|
The Waiting Disclaimers: I don’t own them. No infringement or disrespect intended-just pure, unadulterated lust. Spoilers: Takes place after Sleeper Summary: Spike gets a little angsty while Andrewsitting. Ratings Note: NC-17 Pairing: Andrew/Spike Feedback: Sure. scarletsfiction@yahoo.com Dedication: To Kaz, the Uber-beta. Author's note: This one is not too dark, so don't worry! _______________________________________________________________________________________ I have discovered that all human evil comes from this, man's being unable to sit still in a room. -Blaise Pascal ~~~ They know he can’t be trusted. They know he killed again. Tried to kill The Boy, for that matter. She said it wasn’t his fault. Not really. A trigger, they’d called it. An excuse, he called it. And when the Bringers made their midnight assault and took Xander-to what end they still didn’t know-their level of concern for Spike’s nocturnal lapses had significantly decreased. They know he is susceptible. And yet they leave him. Necessity being what it is, Spike realizes that he is the best alternative. Part captive, part protector. Or maybe it is simply a true indication of how little they regard the whelp. In any case, The Boy’s fear and ripe smell provide a potent and tempting aroma. She said she would be home by sundown. He looks at The Boy tied to the chair. Black shirt, black pants, and crisp-almost virginal-white bandage on the side of his throat. His wound. Spike’s wound. Shame overwhelms him and he averts his eyes, turns them back to the telly. Oprah is taking a break to advertise floor polish. Each advertisement seems longer and longer, as if the media were conspiring to lay temptation in his path; to help him fuck up royally. Only another forty-five minutes, the clock on the mantel tells him. Forty-five minutes and then the weight will be lifted. The responsibility. The fuck-all burden of being the one thing standing between The Boy and freedom, except for the thick rope binding his hands and feet. As if reading his mind, The Boy stirs. “These ropes itch!” He whines. The vampire doesn’t know why the whelp bothers. He isn’t going to remove them. There is little that Spike can do to make up for what has happened, but he can do this. He can keep The Boy in this chair until Buffy and her entourage return. On the telly, Oprah is back on and the vampire tries to follow. Dr. Phil is helping someone who feels their lover is emotionally distant. He can relate. //I’m disappointed, Spike.// “What?” Spike swivels his head, looking for the source of the familiar voice. //Did I teach you to leave a job half-finished? No. That would be Dru’s influence. Then again, I was probably hers, so I guess you shouldn’t fault the children for the failures of the parents, should you?// Angelus. Had he any moving blood in his veins, it would run cold now. This is new. The First has appeared in many forms, but has not used that of his grandsire. Until now. //There’s still time. Still time to make things right, Spike. Finish what you started.// Nononono! He isn’t going to listen. Isn’t going to hear. Who was that fellow? The artsy chap who cut off his ear? Wants to do like him, be like him. Can’t listen. Doesn’t want to hear. Covers his ears, rocking his head side to side. Across the room, The Boy sees him. Spike knows he does, but can do little about it. Can’t sooth the human when his own nerves are pulled razor tight and //LOOK at him, Spike. LOOK at him. He practically wants you to do it! He wants you to finish him.// Angelus is chuckling. “No! No he doesn’t. Things are different now. Got me a soul. You’re not really here.” “Um, Mr. Spike? Who are you talking to?” //A soul? You think a soul matters? Does a soul ease that ache? That desire? Does it take away the craving that burns so sharp?// “Not gonna do it. You can just leave me alone. Buffy will be here soon.” //Not soon enough, William.// And his words are true. The vampire knows this isn’t real. Knows it’s The First. The Thing that speaks to him. The Buffy Thing. The Spike Thing. The Other Evil Big Bad Thing That Goes Bump In The Night. He wants to block it out, shut out the voice, but it doesn’t come through his ears, it comes through his head and, yes, his shiny new soul. He can see The Boy now. Eyes wide with confusion, watching as William the Bloody has another of his patented breakdowns. Spike crosses both arms over his head and ears and paces while The Boy begins to scoot his chair back, trying to gain as much room as he can between himself and the vampire. Two more hops and the chair leg hits the edge of the carpet and skids. For a long, pregnant moment, it looks as if the chair is going to stay that way-balanced on one leg-until gravity takes over and The Boy topples backward. He lands with a loud gasp and remains rigid against the fallen chair. //And you didn’t even have to touch him. Now that’s the Spike I remember.