"You're not buyin' me the car, are ya?"
I don't turn to look at him. I don't have to. I can *hear* the out-thrust lip.
"Buying *you* this car? YOU
crashed MY car. Why would I buy you anything!? And once again,
why the hell am I even
arguing with you?"
He chuckles. "Cause you're an old, dull creature of habit who possesses no other forms of entertainment?"
He pulls the car over into a deserted alleyway and I know what he's trying to do, goddamnit. He's absolutely shameless. "Not earning any car points, Spike."
"Aww, c'mon pet. She's a nice car. All soft n' curvy in the right places - " he lovingly caresses the leather interior and I make the fatal mistake of peering at him out of the corner of my eye. Those long fingers splay across dark, smooth hide. Gently fondle bumps and crevices. I've never wanted to be a car seat before. Of course, I've never seen Spike attempt foreplay with one before either.
"Hard in all the others," he finishes and those same fingers close over the rapidly rising bulge in my pants. It has a mind of its own, I swear. The devil made me do it. His name is Spike, and -
Another evil little chuckle and I resolutely tear my eyes away from his hand working along my zipper.
"Lookie here, it even gives the Prince of Ponce a hard on."
I snort, admit defeat. "Wasn't the car, Spike." What's the point in lying? It's not as if he can't see through me anyway. Right now I'm fairly certain he sees through my trousers.
"No?" he purrs. "What was it then, luv?"
The startling rip of zipper pulls me back to what few senses I actually possess. I grab that clever hand before it can work its way into my boxers, past the point of no return, and into the point of Spike-gets-fucked-in-a-convertible.
"I am *not* buying this car. Not for you. Not for me. Not at all. Are we clear?"
His long suffering sigh is a near perfect parody of my own. ((And suddenly I am struck by the image of him practicing his Angel imitation on my staff. "No, no, Cordelia, take the night off, I shall battle the evil on my own, for I am Brow-man! Former Scourge of Europe and now merely Current Scourge of fashion and good taste!"))
I hate him.
"You know you're an over the hill wanker with no sense of fun, don'tcha?"
As insults go, it's hardly his most creative. Damnit. He's wearing his Dirty grin.
I really hate him.
And yet, I've grown so accustomed to the banter-as-prelude, so conditioned to become aroused as much by a taunt from him as a caress, sometimes I actually worry that one day he will run out of ways to shock and disturb me, and our foreplay will be irrevocably altered.
"If you're not gonna buy it, then the least you can do is sub for me in it."
Apparently, this particular worry is ill founded.
*~*~*~*~*
Angel gives me three, long, slow blinks. I can see him actually thinking about this. I can see him pretending not to be thinking. I can see him pretending not to be pretending. I can see the gears grind to a halt inside his giant head.
"Spike, I am not going to let you ..spank me, whip me, or whateverthehell your twisted, over bleached brain can come up with to do to me in a *test drive car.*"
I merely cluck my tongue at his lack of imagination. "Pansy ass games like that are more your gig, pet. I, on the other hand, have never needed violence to make my point."
His single eyebrow shoots up into his prehensile hairline at about the same time he bursts into gales of undignified laughter. Naturally, I punch him in the skull.
I didn't say I didn't *enjoy* violence, just that I didn't *need* it to make myself understood.
"I could have you doin' anything I wanted without having to resort to violence and/or Angelus-reindeer games, and you know it." I tell him smugly.
Yea, I pulled out the YouwereanevilbastardofaSireonceuponatime card. Mental torture is a whole other ball of wax, damnit.
"It's not like I wouldn't do anything for you, Spike," he says quickly. You know, I can almost taste that thick layer of misplaced guilt coating his tongue like peanut butter.
I roll my eyes at him.
"Yea, but I can make you *like* it," I tell him with The Smirk.
He thinks I don't know how much it turns him on. One day he's gonna realize I know everything. More importantly, he's gonna realize I *get* everything I want. Also one day, pigs will fly out of his ass. Of course, the way his fucking destiny looks in those ancient books, the latter might actually be possible, and I have to be really careful what I wish for.
