All About Spike

By Jane St Clair

Sequel to Coterminous

Date: 11/02/01
Fandom: BtVS/Angel
Rating: NC-17
Sequel: to "Coterminous"
Pairing: Wesley/Spike (Wesley/Angel)
Spoilers: bitty ones for "Five by Five" (Angel) and "Fool for Love" (BtVS)
Feedback: brings light where before there was darkness!
Summary: Wesley goes for a walk.

Disclaimer: If they were mine, we'd have fun and frolics every night, and always be in bed early. But as Fox, Warner, and Joss Whedon don't seem to want to share, I'll have to do without. Story's mine, tho.

Sex disclaimer: Never ever have I ever done it in the dressing room at the Gap while stylish young salesmen called through the door, demanding to know whether my shirt was the right size and colour.

Notes: For Te. 'Cause she's the goddess. And 'cause I think I promised this back in December and I'm slow.

In spite of the stories one hears, he knows there aren't really that many cultures that practised head-hunting. Within the last century, there were only one or two in the Indonesian island chains, and for them it was a much more calm and ritualized prospect than the films would have you believe. There were drums, but not mad ones. Each drum had a separate voice, calling death down against the enemy. There were mutilations, but not of missionaries. Who would want to carry home the head of some sunburnt, effeminate Englishman? You take heads for honour, and for power. You know their names first. You call on their owners to follow you into your next battle.

Between wars, the heads lived in a separate hut from any of the living. Dark, tangled hair and polished bone showing through. Whispers of their owners former lives summoned other beings, demons and spirits, and made the knife-bearers that much more powerful.

Odd thoughts for him to have on this walk through terminally suburban Sunnydale, even at night. Even with all the horrors he *knows* reside in the dark here. Because it's a world of perfectly clipped lawns and clean pavement and Spanish-style houses whose red roofs whisper warm, comforting things to the perfectly tanned children inside them. There are only hints of jungle at the edges. In the thick bushes that a select few cultivate. In the undergrowth that almost allows him to forget that the trees that rim the city are a big, dry forest untouched by Heart of Darkness horrors.

For some reason, the foliage around Giles' house gives him a little of that jungle aura. It collects the loose humidity of the night and brushes off the droplets against his pant legs. Cool touch of it soaking through to his skin.

There's still a citrus taste in his mouth. Giles fussed over him for hours, fed him bright, healthy fruits and cursed Spike, stopping just short of cursing the vampire out of his house. Interesting, that. You'd think he'd want Spike gone. Even 'fixed,' he suspects, Spike's more trouble than any collective nest of vampires, if only because he's pretty and clever and ruthless and charming. Perhaps also because the things he wants are not obvious.

Wesley has a fair idea of one or two things, though.

So. Four drinks for Giles, one for him. Giles, given the correct motivation -- usually a short, sharp shock -- will drown himself in alcohol. Wesley's barely carrying a buzz, though. Just a little wider-eyed than usual. Walking just a little looser.

Cold hands wrap around his waist. Swirl of leather around two sets of legs. "Hello cutie."

"Hello William." Because he's drunk, and he knows just enough history to know how much the name gets under this one's skin. Perhaps because Angelus called him that. Other reasons too.

"*Spike*." Belligerently.

"Right." Just the right edge of Britishness on the word to make the tiny hairs on the back of the vampire's neck prickle.

Spike lets him go, so fast he staggers a step, and steps around in front of him. Wesley's suddenly faced with too-pale skin and too-large eyes, the whole face thinner than he realized this afternoon. Still standing in his personal space, though. Spike smells like very soft leather, and dust, and something brilliant and salty. Absolutely seductive. Raw. More than enough to pull Wesley forward onto the balls of his feet, to bend slightly and angle his mouth for a kiss.

He gets it, but only barely. Just a cold brush of lips across his before Spike steps back, not quite laughing. Hoists himself up on the hood of a car and lets his feet swing fifteen inches above the ground.

