by Tinkerbell
Series: Wounds Invisible 9

~^~^~^~^~ "Wanna fuck?" "Huh?" Spike snorts and rolls his eyes at me. "Do. You. Want. To. Fuck. I'm bored." "You're bored?" "Jesus! Yeah, what are ya, deaf? I'm bored." He hooks his thumbs through his beltloops and shifts his lean weight. "Spike, please. Can you not see this stack of files I have to go through? Wesley's out of town this week." He says nothing, just stares at me. How annoying. "There isn't anything on tv?" There has to be something he likes to watch. One of those inane cartoons or something. Porn. Anything. "Angel. Do ya wanna fuck, or not? 'Cause I can go jerk off, but I tell ya, I'm gettin' a sight tired of it." He is very affronted. At trying times like this, I have to remember that I invited him here. It was my idea, and he only agreed to come because I asked him to. He is here because of me. It's my fault. My fault that an edgy, twitchy, bleached demon with eyes the color of morning rain is standing there asking me if I want to have sex. No. That is incorrect. He is asking me if I want to fuck. Spike rarely does anything other than fuck. On the exceptional occasion, he has sex, which is only slightly less impersonal. And once in a great, great while, he makes love. This is not one of those whiles. "I mean, damn, Angel, y'haven't moved yer ass from that chair for a week." "Uh -" I say, not sure of how to answer. "Umm ..." "Fuck, Angel, buy a vowel. I ain't askin' ya a hard question." He sneers. "Ya know what? Never mind. Just read yer damn files for the Watcher." And he turns on his booted heel and stalks up the stairs. I stare at a dot of dried wax on the desktop from one of Cordelia's scented candles. Again, with the petulance. How, after over one hundred years, do I always find a way to wound him? Spike, Master Vampire ... sensitive. Who'da thunk. And why do I always fall for it? I raise my eyes to the ceiling, trying to hear if Spike has gone into the room we share, or if he has retreated sulkily into one of the many empty rooms on the same floor. Silence. He has taken offense to something he considers important. When will I learn that what comes out of Spike's mouth is not necessarily what he means? I need an unabridged dictionary just to decipher childe-speak. For example: "Wanna fuck?" apparently is defined as: "Angel, you've been spending too much time working and not enough time paying attention to me and asking you if you want to screw is the only way I can think of to make you raise your idiot head from your desk and look my way." Well. I guess I do want to fuck. When I make my way to the second floor, I find the door to our room stands open and no light shines from inside. When Spike broods, he does it in the dark, using the absence of light as shelter for his hurt feelings. I will not feel guilty. I will not. He is behaving childishly. And yet ... here I am, staring into a dark bedroom. I honor his preference and make my way into the blackness, sensing where he's taken refuge. He lies in the middle of the enormous bed, fingers steepled on his stomach and legs crossed at the ankle. "Y'didn't have to come chasin'." "I'm not chasing. I'm following." "What the hell for? Y'already ran me off." "Yeah, well ... I changed my mind." "'Bout what?" "I want to fuck." A sudden, surprised bark of laughter. "You never say that." I can see his grin in the darkness, his whiter than white teeth glinting in the faint light from the hall. A good sign. "I never have to. You always say it for me." He sits up. "So ... let's fuck." Let's, indeed. And as I join him on the bed, as once again I sink into the comfort that is my favorite childe, I marvel at just how forgiving he is. I've wounded him with words, with actions, with misunderstandings and miscommunications, and it seems all I have to do to make reparations is touch him. Spike will respond to touch beautifully, just as he's doing now, letting me take his face in my hands and resting his forehead against mine. If you try to apologize for whatever imagined slight with words, it only makes him more angry. And me, more guilty. So no spoken "I'm sorrys" or "I won't do it agains" because chances are, they would be lies and both of us would know, and that would wound him more deeply than before. So, kisses instead, deep ones that make him close his azure eyes and fist his hands in the front of my shirt, waiting as always for me to lead. And I do, because it makes him comfortable. It is familiar and predictable, something