He reaches for me, but I pull back, smirk at him some more. All nice and up close. His nostrils flare. Heh.We're almost there.
I nod in the direction of the back seat, and flutter the lashes. He inhales. Yes, worship me. I am the god of foreplay.
His gaze travels back and forth between my bottom lip and the rear of the car, and he squints a bit. "I'm too tall."
Lame excuse at best, and one which tells me he ain't got much resistance left.
He's breathing, all wiggly and twitchy and soon to be putty in my hands. This will all be over in a moment. I just need one good line... Something even the romantic idiot will appreciate.
"Peaches, you're significantly shorter with your knees behind your ears."
Damn I'm good.
*~*~*~*~*
I *am* too tall, and it doesn't matter *where* I put my knees this is not going to work, and -
"Spike, I-"
"Will shut the fuck up for once in your life."
My jaw snaps shut. Possibly some automatic, hard-wired response to the rumbling predatory growl emanating from his chest. But more likely some automatic, hard-wired response to his long body slowly creeping over the seat to cover my own. His eyes flash gold at me, and I know...
I know it's a game, I know I'm bigger and stronger.
But I also know that no one really loses when we play this game. And I know that sometimes, it's just as good to be the one who gives in. Sweet and coveted and delicious to be the one out of control, even if only for a moment. Thrilling to know that what is between us now is so much more than game and mindless ritual. What is between us now is begrudging respect and genuine affection, unholy lust and occasionally unbelievable tenderness. What is between us now is a carseat and my own pride. For him, I'd swallow both.
So I lay back and watch the surprise flit across his features. Just less than a moment, then it is replaced by the more familiar half-hooded eyes and half-bared canines. Scarcely inches to span in this silly, miniature vehicle, but I swear it takes hours for him to cross them. On all fours, crawling up the length of me, pressing his limbs to mine, rustle of denim and crinkle of leather. Finally a hitch of breath, and he laughs at me, low, and deep, and just by my ear. I struggle to keep my eyes open.
His tongue flits out between soft, red lips, and I arch against him. Another small chuckle as he turns my head. His fists close around my scalp, fingers digging in curls, pushing my face to the side. I bite back the whimper of protest. That long, soft tongue covers my chin, drags up my cheekbone, savoring the taste of aftershave and the slow raspy burn of two day stubble. He thinks I don't know these things turn him on. But I do. Of course I do...
Breathe. Still the trembling in my chest and wait..wait..
The sharp, moist point of his tongue dances along the ridges of my ear. Soft puffs of air follow and I give up the whimper. But he doesn't laugh at me now. Just one word, whispered against the wet, goosebumped skin of my neck.
"Strip," he orders in that voice, the one he saves for me..
Preternatural speed has never felt so damn good. Neither has bare skin and cool leather.
My clothing in a heap on the floorboards,
I move to release him from his own jeans. He pulls back again. "Close your
eyes," he
orders in that same sex-roughened
voice, and I swallow, hard.
There are about four brain cells still working in my head, and all of them tell me this is a bad idea. Moments when bottled blondes issue me that particular imperative have *never* ended in anything good. Besides, I may love him but I'm not an idiot and -
"I don't trust you, Spike."
He makes a noise which sounds not unlike "Duh."
"Do it anyway, Angelus."
I raise both eyebrows at him. I suppose this is the test then. Nothing less than the threat of violence, which he has assured me he shall not need nor will he use, will get me to lay naked, on the side of the freeway, in a matchbox car, with *Spike*, with my eyes *closed.*
He just smiles at me. "Do it, or I'll toss your naked, undead ass onto the highway and drive off."
Well, nothing except the threat of that.
*~*~*~*~*
Damn. He is so cute when he's all obedient. Told the pillock I didn't need to use violence.
"And keep 'em shut," I tell him, "I've got this surprise for you...."
He looks all nervous now. Heh.