"How's the nancy book-boy?"

"Giles? He's drunk. I left him sleeping. What did you want to talk about, Spike?"



"You got him drunk."

"This is quickly getting repetitive."

"You shouldn't."

Wesley pauses, rewinds and replays that one. "Beg pardon?"

"You shouldn't ought to. Rupert drinks enough. Too much. And the little bleeders still need him."

And isn't *that* interesting. Spike has, Wesley doesn't doubt, some angle which makes the statement acutely self-interested, but it isn't immediate obvious, and the possibilities are enticing. Protecting someone, but who? The boy, maybe. Xander. Whose bruises are well-known and whose habit of showing up in the small hours and begging to sleep on Giles' couch raised Wesley's eyebrows more than a few times during his original time in Sunnydale.

He remembers coming to the door to borrow something -- a book or a weapon, he can't remember -- and letting himself in when no one answered his knock. The key was poorly hidden; it might as well have been laid on the welcome mat. And when he came in, Xander Harris was curled in a tight, tiny ball on the green velour of Giles' sofa. Tear-streaked cheekbones and a nasty bruise on the side of his face.

Giles came in while Wesley was standing in the foyer, staring. The look Giles threw over was acid, but he didn't stop or explain. Only bent over the boy and wiped his face, kissed his temple and settled the afghan more tightly around those oddly big shoulders. Because Xander is big, and no mistaking it. It's only that his size vanishes in the face of the easy humiliations the world throws his way. Something Wesley has had enough experience with to offer the odd moment of sympathy.

He tilts his head and looks at Spike hard. He's not swinging his feet anymore, and all of his weight's forward, braced on his hands so that he can push off if he needs to. And angry, though Wesley still doesn't understand why.

Sighs, finally. "I won't do it again, then."

"Good. See you don't." Now Spike does jump down, stalks over and plasters that terribly thin body against Wesley's and kisses him hard.

Long seconds of open mouths slowly finding a seal, no tongues as yet. Wesley notes the differences: slighter, shorter, less use of the hands. No hands, in fact. Both of Spike's are still hanging in the swirl of leather around him. He doesn't think Angel's ever kissed him like this, only offering, without any kind of force or hint of violence. The first time Angel kissed him there were cracked ribs afterwards.

Spike just offers. Slick, dangerous kisses originate from that slender body. Dangerous enough that Wesley backs away from them and slams backward as the car's fender kicks all the straightness out of his knees. Bent back over the hood, with Spike still laid up against him and kissing him right down his throat.

This is . . . quite remarkable. He wasn't about to stay inside and mind Giles once the challenge had been issued, but in spite of this afternoon's lip-lock, he genuinely didn't expect to spend the evening sprawled on a car hood being groped by a dead man. Not while his safely-purchased crystal radiates its vibrations softly into the dark of Giles' house through its layers of wrappings and his host sleeps off a drunk on the aged sofa. Not while the tungsten-arc streetlamp above them burns hard and painful into his retinas and every member of the disbanded PTA can see them.

"Oh God Spike. Just . . . just a moment." Pushing him back. Wesley sits up, suddenly aware of his erection and the way his shirt has been efficiently pulled up to expose both of his hard and darkening nipples.

Spike rolls back on his heels. Waits. Not even angry. Not gloating. Just watchful.

"You wanted to talk to me about something."

"I wanted to know why you smell like Angel. You must've rubbed yourself all over him before you left. Slut." Not even contempt in that voice, just cheerful mockery and a blast of the faux-cockney that slides up under Wesley's skin and down to pool just above his groin.

Wesley glares at him.

"Were we finished?" Innocently.

"I'm not doing this in the street."

"Pity." And there it is, that flash of old-boy-gentleman-Brit that Spike's got buried just under his punked-out surface. And it's *very* nice. Though as surfaces go, this one's lovely. Wesley would love to take an hour to play with those eyes and a kohl-stick.

