Authoresseseseses: Robin the Crossover Junkie and Spiffy Da WonderSheep
Disclaimer: All your bases are belonging to us. Or rather, nothing belongs to us, and we stole it all, but we’ll give it back later, we promise. It might not be in the same condition we got it in, but…we’ll flash you if you promise not to sue?
Rating: R for language and implications.
Pairing: Spike/Angel.
Spoilers: Uh…season 6 if anything, but there’s really not much for spoilage.
Dedication: To our Jill for being lovely. To Mad Poetess, James Walkswithwind, and Lazuli in the hopes that we’ll get more of our favorite fics sooner than never. *grin* And to Soft Princess, who helped Robin find pictures in which to make the image for the fic.
Notes: It’s a drabble, people. There are no notes.
Blood is thicker than water, and if that’s not a cliché, I don’t know what is. But sometimes clichés, however annoying, are stark truth.
He and I have a bond. A blood bond, a family bond, a history bond, an iron bond. One hundred years is like the blink of an eye now, though at the time it was an eternity. An eternity without my William.
We’ve never been friends before. Not until now. We were demons together, murderers together, lovers together. But never were we friends. I’d never thought we could be friends. Before my soul, we tolerated one another, loved one another, fucked one another, but we were never friends. After my soul, we were enemies, whether we wanted to be or not. When I lost my soul again, we were enemies still. Only now, after he’s regained his own soul, can we reestablish our bonds.
Both metaphorically and literally
Sex, blood, and violence. Three things that we’ve known quite well through our history together; three things that are directly related. Just ask the media. Sex is violent, no matter how romantic and Lifetime Channel the preliminaries are, an orgasm is a very violent event.
What causes arousal? Well, for humans, the ones with the still-beating hearts, it's a physiological reaction caused by a psychological reaction to some stimulus, characterized by blood rushing to the genitals and staying there.
Vampires? Well, it's the same and different. I suppose, if I really wanted to submit myself to some mad scientist as a lab rat, they'd be able to figure out why vampires can experience erections and arousal without circulation, but I'd rather not, thank you all the same. Maybe it's the memory of that blood flowing through our own veins that creates the hunger. Such fragile things, these human bodies we inhabit. Strangely designed, too. We may be stronger than normal humans, thanks to the demon inside, but we still bruise and tear.
Why did I enjoy making Spike bleed and bruise? It started as revenge. I can still remember the first time I laid into him. It was fairly soon after Dru brought him home to us, and I felt the bit of jealousy, even though I hadn't really cared much about her in a few dozen years. Her craziness got real old real fast. Maybe that's why she brought home the little shit in the first place; she saw in him something that she needed. Maybe even a little bit of something that I needed. But the first time she did a flit and left me with the little bastard, prancing around and trying on his new badass personality, it was all I could do to keep from staking myself, himself, and herself. In that order.
Fortunately, she'd always had a fondness for chains and manacles. William had always been shy, submissive, and reclusive, whereas with Dru he got to be Alpha male he always wanted to be. With me around he got to be the bottom he truly was.
Although he did put up quite a fight, that first time, which made it nice and exciting for me too. I liked the struggle, the dance, the assertion of dominance. Most beautiful sound in the world to me was the click of those manacles and the rattle of the chains as he tried to get loose. That's what gets my rocks off.
That first time, he squawked like a stuck pig and ended up coming before me, no external stimulation at all. His jollies were in the being forced to submit against his will, a little violence for good measure. Not exactly the kind of thing a newly bespelled soul would let one do.
Fast forward a hundred years, and here's this same guy, the one I dropped and topped and did so many horribly unspeakable things to for so many years, and he was there, on my doorstep, asking me all sorts of things. How do you do it every day? When does it get easier? How do I make it through the day? I helped him with the pig's blood and the crying in the night, and then there he was one day, holding a pair of handcuffs, asking me for what we used to have. There was the usual recoil with the flash of remembrance of how we used to get from zero to chained up in five-point-two, but he sensed it and reminded me he was asking. He was granting permission. He wasn’t asking to be beat into a pulp and taken roughly with only enough lubricant to keep the skin on my dick from getting friction burns, he was asking for me to assert myself.
I was still unsure, unsure that I could do it, unsure why he could let me. And then he said something, whispered so quietly that no one else would have heard it, could have heard it.
I feel safe with you.
And for the first time in a hundred years, I heard the click of those manacles and the rattle of those chains, and I felt safe, too.
END