A few months back we went to this bar joint slash winghouse. Was called Hooters or Boobies or something. No idea why they just don't call those places BREASTS R US and have it over with, but anyway. We went in to get some wings, and to ogle. Well, I did. He went in 'cause he sure as hell wasn't gonna let *me* in by myself. So i ogled, and I drank and I ate about two dozen spicy wings. Angel sat in the corner and tried to pretend he wasn't noticing all the scantily clad birds wearing little else but tight orange shorts and bandanas around their tits. Moron. That's what they're there for, ain't it? And it's not like he didn't spend over a century and a half doing way more than ogling. Angel is definitely a breast-man. Or Angelus was anyway. I mean, I hated his fucked up twat of a Sire, but it's not like I never noticed that when she wore a corset you could serve a *beer* on those goddamn things.
The beers at Honkers are served on a platter. But the waitress was a lovely, long legged thing. Course Angel would only look straight at her face. May I reiterate? Moron. Then I noticed what he was really checking out. Little girl had this tongue ring in...Glowed a nice silver in the smoky, half light of the restaurant. He couldn't keep his fucking eyes off it every time she opened her mouth.
"It's a sex thing." I told him over the fifth beer.
Angel about leaped out of his coat. "What? No! No, it isn't, I-"
"Moron. The *tongue ring.* It's a sex thing."
He had the decency to try and blush. Not that I give a rat's ass about decency, but it looks good on him. Man was born to wear shame and submission, I swear it.
"How do you know that?" he finally asked me, and I just raised a brow and sighed. He didn't press the point though, and I sure as hell never mentioned it again.
But after I killed his car I went out and got one. Shiny. Silver. Extra fucking Large.
Now I bite the center of my tongue and slip in that smooth, little ball...Yea. He's gonna scream my name.
Then I lean down over him, and take his twitching cock in my mouth without any prelude. I'm not really prelude guy anyway. Usually foreplay for me consists of an hour of watching rugby followed by killing something. But at the mo, any foreplay would only give my surprise away before I'm ready, and we can't have that, now can we?
So it's nose to his belly right from the gate, and he's not complaining mind you. No, actually he's making those little noises that soon become bigger noises...Swirl my new-found toy around the tip of his cock and his hips rise right off the seat, hands grab the back of my head and yesss..there it is. My name. Loud and clear with "oh fuck my god oh my god please" following right on its heels.
That's it. Worship me, Angel. I am the god of backseat fucking.
Long slow licks up the side, fast twirls, heavy on the pressure around the base. His eyes flutter open and shut and I know he wants to ask about the ring, but he can't form words. Actually, when he gets like this he mostly makes consonant sounds. Right now, he's making enough of 'em to open another one of them portals to Grrflllblggrsxmcks or whereever the fuck we just got back from.
By the time I move to his balls he is chanting so loudly in that crazy foreign language of vampire-getting-amazing-head that I actually fear the portal thing. I really didn't mind Pylea. I got to walk around in daytime and kill things with his Poofyness' blessing. Plus, Princess O' Plenty looked mighty frigging good wearing nothing at all but loose change. But a portal opening right now would just interrupt my groove.
So I move away from between his legs, and swallow his "nooooooooooo.........." with my kiss.
*~*~*~*~*
Pfflflggrrrzttmkldt. Prtfsdk, wllrgfts. Krtts! Grrrrrrrrr. Fgr.
*~*~*~*~*
Christ, he tastes good. Sweet and crisp, like apples rolled in sugar. You know, the only way this could be better would be if he actually *had* an apple in his mouth. Couldn't kiss him that way, but man, that's a fantasy I've had since practically right after I was turned. I'm kinky. This is hardly new info.
I lick his palate and his tongue
until he is warm and trembling, and he moans and rocks beneath me. His
legs hook behind my calves, heels digging in hard. His own tongue seeks
out the silver ball again and again, and oh yea, the big phony prick is
just as
kinky as me, damnit.
Down his neck, over flat, pale nipples, until he arches again, grunts, and grabs the back of my head in a painful grip in an attempt to push me lower down his body. I peer up at him, half game-faced and smirking. "Shh...I'm gettin' there. Just be quiet and lay still."
