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Title: Revelations
Author's name: Ash C
E-mail address: ashcarpenter1980@yahoo.com
Feedback: Yes, please.
Disclaimer: Unfortunately, none of the characters featured in this story belong to me, I’m making no money from it, and the Angelverse is not mine. If it were, the show would never have passed the censors….
Characters: Spike, Lindsey
Rating: NC-17
Spoiler warnings: Various snippets from BtVS s7 and AtS s5
“Are you waiting for someone?”
He looked up disinterestedly. “Nope.”
“Are you *looking* for someone?”
Even as the negative formed on his lips, he took a better look at the stranger and his mind drifted towards an image of the young man spread-eagled face-down on his bed. A thousand crimson-tinted scenarios tried to intrude, but he forced them back, focussing on that first sexual impulse. That at least was safe, relatively speaking.
The first stirrings of desire trickled through empty veins, deadening his pain far more effectively than the Bourbon he had been knocking back since…Shit, who knew? An hour? A week? Time was a fluid concept when you had fucking forever to think about it.
Although the man had rejected him verbally, he could see a different truth in his eyes. A raw need that bled through the carefully adopted persona. He knew that a few well-placed words would get him the physical encounter that he craved. “Are you sure? I suck cock like a pro.”
“*Are* you?”
“I’m not asking for money, if that’s what you mean. Even if that was my bag, I’d do *you* for free,”
“Yeah? And what makes me so special?” The guy was sneering, though not at him: it didn’t take Dr. Freud to work out that it was the idea of being considered special that engendered his contempt. He knocked back another slug of liquor, raising his eyebrows in expectation of some clichéd bullshit.
“You look dirty.”
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It took a lot to catch his attention these days, but that did it. He blinked in surprise, grudgingly impressed. After all, the boy was right, wasn’t he?
“You really wanna get fucked, don’t you?”
“I really do.”
“Take my advice, kid. Find someone else – you’ll only get hurt.”
“I don’t care.” Their eyes clashed: cobalt fire striking impotent sparks on blue steel. He was telling the truth, or thought he was. Close enough for government work.
“Take me to your place.” He wanted to be able to leave as soon as it was done.
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“I know what you are.” Best to get it out there, in the open. Either because he wanted to avoid trouble, or because he was inviting it: he wasn’t entirely sure which. He didn’t want to die – at least, not in the urgent way that would send him out looking for it. But, pain? Yeah, maybe he wanted a little of that. Maybe a lot.
“You really don’t.” Gaze straight ahead, eyes unreadable. But the voice sounding more sure about that than anything else so far.
He shrugged: maybe the vampire was right. Perhaps his perception of that was as carnival-mirror fucked up as everything else. How did such a smart guy end up knowing jack-shit about anything that actually mattered?
Hands running agitatedly through his hair: he plunged them deep into his jeans to stop the nervous movement. Fuck, he’d almost taken a wrong turn there. That would make quite an impression – lost on the way to his own rented apartment. Smooth.
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This was dangerous territory and he should have known better. Bollocks, he *had* known better. It was always at its worst after he’d been drinking.
The line of reasoning was all too easy: I could just drain him unconscious, he’d still live. He was practically begging for it anyway. I’ve been so good for so long, surely one little lapse wouldn’t hurt…? His own personal favourite, the real ball-buster: what was one more? Tally ‘em up, boss – I know where I’m going anyway.
He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts away. Just concentrate, you bastard. Hot, wet mouth; rough, calloused palm, curiously pleasant; hard, tight body just begging to be fucked… Wasn’t that enough?
“It’s never enough.”
“Huh?”
“Shut up and keep sucking.”
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Sweet Jesus, but the vampire was something else. It was just too easy to believe that he’d spent the last century or so buried inside one pretty young thing after another.
He’d wondered for a long time now what it would be like with a predator like this. Would the skin be smooth and cool, like he expected? Would they make it hurt, just for the fun of it? Would they feel cold and dead inside him?
