Title: A Peek Southward
Pairing: Spike/Lindsey with Angel undertones.
Summary: Spike looks for Southern Comfort but his vision extends a bit further south than he expected.
Rating: hard R
Written for LaFemmeDarla who requested Alcohol, Leather, and Chocolate with no fluff.
So Iíve never been to hell. Iíve been to a hell *mouth*, Iíve been pulled into a darkness that led to the gateway to hell, heard the screams from the other side. Iíve even been stuck in an amulet that may or not have been in hell at some point. I was once mortal and died and came back two days later, in the interim I may have gone to hell, although I was mostly innocent at the time and so I think that even that was unlikely.
This is why I find it ironic that right now, at this moment I think that maybe this is what hell might feel like. The trouble, you see, is this; at some point tonight there was beer. The beer soon turned into whiskey, which morphed into tequila, and about the time the lemons came out it occurred to me that, soul or no, I was not on the path of the righteous.
When my companion offered me a nightcap, although I clearly had no need of one, and I agreed, the mouths of hell most likely started laughing in unison. Following him down narrow stairs to an apartment even dingier than mine, walls decorated in what are quite possibly the oddest glyphs Iíve ever seen, I again had the glimmer of a thought that I should just grab a cab and go back to my place and sleep for a couple of days. Yet, being the prat that I am, I was seduced by a tight ass and a set of pale green eyes buried in a tanned face that seemed to know just what to say each time I tried to protest. I wish I could say it was the first time thatís happened, but then Iíd be lying.
So here I am, throat deep in a man Iíve known for all of two nights. He, Doyle or whatever the hell name heís making up today, canít seem to get enough, and for the first half hour of this little encounter I was feeling the same way, but thatís when it started feeling like a one way trip. Thatís how it always starts. Crooked smile, couple tips of the bottle, late night offer, and here I am gripping the arm of a battered couch, shooting into a warm mouth, and picturing Angel in the corner staring at me in disbelief.
Who the hell gave him the right to peeping tom on my one night stands anyway? But there he is, brown eyes gawking as my teeth clench back a scream and my head hits the leather duster serving as a make shift pillow. I havenít been able to come in a hundred years without those eyes on me, and Iím fairly certain itís because Iíve been dead all these years, stuck in hell and I just donít know it. Sometime thatís a comforting theory. I only do these things to myself because Iím living Angelís nightmare, not my own life. He makes me dance for his pleasure, bleed for his amusement, die because it is his whim.
It may also feel like hell because thereís so much pain here. You see, Iím not one of those nancyís that bend over and love every minute of it, bucking back against a hard cock and screaming out random names hoping I hit the right one. No, not me. When he greases up and slides inside I have to fight back the tears and bite into my own hand to keep from begging for it to stop. When I bite down I think the face in the corner almost smiles. When he realizes the taste that hits my lips is his, and that I bite deeper trying to muddle through the pain and ecstasy battling for control of my body, Angelís eyes fill with knowing tears.
I wonder briefly if the body attached to the cock that punishes me knows weíre being watched. He knows so much about me, surely he must know that I belong to Angel. Maybe thatís part of the game, maybe thatís why he thrusts harder when he sees my eyes fuse shut with drying tears. I want to know if he makes it hurt for himself or our audience. Is this the moment he receives his reward? Only when I start to babble, hoping the words bleeding from my mouth will push him over faster, harder, does the face in the corner look away, watching my lover more intently than me. Now Iím not saying that I donít eventually get off, because I was human at one point and the anatomy knows how to respond, so when he presses deeper and licks at my shoulder blades whispering my name like heís known me forever I canít help but moan through an echo of my earlier release.
The pain is still there though, and whether I clench my eyes shut or force them open I still see that face, that cruel turn of mouth that reminds me I was his first and always. No amount of booze nor come changes that. The blood I draw from my own skin still tastes like him a hundred years later, and Iím certain it always will. Just as Iím certain that every time I end up in this position heíll be watching and that each time we meet he will smell my betrayal on me, no matter how I scrub and scald my skin to wash away the scent. He will always know, always reclaim me.
Maybe hell even tastes like the chocolate Doyle pops in his mouth when heís done. Maybe hell is in the sickening mixture of salt tinged cocoa that floods my mouth when he kisses me, the kisses only come after the rest is over and Iím pulling tattered jeans up over my hips. Too drunk and sore to worry about cleaning up the mess I know is there. Too distracted by the now golden eyes that watch me from the shadows, telling me to hurry up and leave so he can find me and make me pay for daring to believe another could fill his place.