Maybe pierce his ears with something small and very sharp. Though the cartilage. Using something just holy enough to cauterize as it cuts.

Spike clamps a claw-hand around Wesley's wrist in the same instant that Wesley decides that nothing's coming of this, and he ought to go home and toss off. Spike drags him in close, kisses him hard and wet, and then pulls him down the street and into an alley he wouldn't have banked was there. Pushes him back against the hood of something well-shined but not new. Restored Camaro, his mind supplies. Those swells in the hood give it away. Something more expensive might feature a similar shape, but no one would leave a grander car in a back lane, uncovered and without an alarm system to drive away all thieves and creatures of the night. Nobody leaves a Corvette, for instance, out to be marked up by two mad bastards who've decided to shag on it at one in the morning. Nor even under the waving green trees, where leaves and the leavings of birds might spoil its chrome.

Wesley's on his back again, and this time Spike is right there, between his knees and up on top of him, kissing deep and wet and dry-humping him through both their jeans. Bright lines of pleasure streak up Wesley's body at the contact. He could get used to this. Simple, enthusiastic attention from the tireless undead has its advantages, and if it doesn't come with the layers of pain and guilt that Angel can't resist adding to the mix, so much the better. Wesley's got quite enough angst for both of them.

"You really are lovely. I can't believe he lets you out of town." For a half-recognized flash, frighteningly sharp teeth close on the skin of his throat, but they only nip and release. Cold hands on his belly and chest explore where his shirt's been pushed out of the way. "Bloody hell. What happened to you?"

Not an unexpected question, but not one he's fond of, either. This particular set of ragged scars are recent enough to keep him from looking in the mirror after he showers. A wrong look at himself naked brings up the nasty, very bright lights which serve to remind Wesley that he's a little closer to the state of screaming trauma case than he likes to admit.

Spike rests one small, cool hand on the shiny burned streak on Wesley's belly and pulls back to look at him. "Come on. Who did this? Angel?" Palm-rub across the scar and a pursed-lip look that could almost be sympathy. Wesley wonders how much damage Angel must have inflicted on Spike over the years for that to be his first guess.

Wesley shakes his head.


Snort. "No."


He hesitates, then says, "Faith."

"Ah." Little smile, half of pure joy and half of sympathy. A kiss on his navel.

Hands on his belt, then on his pants, then in them. Cold palms frame the rim of his pubic hair, press down a little. Spread and lower and take his clothing with them. Until he's naked from the waist down, jeans loose at his ankles and shirt tails flapping in the warmish breeze. Wesley looks down between his knees and sees Spike, kneeling with the leather shimmer of his coat spreading around him in the dust. Watching him. Smiling a little.

Two fingers slide up and caress his scrotum. Weigh it, take account of its texture and the points on it that cause Wesley to twist his hips violently in response to a touch.

Then the mouth, on the skin high on his thighs, just sucking. Well, tracing the veins, most probably, but Wesley can't quite bring himself to be afraid. He's already had this treatment from another vampire, and that one didn't have military hardware under his skull to keep him in line. The edge of teeth, when they emerge, is just an extra gift. Sharp and dangerous.

Sucking his cock, now. Lovely little mouth wrapped around him, and Spike's head is tilted carefully back so that Wesley's flesh misses the gag reflex and slides the first inch down his throat. Sucks. Wet, almost-warm, and a lot of tongue-attention given to the aching blood vessels just under the surface. If Spike decides Wesley's agony is worth a headache, Wes could easily have the last evidence of his manhood carved away, but he's not sure at the moment that it wouldn't be a fair exchange. He hasn't had anything this good in a long, long time . . .

And then horribly cold when Spike pulls away and crawls back up his body. Denim-clothed knees on either side of his bare hips make an almost-sharp rub against him. If Spike would just . hold . still, he thinks he could finish himself like this and be well and truly grateful for the chance.

