Junk Drawer Challenge
Aug. 22nd, 2003 09:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
angelchickenTitle: Healing
Rating : R
Pairing : Spike/Angel
Time: Post The Gift
Feedback: Send to AWKimball@aol.com
Notes : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sallyanne’s Fanfic Junk Drawer Challenge, for girlwithjournal, who said it "must include a lot of Christ imagery for Spike, and Angel giving a blow job."
Andsallyanne is a beta goddess and should be worshipped (or maybe just 'shipped) accordingly.
Words: 1690
Disclaimers: Wouldn't it be nice if they were mine. Then I could make them do whatever I wanted. *goes to happy place*
Yeah. Joss. ME. Fox. Those guys. I'm just playing.
He always healed.
Every night he went out, fighting until he could barely stagger home, beaten and bloodied.
Saving everyone else because he couldn’t save her.
His body, his personal crown of thorns; taking it all and healing, preparing itself for another night of slaughter.
Dawn was near hysterical after the service. When she saw Angel she threw herself at him, crying and begging him to help, because she hadn’t seen Spike in a week and she didn’t think he was feeding or taking care of himself and he hadn’t stopped by, even once, and none of the others would let her go check on him.
Angel had held her, reassuring her, rocking her until she had calmed to hiccups and soft sniffles, then told her that of course he would check on his boy, because that’s what family did.
When the cemetery was finally empty, Willow and Tara gently pried Dawn from his arms; Wesley quietly let Angel know that he was heading back to LA but Cordy was going to stay at the house for the evening. Angel stood, at the foot of the new grave, and said his good-byes. It wasn’t the gut-wrenching pain he expected, which he attributed to being completely numb with grief. Instead, he let himself think of the days when she was young and happy and still clung to her innocence.
Finally, when the quiet was too oppressive and sunrise was drawing near, Angel ventured to the crypt. He knocked, only as a formality before pushing open the heavy door.
The boy broke his heart, lying on his back on the stone bier in only a torn pair of black jeans. His arms were draped, boneless, over the sides, rank blood - pig, by the scent - sluggishly dripping from an almost healed cut in his left wrist, a deep puncture right above the meat of his palm that didn’t fit with any demon Angel could think of, though the Hellmouth did attract more than its fair share of unknown evil.
He was a painful shell of a man, so fucking proud once, who had lost something (her) and couldn’t find a purpose anymore.
“You haven’t been feeding.” Angel hated how cold he sounded, but he didn’t know any other way.
“Fuck off.” The only surprise in that response was how little animosity – how little emotion, really – was in Spike’s voice.
“You look like shit.” It was true. His stomach, which was usually so muscular – Spike was quite possibly the vainest vampire he knew – was atrophied and Angel could count every rib. He looked like he hadn’t washed in a week.
He was still beautiful.
“Well, Angelus, let me know next time your in town. I’ll make sure to freshen up so as not to offend. Now piss. Off.”
“She wouldn’t want this.”
“You don’t know anything!” Spike bellowed, struggling up, outrage and sorrow painting his face. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Now get the hell out.”
“It does matter.” Angel was walking towards him now, slowly, but with purpose. “Will, it had to matter.”
“How on earth could you know that?” Spike spat, swaying slightly, like the sudden shift from horizontal to vertical had taken more out of him than he had to give.
Angel reached out and pulled a resisting Spike into his arms. As Spike finally broke down, tears burning his shoulder, Angel whispered “I just do. I do. It matters,” in a steady stream of words to soothe the broken man clinging to him.
They remained that way for what felt like hours, but could only really have been minutes; Angel, rocking the slighter vampire, trying to sooth his uncontrollable tears. He traced rough fingers over the ribs in Spike’s back and dusted his forehead, hair, cheeks with soft kisses.
When he finally found Spike’s mouth it was dry but for the salty tears and Angel tried to heal him with his tongue and teeth. Devour his unnatural pain until he was the brash, cocky son-of-a-bitch that Angel left in Romania with a crazy woman and a cold hearted bitch. He hated to admit it, but he missed that Will. He thought he saw a hint of him, though, when Spike suddenly pulled away, lust and suspicion dueling in his cloudy blue eyes.
But Angel wouldn’t let that stop him. He kissed his way down Spike’s neck, paused to suck at the still jugular and before continuing down the sharp collarbone to the sunken chest. He traced his tongue along each of the protruding ribs fighting his own tears because nothing could knock down William the Bloody – a crazy sire, an angry mob, a sadistic mentor, none of it - nothing except William the Bloody himself, and a small, strong girl that he loved despite logic and reason.
He paused at Spike’s stomach and breathed in the familiar scent of danger and recklessness mixed with a new bitter sadness tainted Angel’s sacred memories. Fumbling more than a vampire of his age should, he finally undid Spike’s belt and jeans, though it almost wasn’t necessary, his hips like knives under sallow, gaunt skin.