// “Go. Away.” //Take him, Spike. Claim what is yours. Drink. Drain. Ravage.// The vampire knows he needs to help him. To help The Boy. Andrew. The burn that some have named Soul and others have named Conscience tells him that the boy will be uncomfortable //You deserve it.// on the floor. And what will Buffy say when she comes home and finds her captive squirming on the carpet as he is right now? //You’re a vampire for god’s sake. You’re stronger than they are. Than HIM. Drink from him and feel the power you know is yours to take.// “Leave me alone! Please!” The vampire is confused, the desire to finish what he started almost uncontrollable. And damn it, he does want to. Gods help him, he does. Even with a soul, he wants so badly to drink his fill from the glass he had only tantalizing sips from earlier. The details of his attack on The Boy are sketchy in his mind, but the taste on his tongue is still a clear, sweet memory. Slowly, Spike crosses to the boy. He knows his name. Andrew. Says it to himself. “Andrew.” Likes the sound of that. He’s a person. People have names. Dinner does not. People have names, dinner does not. Keeps that thought in his head. Recites it like a mantra. And it helps. A bit. But Angelus is still there. Still standing so fucking tall in the doorway behind The Boy. The Boy is not dinner. Spike’s mantra drowns out his words so he can do what needs to be done. Leaning down, Spike grasps a tight fistful of Andrew’s shirt and props his foot against the chair. With a tug, he rights the chair, bringing his face less than inches away from The Boy. There. That wasn’t so hard… He can smell it. The wound. Struggling has disrupted the scabbing and tiny, perfect pinpricks of blood are now staining through the pristine white bandage. The Boy is panting heavily and if the vampire wanted to take in air, his breath would be warming Andrew’s cheek. So white. //Just like that. It’s so easy.// So red. // Come on, you pussy! I didn’t spend decades making you a ruthless killing machine to watch you whiz it down your leg! // “Shut. Up.” The writhing on the floor has also caused the upper left corner of the bandage to tear free and it flaps just a little. The blood is so close that Spike can nearly see the wound itself. The scent is intoxicating. It’s calling him. It sounds like Angelus, strangely enough. But The Boy is Andrew. Andrew is not dinner— //Taste him.// The mantra is lost on his lips and the blood-god, that heady scent,is begging to be tasted. With resignation, he slides his cool tongue from his mouth //That’s right.// and prods the bandage //Take what you deserve.// with its tip. Trails it under the white fabric and across the skin to the bounteous feast that lies beneath. He wants to stop. His soul, his mind, tell him no. Scream at him. But the demon is louder and the demon is stronger and the demon’s master today, apparently, is an Irish vampire with father issues. Spike’s tongue rolls across the tiny wound, lapping up the dots of fresh blood…and his soul is screaming, begging for something to stop him, anything…and the blood is coming more freely now…and Angelus is speaking in low, soothing whispers… //taste…// and Spike tastes copper //drink…// and youth //ravage…// and gods, he wants to stop but he can’t because Angelus won’t and //…// Arousal. Unmistakable. The vampire stops. Listens. Smells. Arousal. The Boy is shuddering, his breath coming out in deep, unapologetic pants. This smell is more than intoxicating. It is overpowering. It fills the air, it fills his mind and like that— Angelus is gone. Spike pulls away, looking at The Boy. Andrew. The Savior of His Soul. For now, anyway. His eyes are wide and glassy-sky blue, with wide, dilated pupils. Arousal rolls off of him in waves. It is all-encompassing and powerful and the vampire sends a small prayer of thanks to the, no doubt, dozens of girls in high school that left this lad so repressed that he finds a homicidal vampire with a severe schizophrenic disorder appealing. For some reason, Spike finds this thought more than a little amusing and he grins. Grateful beyond words for his surprising reprieve, his eyes sweep to the clock on the mantel again. Thirty-eight minutes. He has only to wait thirty-eight minutes. Oprah is still on and he can wait. If he can just wait... The Boy is quiet. The boy is not dinner. People have a name. His name is Andrew. Spike is content. The minutes tick by and The Boy goes unacknowledged. //My prince.// “Bollocks!” //My darling one.// Drusilla. // How long? How long since daddy’s had a real kill? One you claimed yourself? What have they driven you to, my beloved?