"These are *really* nice, you know." Trust a soulless thing to be turned on by scars. Vicarious enjoyment of torture. The sort of thing that should really send Wesley's testicles climbing back up into his body but for some reason doesn't. Just sends him arching into the next touch.

"'Ey." Tiny kiss on his lips. Close-range, so that even in the dark he's struck full-force by the evil-bloody-thing effect of Spike's smile. "You *are* a sick bugger."

"Oh God, Spike." Breathy and messy. That he'd normally be ashamed of but the cold flesh of the man on top of him knows nothing about "normally."

"Tell me what Angel wants with you."

"Fuck Angel." Reaching for the narrow base of his skull to pull him down.

"Did. It's dead and buried. Now give." Cold hands on his wrists, holding him down in a way that should be extremely frightening. Would be more if it weren't accompanied by long wriggles of Spike's body against his. If Spike's slick black jeans weren't open. White flesh on his belly keeps distracting him, and it's not a question he could easily answer even fully clothed and unaroused.

"I don't know."

"You'll have to do better than that, luv."

"I don't think I can." He flashes back on Angel, on Angel's couch in Angel's big, empty hotel, with everyone else gone home. Him stripped to the waist and with his over-pressed pants open, back arched like one of the boys he used to see in Victoria Station. Angel bent over him like his namesake, slowly jerking him off. Each arm movement making a rustle of leather and wool. One cold hand against his mouth to keep him quiet.

"What does he do with you?"

Lost breath. "He watches me."

"Has he ever fucked you?"

"No." He has the bizarre image in his head of Spike sniffing like an animal around his ass to make sure. His brain's too fragmented to remember how far vampire senses extend. Most of the awareness left is focussed on Spike's next grind against his own erection.

"Guess I'd better, then." Flash of brilliant white teeth and a whiff of warm *something* against his face. Breath. Or blood. Blood, because the thing sliding down between his legs doesn't breathe, doesn't need to. It should be terrifying. It's surely a sign of some unspeakable depravity in him that he wants to go crawling after every not-warm touch on the inside of his thighs.

Spike rises in front of him for a second like the absence of light. Black leather swirling behind him, blocking out enough of the brightness from the street that he can only get thin glimpses of the exposed flesh where the jeans are pushed down and the t-shirt rucked up. Then laying down on him, pushing his knees up to his shoulders. Black nails on either side of his head. Not-warm, slick flesh *pushing* at his entrance. He isn't stretched, knows his eyes are huge in the dark. Wonders how much pain Spike needs to inflict before the chip kicks in and stops him.

Steady push that he's opening to slowly. Can't imagine anything this hard inside him. Still too tight, just breathing and trying to relax with Spike on top of him, making him naked on the car's hood.

His flesh gives and opens and his throat closes in the same moment. Impossible for him to scream, as much as he'd like to. Spike's not deep in him, not yet, and the slick is moving in with him, but even this shallow push is something alien that he needs to adjust to, desperately. He's entirely too naked, and the stretching is an unbearable last straw. He would have cracked open and shrieked by now if Spike weren't so terribly still, braced over him and watching, breathing out soft syllables that must be some lullaby common to their childhoods, disturbing as that idea is.

Eventually, he gives. Breathes out and his flesh opens and Spike slides deeper. Lays embedded for a second, then watches him while he pulls out and pushes in again deliberately, opening and stretching and getting deeper. Slick in him. Almost cold. It must be his own body heat making the difference. Slow while they make the way between them clear.

Then, so quietly it can't help but be manic, "You ready, luv?"


It's Spike's mouth, this time, not Angel's hand, that keeps him from crying out. While Spike's body rams suddenly into his, making it clear who's on top and who's getting his ass fucked on the hood of a stranger's car. Deep and very fast, heavy on top of him, pushing down so hard that Wesley's knees are barely a breath away from his own shoulders.