“Stop,” Spike whispered above him, quiet even to a vampire.
“Will?”
“Stop. Please, Angelus. I don’t know why. . . .” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“Shh,” Angel pressed into Spike’s now exposed inner thigh as he drew the pants down the thin, muscular legs. “Just sit back, Will. Shh.”
He slowly mouthed his way down, alternating kisses between his legs, sucking the back of a knee, the outer thigh; working softly until he got to the other man’s feet. Reverently, he kissed each sole, and then flat top, worshiping the child, offering whatever strength he could.
“Angelus.”
He looked up at the broken, pained face, confusion covered in forgotten tears, and choked on his own sob. How could he know that losing his girl could cost him his boy as well? Soundlessly, he raised himself from the boy's feet, never looking away from the dark blue eyes, and knelt before Spike. Finally, unable to answer the hundreds of questions he could read in Spike’s gaze, he closed his own eyes and shifted into game face, rubbing his cheek, rough from grief, against his inner thigh before turning and biting through the muscle, drinking deep, blood like wine on his tongue, drinking of his body, his get. He tasted heady, like family and despair, and he could feel Spike’s sudden arousal even as his other senses were lost in the rush of heartbreaking familiarity.
As he drank, his right hand, of its own volition, came up and started fondling Spike’s sac, pulling and rubbing, feeling the weight and the tightening as his arousal grew. His hand then skirted up the length of Spike’s stubborn, proud cock, full of borrowed blood that would always flood his length, no matter how emaciated he was.
Angel started stroking, long hard jerks, as he pulled back from Spike’s thigh and sealed the punctures with a kiss. Then he turned his head and took his boy in, hearing the small cries and tears dripping from Spike’s chin, burning Angel's upturned face like holy water cleansing them both of the sins they didn’t ask for and thoroughly enjoyed.
Angel took Spike deeper and deeper into his mouth, sucking hard and biting soft, the way he knew the boy liked. He felt a hand rest lightly in his hair and saw the other pulling at Spike’s own hair, like he couldn’t take the pleasure without the pain and Angel know how that was, taught it to him and he moaned in his own pain that Spike wouldn’t let himself be pleasured. He sucked harder, taking him deeper, rubbing his own erection through his trousers with his free hand because he needed the release just as much as Spike. He moaned and heard Spike swear. The hand that had been pulling on the filthy blond locks was now slapping down on the sarcophagus lid to steady himself.
He knew Spike was frustrated now. He couldn’t take this pleasure and wouldn’t let himself find relief. So Angel did the only thing he knew would work. He shifted once again into game face and bit lightly, scraping up Spike’s length. That was all it took. They came together, Spike shot bitter jets into Angel’s hungry mouth and Angel devoured it, swallowed completely, and accepted Spike’s grief into his body, his own release a forgotten and empty necessity.
When Spike was fully spent - shaking with the intensity of unexpected orgasm coupled with even more blood loss - Angel pushed him back until he was once again prone on the casket, and then crawled up his body until he was surrounding him, holding him like a scared child. Without thinking he bit into his own wrist and offered it to Spike, who took it without changing, also without thought, and drank slowly at first, but then deeper as if Angel’s blood was the key to restoring his self worth and his purpose, more than any other comfort.
When Spike finally pulled away, softly licking the wound until it closed, he settled back deeper into the cradle of Angel’s body and didn’t speak. Angel pressed kisses into Spike’s hair and rubbed his arms, still trembling from exertion, until he felt Spike fall into a heavy sleep.
He knew he should leave. Knew that whatever understanding they had reached would be lost when Spike woke, healed from the family blood, and furious for it. He knew that Spike needed to grieve, and no matter how much Dawn loved him or the rest of the children accepted him, they would never have been able to offer the sanctuary that Angel had and Spike would resent that. Resent that Angel had set him on the path to healing. Resent that Angel could offer any solace.
He should leave. But the boy would be asleep for a long time, mystical powers healing not only his body but also his heart. And this comfort was something Angel was loath to give up. He would leave, before Spike woke.
But not yet.
Rating : R
Pairing : Spike/Angel
Time: Post The Gift
Feedback: Send to AWKimball@aol.com
Notes : Written for
sallyanne’s Fanfic Junk Drawer Challenge, for girlwithjournal, who said it "must include a lot of Christ imagery for Spike, and Angel giving a blow job."And
sallyanne is a beta goddess and should be worshipped (or maybe just 'shipped) accordingly.Words: 1690
Disclaimers: Wouldn't it be nice if they were mine. Then I could make them do whatever I wanted. *goes to happy place*
Yeah. Joss. ME. Fox. Those guys. I'm just playing.