// Worse. This is worse than the other. His dark beauty. The light of his unlife. He cannot deny her. Has killed for her. Would have died for her. //Bite him. Claim him. Make a meal of his blood and feast on his bones.// “No. Can’t….darling…please…leave me be…” Spike is weak now. Knows his time is close. His defenses have been worn down and he’s tired and so hungry. So hungry. The hunger that burns and consumes… //Taste him.// NO! He knows It’s tricks. Knows what It is trying to do. And he’s not helpless. He’s not! He can send it away again. He knows how. He has to. With a guttural cry, he launches himself across the room. The Boy’s eyes are wide again, his mouth in a silent O. The vampire straddles the captive and crushes his lips to his in a grinding kiss as his dark angel hovers near. //You’ve tasted his sweetness once. Tell me, was he as innocent as he looks?// Spike’s mouth grates…and rubs…and…it isn’t working. She-It is still speaking, still cajoling. He smells panic. Smells fear. The Boy is afraid and the vampire is unable to force the sweet freedom The Boy gives. The lust. The arousal. They are his last hope and now there is not even that. //My dark prince// Spike can count the number of times in his unlife that he has cried. Can count on one hand the number of times he has wept in front of Dru. He cries now, knowing it is not his beauty, his love, but he doesn’t care and The Big Evil Thing knows that. He can’t hold out any longer. Too much temptation. And Buffy will be home soon, but Angleus was right. It won’t be soon enough. The tears slide gently down his cheeks and he whispers. “I’m sorry.” Frightened eyes. Then his hands are weaving themselves into blond hair, pulling The Boy’s head back, exposing the untouched side of Andrew’s throat. Soft whimpers. The skin is smooth and pale. Amazing skin, like a little girl. Not the honey-gold tan of Buffy, or the sun kissed freckles of Red, but ivory white and nearly translucent. Skin like a child. Skin like Dru, really. Flawless and perfect, without a trace of blemish and he wonders what it would be like to taste that skin. Would it taste sweet like perfume and flowers, or would the similarity between Andrew’s skin and Dru’s end at its petal soft texture? //Sweet William. We’re creatures of the night. There is no soul that can change your hunger. It is my hunger, too.// He is going crazy. He’s been told that. He knows that deep in the burning nucleus called Soul. //Drink William.// But he has to do it. Has to taste that skin so much like his beloved’s before he tumbles into the abyss from which there is no peace and no return. //Drink.// The vampire’s tongue slides out again, this time trailing a path from collar to earlobe. //Drink.// He quivers in satisfaction. Sweat and burning wood and sweet chocolate. Even softer than it looks, The Boy’s skin is exceptional. //Drink.// Like manna in the desert, Spike must partake and his tongue claims a small, soft earlobe He suckles it gently and //Drink dammit!// Arousal. Leave it to the skinny boy to prefer tender ministrations to mouth-crushing kisses. Whatever form his arousal takes, though, Spike will indulge it to its fullest because a soft whimper escapes The Boy’s mouth and with it, Dru is gone. Spike will not be so capricious this time. A half an hour until the sun sets and the Slayer returns. Thirty minutes longer than he has resources to give. But The Boy…with The Boy, he can endure. He knows what to do. His only choice, and he understands. The vampire leaves the earlobe and begins trailing his tongue along the soft skin of The Boy’s chin. His jaw is trembling and Spike closes his mouth, leaving small dry kisses. He must stop there, though. Stop half-way or he’ll be Too Close. Too Close to temptation. To the lovely, lovely wound. The Boy’s lips are parted and he is panting shallowly. The vampire swallows and then closes his eyes, pressing his mouth to them. The whelp is barely responding, his arousal is obvious, but nearly as strong is his anxiety. Spike cannot prevent that. Does not have time or inclination to coddle and coax. He will do what he can, though, and places long, slim fingers against the boy’s warm cheeks. He opens his mouth and waits. The Boy is hesitant at first. The tiny point of his tongue, barely a flicker, touches Spike’s and then retreats. It is enough. It is encouragement and acquiescence and Spike allows his own cool tongue to enter the warm mouth that touches his. The Boy is confident now. His tongue meets the vampire’s and Spike is surprised to find The Boy shifting forward in the chair, pressing his mouth deeper. Spike allows his hands to slide behind The Boy’s head and meet at the nape, cradling him and pulling him close. Their kiss deepens and the vampire is unusually aroused when a small whimper escapes Andrew’s mouth. The Boy’s hands strain at their ropes, but