He could pinpoint the exact moment when these thoughts started. A black swirl in his peripheral vision, the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils and the image of a mocking smile etched into his mind. The scene was scorched into his memory, engraved with battery acid. No finesse, no rose-tinted remembrance: still fresh and raw and screaming.
That was it, that was the moment: the bright, shining apex of his life, before it all turned to shit. He spent all that time and energy, sweat and tears – other salty fluids on occasion; getting ahead wasn’t easy – to climb out of the gutter. Only to have the rug pulled out in that one instant, leaving him to freefall all the way back down, through layer upon layer of broken glass.
After all that wondering, here it was. Not *the* vampire – a substitute, and thank the Lord for small favours. And if it wasn’t just the best fucking thing he’d felt in his entire life. He tried to tell himself that this was a surprise revelation.
“God…”
“What the fuck has He got to do with it?” A smile, genuine humour, but something beneath, buried deep. Bitterness? Fear…?
“Nothing. Just, please…Christ, that’s good…”
His breath caught, unintelligible gasps. He was full; cock and fingers working together inside him, stretching, grazing, taking him somewhere he hadn’t been before. And he’d considered himself so worldly…
Was this what it took to chase the emptiness away?
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Potent energy and vitality, thrumming beneath him. Sweet, hot, blinding life thumping right against his shoulder as the kid pressed up against him, nothing but whispery tissue-thin layers separating it from him. How easy for it to well up and gush over his tongue, filling his throat like the nectar of the Promised Land, a coppery, red tide of life…
Fuck, didn’t the boy know his danger? Of course not. They think they know the nature of the beast, the fools. Even she doesn’t have a bloody clue, and she sees it day after day. Chain it up, cage it in tempered steel and lock it in a lead-lined box: given the right motivation it’ll shed its bonds as if they were silken scarves filigreed with human hair.
His artificial bonds were shed for him, and now the beast is tethered by that most fragile and artless of human things.
He rammed harder, thrusting against the kid’s grinding hips. He wanted to fuck the thoughts from his mind, but there was more than that… He wanted to make it good. He was grateful to the boy: loathe to admit it, but if this offer hadn’t come along when it did, then he may well have sunk enough alcohol to walk up to one of those bimbos who’d been giving him the eye and take her out the back of the club.
And if he’d gone that far, he might have found himself tearing his fangs into her neck whilst he fucked her cunt raw, spilling his seed as she slumped against him, all glazed eyes and dead, boneless limbs.
And if he’d gone that far, he might have had to climb to the nearest rooftop and welcome the blazing dawn.
Thanks to the gorgeous, hungry - clearly damaged - man clutching at him with all the desperation of nothing-left-to-lose, he might just make it through the most agonising night of a life that had already been far too long.
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The vampire was being rough; just enough pain to sharpen the pleasure. Holding his wrists, biting his jaw, pinching his nipples, light slaps on willing flesh… It’s as if he came with an instruction manual, so easy to read.
Or maybe his tastes resonated with the demon. The thought intrigued and disturbed him, but felt curiously right. Like an ugly, rusted bolt on a stable door that slid effortlessly into a familiar, well-oiled groove.
“Please, more…” He wasn’t even sure what he was asking for. Fortunately, the creature inside him seemed to know what he needed. He began to pump harder, gripping the over-long hair and kissing full lips, demanding and insistent.
He wanted to tell the vampire to stop, that nothing emerged from his mouth but poison. Yet he kissed back, matching the ferocity and intensity. The smoky-sweet tang was the first taste in a long time not to turn to bitter ashes in his mouth.
Use me, fuck me…but not this. This is how you destroy me.
He cried out when he came, almost a sob. The sensation robbed him of all his senses, leaving him in a sightless, soundless void of ecstasy. He was afraid of anything that felt so good, and he began to panic as he lay there, pumping jet after jet of warm, pointless seed between their bodies.
You asshole, you’re draining me! The vampire was taking everything: his conscience, his pain, his soul…all soothed loose from its mooring and stolen through his dick.