He always healed.
Every night he went out, fighting until he could barely stagger home, beaten and bloodied.
Saving everyone else because he couldn’t save her.
His body, his personal crown of thorns; taking it all and healing, preparing itself for another night of slaughter.
Dawn was near hysterical after the service. When she saw Angel she threw herself at him, crying and begging him to help, because she hadn’t seen Spike in a week and she didn’t think he was feeding or taking care of himself and he hadn’t stopped by, even once, and none of the others would let her go check on him.
Angel had held her, reassuring her, rocking her until she had calmed to hiccups and soft sniffles, then told her that of course he would check on his boy, because that’s what family did.
When the cemetery was finally empty, Willow and Tara gently pried Dawn from his arms; Wesley quietly let Angel know that he was heading back to LA but Cordy was going to stay at the house for the evening. Angel stood, at the foot of the new grave, and said his good-byes. It wasn’t the gut-wrenching pain he expected, which he attributed to being completely numb with grief. Instead, he let himself think of the days when she was young and happy and still clung to her innocence.
Finally, when the quiet was too oppressive and sunrise was drawing near, Angel ventured to the crypt. He knocked, only as a formality before pushing open the heavy door.
The boy broke his heart, lying on his back on the stone bier in only a torn pair of black jeans. His arms were draped, boneless, over the sides, rank blood - pig, by the scent - sluggishly dripping from an almost healed cut in his left wrist, a deep puncture right above the meat of his palm that didn’t fit with any demon Angel could think of, though the Hellmouth did attract more than its fair share of unknown evil.
He was a painful shell of a man, so fucking proud once, who had lost something (her) and couldn’t find a purpose anymore.
“You haven’t been feeding.” Angel hated how cold he sounded, but he didn’t know any other way.
“Fuck off.” The only surprise in that response was how little animosity – how little emotion, really – was in Spike’s voice.
“You look like shit.” It was true. His stomach, which was usually so muscular – Spike was quite possibly the vainest vampire he knew – was atrophied and Angel could count every rib. He looked like he hadn’t washed in a week.
He was still beautiful.
“Well, Angelus, let me know next time your in town. I’ll make sure to freshen up so as not to offend. Now piss. Off.”
“She wouldn’t want this.”
“You don’t know anything!” Spike bellowed, struggling up, outrage and sorrow painting his face. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Now get the hell out.”
“It does matter.” Angel was walking towards him now, slowly, but with purpose. “Will, it had to matter.”
“How on earth could you know that?” Spike spat, swaying slightly, like the sudden shift from horizontal to vertical had taken more out of him than he had to give.
Angel reached out and pulled a resisting Spike into his arms. As Spike finally broke down, tears burning his shoulder, Angel whispered “I just do. I do. It matters,” in a steady stream of words to soothe the broken man clinging to him.
They remained that way for what felt like hours, but could only really have been minutes; Angel, rocking the slighter vampire, trying to sooth his uncontrollable tears. He traced rough fingers over the ribs in Spike’s back and dusted his forehead, hair, cheeks with soft kisses.
When he finally found Spike’s mouth it was dry but for the salty tears and Angel tried to heal him with his tongue and teeth. Devour his unnatural pain until he was the brash, cocky son-of-a-bitch that Angel left in Romania with a crazy woman and a cold hearted bitch. He hated to admit it, but he missed that Will. He thought he saw a hint of him, though, when Spike suddenly pulled away, lust and suspicion dueling in his cloudy blue eyes.
But Angel wouldn’t let that stop him. He kissed his way down Spike’s neck, paused to suck at the still jugular and before continuing down the sharp collarbone to the sunken chest. He traced his tongue along each of the protruding ribs fighting his own tears because nothing could knock down William the Bloody – a crazy sire, an angry mob, a sadistic mentor, none of it - nothing except William the Bloody himself, and a small, strong girl that he loved despite logic and reason.
He paused at Spike’s stomach and breathed in the familiar scent of danger and recklessness mixed with a new bitter sadness tainted Angel’s sacred memories. Fumbling more than a vampire of his age should, he finally undid Spike’s belt and jeans, though it almost wasn’t necessary, his hips like knives under sallow, gaunt skin.
“Stop,” Spike whispered above him, quiet even to a vampire.
“Will?”
“Stop. Please, Angelus. I don’t know why. . . .” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“Shh,” Angel pressed into Spike’s now exposed inner thigh as he drew the pants down the thin, muscular legs. “Just sit back, Will. Shh.”
He slowly mouthed his way down, alternating kisses between his legs, sucking the back of a knee, the outer thigh; working softly until he got to the other man’s feet. Reverently, he kissed each sole, and then flat top, worshiping the child, offering whatever strength he could.
“Angelus.”