the vampire knows that to give in to The Boy’s is something Spike cannot do. He will do what Buffy has asked. He will always do what she asks. Instead, he trails his hands down the black shirt and his slim fingers pluck at the plain cotton fabric. Rough thumbs rub at the thin strip of skin that is exposed when he lifts it. He feels The Boy-Andrew, his name is Andrew-smile under his mouth and gasp. Andrew is ticklish. The demon in Spike is appalled, the souled part of him is strangely charmed. He allows his hands to slip completely under the thin fabric and callused palms stroke The Boy’s chest. He cannot remove the shirt because of the ropes and he must be satisfied with tweaking at what he imagines are tiny, red nipples. They stand up proudly under the coaxing of his thumbs and the vampire pinches them lightly. The Boy groans and pulls back slightly from Spike, but before the vampire can move, he bites firmly onto Spike’s lower lip, cutting a small mark onto his tender flesh and drawing a bead of blood. Spike is amazed, impressed really, that The Boy has the balls to be so brazen. He looks into his eyes and sees the fear of repercussion underlying the challenge. Smiling wickedly, Spike slides off the eager lap and kneels on the floor. The vampire lifts his hands to The Boy’s hips and pulls his head back, assessing the younger man. Twenty-four minutes. This could be…interesting. Cool hands slide inward, working at the button and zipper of black cargo pants. The Boy’s eyes are wide with disbelief. Shock turns to pleasure, though, when his length is exposed and those same cool hands begin working him with skill. His mouth hangs open with unspoken words, gasping like a fish on the shore. “ You like that?” The vampire purrs. His hands smooth over the leaking tip and back down to the base. The Boy nods his head vigorously, gasping and panting. With a smile, the vampire leans in, taking the warm length into his cool mouth. There is an audible groan at the impossible sensation of cold mouth on warm cock. Spike begins working his way up and down the twitching member, taking The Boy in and then leaving small licks on the tip before engulfing it once again. Andrew is awkwardly meeting his thrusts; his hips pushing up off the seat and into the cool mouth in front of him. Unable to do much more, The Boy’s hands are straining at his ropes, trying to find contact with the smooth white skin before him. His fingers brush across the taught skin of the vampire’s forearms before another well-timed thrust brings Spike out of his reach. He groans in pleasure and frustration and the vampire knows his need, knows what it is like to be so close to what you desire but unable to touch it. To be fucked by what you covet, but unable to hold it in any real, emotional or tangible way. He lets one hand run up the length of The Boy’s arm and rest below the shoulder. Feels The Boy rubbing at the spot where the vampire’s own black t-shirt sleeve ends and smooth muscle begin. The angle is wrong, as is most of this experience, but it’s okay. Because there are no voices in Spike’s head and there will continue to be radio-silence for as long as Spike has control of this situation. Andrew’s breathing is becoming irregular and Spike knows that The Boy is nearing his release. He shudders and thrusts out of the chair, straining against the bonds. The vampire swallows the bitter fluid as The Boy pants. Spike does not know how long he has now. Buffy will be home soon with the other Scoobies. There will be plans made. There will be duties to assign. There is the matter of Spike’s malfunctioning chip to deal with. But the vampire cannot think about that now. Isn’t able to. Won’t be able to until the painful pressure in his jeans is appeased. The Boy’s eyes are closed, his mouth lax and lips kiss-swollen. Surprise and delight take turns warring for space on his face. Spike wonders if he has done this before and guesses; probably not. He is mentally planning how long it will take him to toss-off in the Summers family bathroom when the small, warm hand begins kneading at the muscles of his upper arm. It pinches at his t-shirt and begins pulling and gathering the fabric inch by inch, as if reeling him in. He understands the gesture. Andrew wants him to move closer. He stands and leans forward, placing a tender, guilty kiss on The Boy’s panting mouth. Spike feels the human hands catch on the rough denim of his jeans and pull ineffectually at the fabric, trying to draw him closer to his hands. Spike leans back and cocks his head. “Are you sure?” The souled part asks. “Fuck him.” The demon demands, but the soul gets to speak first. “Yeah.” It’s barely a gasp, but Spike isn’t worried about annunciation today. In fact, he’s actually grateful that his performance has stopped The Boy’s