Vicious smile and a hand around his cock drag the orgasm out of him, and hold him down afterward, while he waits for Spike to finish. Just one second where Spike rears back and he's able to get his knees loose. Flash of pleasure through his body as that extra strain is suddenly removed, and on the next downthrust, he's able to wrap his legs around Spike's waist, high enough to hold himself where he is, but close enough to down that his tendons may one day forgive him.

Spike whispers, "yes," and "bloody," and something which sounds suspiciously and disturbingly like "rule Britannia," slams into him, and groans. Lies there for a second before pulling out, and lies on him afterward. Black leather spreading like wings over both of them. Jeans somewhere down around his knees.

A quite, "Good?" slides into his ear.

"Oh God, yes." Thinking how he looks a mess. Like someone pillaged and burned. Ravished by barbarians. But also that in certain moments, Spike's East-End voice shows itself for the affectation that it is. The accent underneath is a great deal softer. An interesting fragment of knowledge that he'll someday have to question Angel about.

In the shadow of the leather coat and Wesley's hair, Spike brushes his teeth against Wesley's skin. "He just watches you, does he?"


"How's his smell get all over you, then?" Nose and mouth both against his throat.

"He . . ." And how *does* one explain it?

"Ducks, I'm well aware of how sick the tosser is. Spill."

"When I . . . he . . . we've finished, I sit in his lap." Thinking of that mouth against his throat. The black trousers sharp against his overstimulated groin. Angel's fingers on his hips holding him down while he measured the path of each blood vessel under the skin.

He's still limp when Spike slides off him and pulls his own jeans up. Cold hands pull him to his feet and dress him, turn him to look at the mess they've made of this particular precious automobile. Desecrated in a way that the owner will only be able to weep at, come morning.

Almost staggering while Spike steers him back towards Giles' private Spanish-colonial fortress. Pauses him at the gate and kisses him long and messily. Finishes by wiping a semen-marked hand across Wesley's mouth for him to taste.

Spike says, "Tell him . . ."


"That you're wonderful. And I had you first." He flashes in the gateway and disappears.

Wesley lets himself in. Giles must have woken at some point, because he's gone off the sofa. The whiskey glasses, when he looks, are in the sink. Very precise for a drunken man. He turns and Giles is on the stairs, watching him.

Wesley glares and ignores the blush rising from his navel towards his face.

Giles comes downstairs. Tilts Wesley's face towards the light that isn't on and sniffs faintly. Blue eyes owlish without the glasses to focus them.

Giles takes Wesley's wrist and leads him upstairs. Strips him to the waist in the bathroom and washes him gently down. Warm water and fiercely unobtrusive soap. Giles dialled the light down in the same instant he turned it on, but it's still bright enough that Wesley can make out the repressed worry lines around Giles' eyes. Cool enough in spite of the heat lamp that he can feel Giles' warmth against his back. And leans back into that warmth for a moment while Giles' hands rub over his belly, soaking the waist of his pants and stripping away any remaining sex-smell that might cling to him.

Then into the guestroom, and into bed. Street-lit image of Giles folding his pants and laying them over a chair while he lies half-curled on top of the bedspread. Knees close to his chest and only the thin grey of his underclothes separating him from the room.

Giles hovers at Wesley's shoulder for a moment. Then gathers up the afghan folded at the bed's foot and spreads it over him, wrapping the knitted acrylic around his shoulders and tucking it in around his body.

If his eyes were big in the alleyway, they must be enormous now. He isn't tired, but the urge to curl in on himself is growing. Giles brushes a hand over the back of his neck and leaves him to it, only hovers in the doorway like an anxious parent for a minute before going.

Later, he catches himself looking for the smell. Burying his nose in the hollow of his elbow and against his shoulder to find it. Finally having to settle for the inside of his mouth, the only place Giles didn't scrub clean. Holding Spike between his teeth and tongue and staring into the dark.


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