All About Spike

By Estepheia

PAIRING: Spike/Dru, Spike/Angelus
SPOILERS: none, set in 1880
SUMMARY: A moment of fluff peace

The bedroom reeks. Of cigar smoke, Darla's perfume, blood and sex. Underneath the bed, pushed out of sight, a girl is lying in an undignified sprawl. Her plump body is no longer rosy but blemished with bite marks where ravenous fangs have torn her flesh. She's probably still warm because the fire is roaring and all the shutters are closed, making the air inside the little cottage stiflingly hot.

William can't sleep. He is sated in more ways than one and the heat is making him drowsy. Yet, no matter how leaden his limbs feel, there's a part of him that clings to a different sleep cycle, that feels it's wrong to sleep during the day.

His thoughts wander to the girl they've killed, some runaway milkmaid, Darla lured to their cottage with promises of an abortion. He's already forgotten her name. He knows he used to feel pity, but now that's a rapidly fading memory. A blind spot. William can make out the tang of tears and the lingering stench of the girl's terror, but they mean nothing to him.

Instead he's fascinated by the barrage of smells his new senses accord him. He savors the girl's natural scent, that's almost obscured by all the other smells in the room. It's peaty and sweet, evoking images of udder-warm milk, hay, and freshly baked bread. The world is so much richer now, that the lack of sunlight seems a fair price.

He's lying on his side, spooned by his sire -- the masculine title still seems incongruous for the passionate woman who made him what he is now, but William is actually relieved that his new kin do not use more traditional terms to indicate progeny.

Drusilla's arm is a happy weight around his waist. Where her hand rests on his belly, her razor-sharp nails prick him like needles. The lace of her chemise is a scratchy tickle against his bare skin. In the three weeks William has been with his new family, Drusilla never once slept naked. When he's inside her she screams curses like a fury or whispers obscenities like a common whore, but she goes to sleep with her hair tied into modest plaits, looking like a character from one of Miss Austen's books, while smelling like sin.

William would smile, but there is the possibility that Angelus is awake. Angelus. Lying mere inches away. The bed is big enough for four, but only just. The combined weight of Angelus and Darla gives the mattress a distinct incline.

Unlike the younger vampire, Angelus does not breathe. No tell-tale wisp of air brushes William's skin, to tell him which way Angelus is facing, but whenever William inhales furtively he can smell brandy on the other vampire's lips, along with Darla's juices.

There's no way of knowing if Angelus is watching him or not, unless William opens his own eyes. And that would mean disobeying Angelus's orders, who told him in no uncertain terms to shut up and go to sleep.

The idea of defying Angelus is both frightening and arousing.

The temptation is too great. William slowly raises his lashes.

Pale skin is bathed in red and orange, warmed by firelight. Lean calves, strong thighs. Darla's hand resting on the curve of Angelus's naked hip. William's gaze furtively travels further…. Even in its current limp state Angelus's cock is impressive.

Arousal slithers down William's spine. Even without the jitter of a beating heart he feels tension dispel all pretense of sleep. A strange unfathomable hunger wells up inside him, dark but keen, making it impossible to avert his eyes.

Under William's intense scrutiny Angelus's cock begins to swell and harden.

That's when William finally lifts his gaze only to find Angelus looking at him, his face inscrutable.

William almost flinches when Angelus lifts his hand, but when the fingers connect with his face it is to close William's eyes with a languid touch.

"Shhh, go to sleep, William," Angelus whispers.

'It's Spike now,' William wants to insist, but Angelus's finger seals his lips.

And so, William obeys.


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