yammering so effectively. He steps to the side so his cock is lined up with Andrew’s bound hand. Watches as he unsnaps his jeans and lowers his zipper. The chair is too short and the vampire is forced to squat somewhat uncomfortably as The Boy works Spike’s painful length out of his pants. Slowly at first, then more quickly, The Boy begins stroking his hand over Spike’s hard cock. The vampire must help him and dips and thrusts into the hand with mixed pleasure and frustration. His stooped position is uncomfortable and getting more so and part of him wishes he could just leave and finish the job in the privacy of the bathroom. He knows, however, that respite from The First does not come in solitary, heated strokings but in pleasuring The Boy. And what, apparently, pleasures The Boy is pleasuring Spike. The vampire’s jeans slide further down his hips and he makes no move to retrieve them. “Shirt.” The Boy said something. What was it? No, he couldn’t take his shirt off-the ropes were in the way. He looks to him in confusion. “Your shirt…” And Spike understands. Pulls off his t-shirt with one hand, exposing his chest. It’s a good chest as chests go. Spike knows this, but he is unprepared for the new waves of emotion and arousal that roll off The Boy. His previous need was innocence and longing. This is primitive and hungry. The sun is sinking very low now. Buffy will be back with the three new slayers and her Scoobies soon. If Willow’s spell has worked, Xander will be safely with them. There will be wounds to patch and research to do. Minutes remain. He shouldn’t do this. Should chain himself in the basement and wait for their return. He’s been told that The Boy is smart. That The Boy will find ways of getting loose if he is left unattended. The glazed need in The Boy’s eyes would contradict that. They run up and down the length of Spike’s chest, as if trying to feel him without hands. He resumes stroking Spike’s aching cock and runs his index finger over the weeping tip, wetting it thoroughly. Andrew’s eyes stop roaming his chest and focus on a spot somewhere behind the vampire. He cocks his head, listening, and Spike wonders if Buffy is home but knows she is not when the boy does not stop working the vampire’s cock. Satisfied at whatever he has heard, The Boy suddenly seems determined and Spike realizes with some surprise that Buffy underestimates Andrew. If she saw the hungry, demanding look The Boy gives the vampire it would be Andrew in chains in the basement and not Spike. The thought is mostly disturbing. And a little arousing. “Turn.” The Boy challenges nervously. Spike sneers at him. Obeying this skinny little whelp’s demands-no matter how well he’s stroking the vampire’s cock-is something he won’t do. He watches as The Boy continues to slide a small, pale hand up and down his length, rubbing more insistently at the head and flicking uncomfortable glances at Buffy’s empty couch. The Boy shakes his head furiously at the offending furniture and Spike is left to wonder if The Boy isn’t as fucked up as he is. Spike continues to dip into the welcoming hand until sudden insight makes him shudder with delayed pleasure. Turn. The Boy wanted him to turn. Bloody hell. He can’t. What would Buffy say? “She wouldn’t need to find out,” the human and horny part of his spankin’ new soul tell him. “And if she did know, wouldn’t matter. Doesn’t want him anyway,” the demon taunts. With that, his decision is made and he slips from The Boy’s hand and turns to face into the living room. Such an odd name. Unless you were a vampire, most people lived in every room, so why designate a special room just for breathing in and breathing out? He knows his thoughts are muddled and isn’t sure why until the word comes whispering behind his eyes. Nervous. Bloody hell! No reason why. Every reason why. Spike can hardly see the door in the waning light. Buffy said she would be back by sundown and only the last rays of light are left on the horizon, seeping into the room. He spreads his legs into a more comfortable stance, trying to keep a good balance. Small hand sliding slickly down his ass, teasing at his— The vampire groans. In the quiet room, it echoes blasphemously. A single finger working at his puckered hole, easing past tight muscle and in to stroke him in short, shallow thrusts and— He is panting now. Knows he doesn’t need to. Is aware of this in his logical, soul-filled mind, but habit is what it is. When he swims, he holds his nose. When he gets hit in the balls, he gasps. And when he’s fucking, he pants. Spike is nothing if not a creature of habit. The vampire knows that he is on borrowed time and feels a rush of panic as headlights sweep the opaque plastic that is working as a window for the time being until Xander can replace it with glass. The