Spike surprisingly appreciates. Sire-Childe relationships are what he knows and what he expects. I hate them. And no matter how I try, I can't break him from the mold. "Lead," I have said, and he only looks doubtful. "Tell me what you want me to do," I have told him, and it only causes his confusion. He just doesn't know how. Even now, with evidence of his arousal pressing painfully against the fly of his jeans, he waits. I have no doubt that if I were to get up off the bed and go back downstairs, he would not follow. And I lead, because I'm supposed to. I lift his shirt over his blonde head, running my hand in appreciation over the planes of his abdomen. The ridges of muscle tighten under my fingertips and he lies back, his hand still clutching my shirt. If there is ever a time when he is guileless, it is when we're having sex. He has no ulterior motive, I don't have to be on the alert for a hidden agenda. He just wants pleasure. And who am I to refuse him that? Both of our shirts fall to the floor, and zippers whisper down their ridges. Clothes become an inconvenience suddenly, and I find myself at once impatient for his naked, smooth skin. He tastes like our history together, and that never changes. When he lies next to me, nude and stealthily quiet, it could be twenty, fifty, one hundred years ago, and we could be in any of the world's most decadent cities ... we fucked our way through Florence and Paris and then made our way to Rio, creating our own den of iniquity and debauchery and vice. He is history, my childe is. He is *my* history. And who am I to refuse him his pleasure? It was I, after all, who taught him how to receive it. So when he thrusts willingly up into my hand as I stroke him, and he takes a fistful of bedclothes and arches his neck on his pillow, I know that he is only a follower because I taught him to be. Tentatively, he places a hand on my thigh and curls his fingers in my waistband. It's about as bold as he'll get, so I push down my pants and take his too. He grins. "So fuck me already." Unabridged translation: "Angel, would you make me feel like I mean something to you?" Flip him over, put a hand in the small of his back, lick my finger and push it into the tiny entrance between his tight cheeks. Feel him relax and tense all at once, hear his imperceptible sigh. Close my own eyes against the sheer gratification of it. Then he is ready, stretching inside, and he buries his face in the pillow with a groan. "Do it, Angel," comes the muffled plea, the only time he ever asks. To melt into Spike is such bliss, I've never felt its equal. I've had different kinds of sexual pleasure, and each was satisfying, but Spike is different because Spike is of my blood. I *made* him. And now I'm inside him, letting him milk me the way he knows how to do so well, taking short, shallow thrusts in an effort to make it last longer. I don't think "longer" is going to happen. He turns his face to the side and I can see the glow of his eyes, the glitter of lengthened canines, and I doubt he even knows he has morphed. A drop of saliva rolls off my own fangs and drips in the valley between his shoulderblades. I can tell he's creating his own friction between his body and the comforter, using my thrusts as leverage, so I concentrate on the pressure building behind my cock and let it sweep up and over and through, feeling my climax shudder from me into him. The delicate slope of his nape is shining with sweat, and it's too much for me to resist. Lunging forward, I sink my teeth into it, reaching over his shoulder and offering my wrist to him at the same time. His blood spurts in great pulses, cinnamon and ginger, and just when I feel his canines pierce my skin, he comes with a grunt. His climax makes him jerk violently despite my weight on top of him, and when he is finished, he is drained. I move off to the side, one leg still entangled with his and my arm resting across his back. Perhaps now is the time for verbal apologies? I make an effort. "Umm ... Spike ... I know I've been unusually busy the last couple of weeks -" "If I threw you in the Pacific, Angel, you'd sink like a stone," he interrupts. "If you - what?" "Yer stinkin' soul," he explains with disgust. "It weighs ya down, y'know?" Oh, yes. I know. We lay in silence for a long time, which is usual for us. Then I try again. "Will." "What?" "Next time you're bored ... I won't be busy." I see his scarred brow arch with amusement. "Yeah? Good. I'm bored again." ~End