quakes like a small child beneath him... like the pup he hasn't been in a hundred years or more. He feels the demon surge and howl from the blood and the growing scent of arousal and submission fighting for space with the electricity of the storm in the air. He loves to let the lust out to play... the lust for violence, the lust for storm, the lust to be King and to partake in the exchange of vital essence that he misses in his deepest core. This ritual makes him whole, somehow -- makes him hot and alive, and tenderness evaporates under the crushing power of it.
It's a game. A game they both love, and when the sun is out, and they play human for the mortals who share their days, they pretend this never happens. They play tame, and that the cold and dead from refrigerated bags is enough.
But it's not. They share that secret knowledge... sometimes a clandestine glance, a flash of fang, a quick fuck behind closed office doors, Spike bent over the desk, and Angel railing him as he feeds from his throat.
"I want you inside me. Angelus... take me. Fuck me, please. Now."
Spike doesn't mind begging. He knows it won't count against him when the night is gone, and that Angel tucks the whimpering and supplicating away in the back of his mind where the demon is caged, until they are once again like this.
Like this, he isn't Angel. He's the Other. The Darker. William's true center, his cruel, magnificent progenitor, the dealer of blood and death and pain and power and life everlasting. He is everything, these nights.
"You want me to fuck you, Will?" Angel growls, teasing the head of his cock into the crack between Spike's firm cheeks. His Sire is adamantine, huge and wet, and yes, Spike wants him to fuck him. Wants him to impale his very being and make him his bitch. Make him cry. Rail him and pound him and rip him apart.
"Yes," he hisses, arching his hips up into Angel's. "Give it to me, Angelus."
Angel groans low, deep, mean in his chest, taking his boy by the shoulders and flipping him over, shifting his grip to the lean hips to pull Spike up on his knees.
The teasing is the best part of the game, almost. His vicious stripling writhing beneath him, mewling and purring, growling and rocking back on his haunches to urge Angel home. But he loves the teasing, the waiting, the building tension in cock and balls and blood. So he rubs his aching member along the curves and cuts of the sweet ass being offered up like a sacrifice before him. He softly caresses the round muscles with his length... the dark crease between... bends over, blanketing the boy so he can whisper in his ear.
"Tell me what you want, William."
A groan and a shiver from below. "I want you, Sire. I want your cock inside me."
Angel teases the tip beneath Spike, rubbing it against the equally throbbing penis he finds there... brushing under his sac and back up, slowly, to his entrance.
"Do you want it slow, hm? Do you want me to slide in easy and fuck you softly?"
He already knows the answer, but it doesn't matter. This is part of the game. He reaches to the nightstand for the oil.
"No. No, hard. Please, hard," Spike cries. He wants to be driven. Abused. Slammed and split in two until he can't take it anymore. "I want it hard, Angel. Hard."
Angel's whole body spasms at the guttural words. Enough of the game. He pours the oil onto his hands and with one, greases Spike. With the other, himself.
Some nights, he doesn't bother with this at all. Others, he tears Spike's veins open first, and smears them both slick with the blood, using that to ease his entry. But tonight, he wants this... the sensual liquid... wants to feel it warm from the friction of their bodies blending. He positions himself just outside.
"Are you ready, boy? "
"Yes! Christ, yes!"
Angel rams himself home, hard and deep in a single thrust, fast and furiously sheathing himself inside the body of his mate. Spike howls at the vicious invasion, and his muscles clamp down defensively, forcing the larger man to put some effort into pulling out, and then slamming home again. Out... in again... the muscles relax. Out... sliding... in... blood raging... out... unnecessary breath quick and short... in... muscles straining...
It's so good. So good to be swallowed. To be enveloped. To be in. Angel closes his eyes tight, digging his fingertips cruelly into the flesh of Spike's hips, using the purchase to increase the pace to punishing pain and perfect ecstasy. Listens to the lightning crack in time with their bodies smacking, slamming together... the screaming of bliss in blood and bone and cock until the noise in his body drowns out the thunder.
Angel drapes himself over and around Spike's lean form, and hammers him. Still, after all this time, he is unable to believe the pure, raging ecstasy of this union.
"Ah! Spike! You... FUCK! You feel... so good... so tight... so... oh, God, I love being inside you!"
Spike cries, slamming backward, matching his Sire's merciless pace thrust
for rending thrust. He never feels as full as when Angel is buried
deep inside him. Never as warm as when his innards are burning with
the abrasion of his Maker's assault. Pleasure crashes through him,
crushes him, annihilates him like wildfire in his cells. "Harder!
Fuck me harder!
Angel snarls and complies. He can feel the bruises forming on his hipbones, and he doesn't care. He reaches beneath and claims Spike's engorged cock in his grip, stroking him hard and fast in his still-slick fist, because he knows from the waves of mind-numbing fire that jet through his nerves, that he won't last much longer.
Some nights, the storm is like that. Hard and fast and brutal. Some nights it's soft and sweet, and long, like their bond.
"Spike!" he shouts... barks... howls... It's a noise, not a word. A feeling, not a concept, and he says it again and again as he drowns in the power. "SPIKE! SPIKE! SPIKE!"
"Sire! Master! Yes! Please ohholy fuck I'm gonna come... oh christangel! FUCK!"
It's thunder and lightning, earthquakes and hurricanes... the whole universe created and destroyed at once where their bodies meet and crash together. Flesh of one flesh, blood of one blood, the history or an entire race, of a centuries-old lust, of all the untamed animals in creation, between them.
No thought. No thought at all, at the end. No Angel, no Spike, just demons. Angel remains buried in the boy's ass, flipping him onto his back with a pull of his leg and a spin that no human could ever accomplish. Keeps fucking him, claiming him, marking him, dominating him as he dives down, his hand on Spike's dick crushed between them as he tears into the cool flesh of his throat. Spike howls and does the same, ripping into his Sire as he comes, emptying into Angel's hand with jerking spasms that rock his frame, coating their stomachs and chests. Angel drinks hard as he fills his beta's channel with the climax of the demon tempest that consumes his soul every day.
He shudders with the last of the fire leaving him, and collapses, still softly nursing at the wound in Spike's neck. The blood... so sweet... thick with lust and love and perfect understanding. He sighs and puddles into the younger vampire's arms.
Spike wraps around him, pulling him close, and purrs himself swiftly to sleep.
Angel raises his head, smiling to see his Childe relaxed and soothed back to slumber. He withdraws from his body gently and rolls to the side, but stays close, tired skin pressed to tired skin. He pets his lover's hair tenderly, watching... listening to the song of the storm outside... and the one slowing inside himself.
He'll stay awake until it all passes, in case Spike wakes again and is frightened. He brushes a soft kiss to the alabaster forehead, and delights in the sleepy dreamsmile he gets in return.
It's nice when the storm eases. Very nice indeed.