headlights move on. Not Buffy. Not yet. He wraps his own cool hand over his cock and strokes furiously, racing to finish before the others return. The thought of them walking in at that exact moment brings a bitter, almost hysterical grin to his face. He knows The Boy is still exposed, his spent member lying untouched on bare skin. His black cargo pants are stretched across his thighs while Spike, impaled on his slim finger and thrusting back against it-fucking it for dear life-is wanking off in desperation. With the vampire’s shirt off, jeans around his knees, the image is almost too absurd. Angelus and Dru are far from his head as he gives in to this pleasure. The Boy is searching with what limited ease of movement he has. Spike realizes that his previous prediction about The Boy’s experience might not have been entirely true. Knows it isn’t true as The Boy finds what he is searching for and Spike howls with savage satisfaction. With one more stroke the vampire is cumming, shooting ropy fluid across the Summers’ carpet. He feels guilt but this is the home of a slayer after all, and Spike knows that the carpet has seen better and worse in its six years of Summers’ ownership including blood, bile, and slime. Knows, also, that this isn’t the first time he’s cum on this carpet and if the Slayer had inclination to share her battlescars, a twin set of knee abrasions would tell a delicious tale of gratification during Willow and Dawn’s overnighter in L.A. last year. The vampire steps forward, pulling himself from The Boy’s willing digit. Draws his pants up and fastens them. His shirt is harder to find in the last rays of light, but find it he does and he pulls it quickly over his head. The Boy is twitching in his seat. The vampire knows he is speaking but it seems as though he is far away and it takes a long while for the words to reach him. When he finally hears and understands, he is again ashamed. “You have to…you know. Put me, um, you know.” Chagrined, Spike pulls up The Boy’s pants. Andrew is getting hard again but the vampire forces his pants shut, adjusts them, and zips quickly. “What do you expect? I’m a bad, evil vampire.” It should have been a taunt, but it comes out as a weak and pitiful excuse. He wipes up the fluid with a towel and then sits on the couch. The room smells of sex and Spike can only hope that the others will mistake it for something else, because there is no time to burn a candle or even get out the Lysol. Headlights are beaming into the living room now and don’t appear to be moving away. The chatter of girlish voices and Giles’ voice, perturbed and polished, make their way up to the front door. He hears the rattling of keys in the door and more voices and “It’s dark in here. Spike?” The lights flick on and Spike is staring at the telly. Oprah is over and some incessant gameshow is demanding that a humorless bint from Iowa guess a letter. He turns, looking for Buffy and finds her holding a bloody but very-much-alive Xander. “So…everything went well? Xander in one piece, no slayers lost?” “Yeah, we’ll all have a lot to talk about in the morning, but I’m just too tired tonight.” Her face is cut and bloody and the whole group seems charged with an almost electric excitement. He knows the battle high that comes from defeating the previously undefeatable. Feels it himself tonight in some small, selfish way. This makes him think of The Boy who sits fidgeting in his chair. The Boy does not look at him. “Yeah, well you should all turn in early, you think? Lots to do and all. I’m just going to make myself comfy in the basement, have a few smokes, you know, the usual.” Spike wonders if shameful babbling will become part of his repertoire as dark brooding has become for Angel. Giles begins to shepherd his new charges into the kitchen as Spike approaches the basement. He listens to Anya’s voice claiming “dibs” on the ice cream and the giggles of young girls still too full of adrenaline to sit down. Willow is making Xander comfortable on the couch and all appears as it should. As he enters the basement, Spike senses motion behind him. Turns. “Thanks for helping us. For watching him. I really think he is the key to a lot of what we don’t know about The First yet.” “I understand.” He whispers quietly. Their exchange is awkward and he tries to think of something to say to lighten the mood. He knows she feels the same awkwardness and he loves her for it. “Spike?” “Yeah?” He doesn’t want to part but they have exhausted all safe avenues of conversation for the moment. Buffy scrambles to find a civilized offering. “So…what did you do tonight while we were gone?” “Not much. Watched some telly. You know.” He shrugs and watches her nod, blond curls swinging softly into her face. “Yeah.” “Just…waiting.” ~*~The End~*~ |
| The Waiting |
 |