A single bite to the fleshiest part of his belly makes my point and he grunts.
He nods and chews his bottom lip
so hard his own fangs descend. I shake my head at him. "Now, now, that's
cheatin', pet." He sighs, and leans back again, but the ridges dissapear
from his face. My dick twitches against the confines of my zipper at his
absolute obedience. I pull his hand
toward my crotch.
Soon, I am naked too, and his skin slides against me, sweet taste of sweat, salt and submission on the way down.
His hands lock behind his knees as I seek out the sweetest spot. Lick in circles, bite in lines, slip my jeweled tongue over secret, musky skin until I feel his thighs quiver with the strain of holding himself still. Cover him there with kisses and licks coated in silver, mouth open and drooling, inhaling his scent. Devour and feed, trickles of blood from his thigh, trickles of pre-cum from his cock. Silent, silent just like I requested, like I ordered, just the rise and fall of muscled chest, accompanied each time by the gasp of uneven breathing.
Begging with each of those breaths.
Calling me Master, begging without words, and I am evil, but I'm not cruel.
Well, not to
him. Well, not often. Well, not
now.
"You can scream now," I tell him,
before grabbing the base of his cock, and slipping the silver ball into
the slit at the very tip.
Two fingers below slide into feathery
warmth and aching tightness. I crook them just so...
And he does.
*~*~*~*~*
Sticky leather. Sticky me.
Oh yaaaaay. I can use three out of the five vowels.
"Ssss..pike."
Mostly.
He laughs again, against my neck, his erection insistent, nudging against my stomach. I slide my legs down his, nuzzle into his hair. Smells so good. Sexpowerjoy. Spike. Mine.
"Want me?" The whisper paper soft and ephemeral on still-tingling skin.
"Yeaaa.." Push sticky me against throbbing him til he grunts and I lose use of vowel sounds again.
He leans back, looks down at me. An expression I can't read reminds me that I know him so well, except when I don't.
"Need me," he says.. And I want to answer with an eager yes yes yes, but he is rubbing and sliding every inch of hard, smooth, drooling flesh between my open legs so he's just going to have to accept a whimper and a wriggle as an answer for this one.
"Love me," he says roughly, hard teeth and hard cock, both demanding to be let inside.
"Yesssssssss," and oh thank the gods for words that end in sibilants. No effort to roll the word he wants to hear off my tongue, to roll my hips under him, to let him split skin and skin and let him innnnnnnn....
Inside, come, stay. Bury yourself in there and just. stay.
A scream I can't bite back, break open and spill for him, only for him. For the fists curling in my hair and the thumbs bruising my hipbones, for the fingers fucking my mouth and the tongue dancing along my hairline.
For the whisper creeping up my spine. For that voice, that voice of snakes and honey. "Give me your neck, Angel."
And I do.
Later, much, much later, he comes with a blood-muffled howl.
I pet him as he lays on top of me, and I know I've lost complete touch with reality cause I could swear he mumbles something about apples.
*~*~*~*~*
We pull into the dealership three hours later. The car smells of lemon wax and leather cleaner, but not much like vampire bodily fluids.
I sigh as he opens the door to get out. Run my hand over the interior, lingering, lovingly, one more time. "Damn, Angel. Are you sure? This thing is *cherry.*"
He grins at me. Rare as a sunrise that look. Precious, even to me.
"What is it with you and fruit metaphors today?" he asks, handing the keys over to the relieved saleswoman.
"As much of a fruit as you actually are, you still wouldn't understand." I tell him, matching his smile tooth for tooth.
He throws an arm round my shoulder on the way out the door and leans in close. "Oh, I dunno, Will me boy. We could stop at a produce stand on the way home. Mayhaps pick up some apples. Aye?"
The brogue curls my toes inside my boots, and a completely uncharacteristic gulp is stranded in my throat at the long coveted image. He grins wickedly as I struggle to recover my ability to speak. But when I do, he's the one rendered speechless.
"Sure, luv. Can we get a cucumber too?"
~Finis