He looked up at the broken, pained face, confusion covered in forgotten tears, and choked on his own sob. How could he know that losing his girl could cost him his boy as well? Soundlessly, he raised himself from the boy's feet, never looking away from the dark blue eyes, and knelt before Spike. Finally, unable to answer the hundreds of questions he could read in Spike’s gaze, he closed his own eyes and shifted into game face, rubbing his cheek, rough from grief, against his inner thigh before turning and biting through the muscle, drinking deep, blood like wine on his tongue, drinking of his body, his get. He tasted heady, like family and despair, and he could feel Spike’s sudden arousal even as his other senses were lost in the rush of heartbreaking familiarity.
As he drank, his right hand, of its own volition, came up and started fondling Spike’s sac, pulling and rubbing, feeling the weight and the tightening as his arousal grew. His hand then skirted up the length of Spike’s stubborn, proud cock, full of borrowed blood that would always flood his length, no matter how emaciated he was.
Angel started stroking, long hard jerks, as he pulled back from Spike’s thigh and sealed the punctures with a kiss. Then he turned his head and took his boy in, hearing the small cries and tears dripping from Spike’s chin, burning Angel's upturned face like holy water cleansing them both of the sins they didn’t ask for and thoroughly enjoyed.
Angel took Spike deeper and deeper into his mouth, sucking hard and biting soft, the way he knew the boy liked. He felt a hand rest lightly in his hair and saw the other pulling at Spike’s own hair, like he couldn’t take the pleasure without the pain and Angel know how that was, taught it to him and he moaned in his own pain that Spike wouldn’t let himself be pleasured. He sucked harder, taking him deeper, rubbing his own erection through his trousers with his free hand because he needed the release just as much as Spike. He moaned and heard Spike swear. The hand that had been pulling on the filthy blond locks was now slapping down on the sarcophagus lid to steady himself.
He knew Spike was frustrated now. He couldn’t take this pleasure and wouldn’t let himself find relief. So Angel did the only thing he knew would work. He shifted once again into game face and bit lightly, scraping up Spike’s length. That was all it took. They came together, Spike shot bitter jets into Angel’s hungry mouth and Angel devoured it, swallowed completely, and accepted Spike’s grief into his body, his own release a forgotten and empty necessity.
When Spike was fully spent - shaking with the intensity of unexpected orgasm coupled with even more blood loss - Angel pushed him back until he was once again prone on the casket, and then crawled up his body until he was surrounding him, holding him like a scared child. Without thinking he bit into his own wrist and offered it to Spike, who took it without changing, also without thought, and drank slowly at first, but then deeper as if Angel’s blood was the key to restoring his self worth and his purpose, more than any other comfort.
When Spike finally pulled away, softly licking the wound until it closed, he settled back deeper into the cradle of Angel’s body and didn’t speak. Angel pressed kisses into Spike’s hair and rubbed his arms, still trembling from exertion, until he felt Spike fall into a heavy sleep.
He knew he should leave. Knew that whatever understanding they had reached would be lost when Spike woke, healed from the family blood, and furious for it. He knew that Spike needed to grieve, and no matter how much Dawn loved him or the rest of the children accepted him, they would never have been able to offer the sanctuary that Angel had and Spike would resent that. Resent that Angel had set him on the path to healing. Resent that Angel could offer any solace.
He should leave. But the boy would be asleep for a long time, mystical powers healing not only his body but also his heart. And this comfort was something Angel was loath to give up. He would leave, before Spike woke.
But not yet.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 09:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 09:52 am (UTC)It was tricky to write (Angel/Spike not being my (slash) ship of choice), but I really enjoyed writing this, and I am so glad that others enjoy it too.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 11:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 11:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 03:20 pm (UTC)I thrilled you liked it!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 08:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-23 11:08 am (UTC)*smooches*
no subject
Date: 2003-08-22 11:26 pm (UTC)How could he know that losing his girl could cost him his boy as well?
*sob* Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. It *is* amazing how you managed to convey so much when Angel giving a blowjob was the requirement...you took what could have just been any PWP and turned it into something really powerful.
Bravo! :)
no subject
Date: 2003-08-23 11:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-24 09:37 pm (UTC)But this was brilliantly done. A very believable exploration of Spike/Angel after Buffy's death. I love this description of Spike - nothing could knock down William the Bloody – a crazy sire, an angry mob, a sadistic mentor, none of it - nothing except William the Bloody himself, and a small, strong girl that he loved despite logic and reason., and I really thing this is a very believable Angel thought - How could he know that losing his girl could cost him his boy as well?
Fine, lovely writing!
no subject
Date: 2003-08-25 09:50 am (UTC)Hooray!
no subject
Date: 2003-09-06 07:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-07 05:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-09-07 06:50 pm (UTC)Wow, I love your icon.