He opened his eyes, and his hearing returned, but the void remained.
And later, as he lay next to the corpse the vampire became in slumber, he realised that it was there to stay.
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Maybe he’d forgotten what it was like to be with someone who didn’t hate themselves for fucking him. The eyes were guarded and vulnerable, but there was no self-disgust, no contempt, no challenge.
The boy had surrendered to him. And he realised in that instant that she never would.
Pain and relief flooding him, both cathartic. Leaving him free to concentrate on the spiralling sensation twisting though his gut and holding his balls in its firm grip.
The kid must have always been good-looking; Southern and wholesome and solid. Now, the sin and guilt, the corruption, the *brokenness* pouring from him propelled him from attractive to breath-taking. He was ruined, and it looked good on him.
The raw, honey-glazed words, filthy and knowing, lit platinum fire in the pit of his stomach.
“Fuck…fuck…” Murmurings tumbled from him; whispered lies, secret and dirty. The revelations of the evening robbing his voice as he finally succumbed, thinking that he may have achieved the greatest clarity of his life.
Sweet, intense explosions, almost as good as the blood. Almost. The hot, gushing blood that she assumed he could resist with his trigger gone.
But even the blood isn’t important now. He’s finally realised: if not what he is, then at least what he must do. And he wants it. Now, Spike is really ready to fight for the chance to do the right thing, for fleeting glorious battle at her side.
He is at peace, unafraid. The possibility of his death shimmers comfortingly on the horizon.
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Epilogue
When Lindsey hears of Spike’s sacrifice, he leans back in his chair and runs his hands a hand over his face, feeling the harsh rasp of stubble.
He knows that the mystical power of the Hell-mouth drew him to Sunnydale those bare weeks ago. Was it that same power that drove him to seek out the vampire…Or just his lingering obsession with Angel?
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He tried to build a life back in
He stuck a pin in a map: Sunnydale. He tried again; different map, different angle. After the seventh attempt with the same result, he gave in to the tenacious, burning urge within him.
He sought out Spike – hard to be sure why, same blood as Angel maybe? – and their brief connection had told him everything he needed to know about himself.
He was an empty chalice, waiting to be filled. The demonic, the evil, reached out and touched him with an over-familiar hand, caressing and persuasive. It craved him, and he wanted it in return. He didn’t want to be another redneck, living an unremarkable life. Couldn’t be; it was far too late to crawl his way back into normality.
He realised something else too: Angel could have saved him. If he’d given what Spike had, if he’d given *anything*, Lindsey may have been able to make peace with himself whilst there was still time.
He decided he was going back to LA, to bring down Angel and Wolfram & Hart, tearing them apart with bloodied, broken hands if that’s what it took. Easy enough to pick up the required mojo, there in the
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A few moments’ thought convince the ex-lawyer that Spike’s death will accelerate rather than impede his plan, the biggest problem of which has always been how to bring him and Angel together. And now, the blond has bona fide Champion status. He smiles.
Simple incantations will ensure that his cloaking powers extend to blocking Spike’s memory of their previous encounter. He wants to see him again: after all, it is the vampire who has set him on this path, albeit inadvertently.
Lindsey hopes that he’ll get the opportunity to fuck (*destroy*) him. He has a lot to thank (*hate*) him for.
He picks up the phone: he needs an amulet retrieving.
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As Lindsey’s tribal tattoos evaporate, the memory of their desperate coupling hits Spike with the force of an express train. He literally reels, black dots swimming in front of bewildered eyes.
He remembers… the broken boy, the epiphany, the decision. His gratitude.
Recent events unravel (*played me, used me, stole my memory*) and he realises that everything is about Angel – it always was. Spike as a Champion, the glorious glimpse of salvation that was the Shanshu…all a lie.
The revelation damages him, but is hardly earth-shattering. His belief in redemption has always left a lot to be desired.
He dusts off the decision that he didn’t realise he had already made, examines it in the light of day. There is no girl, nothing left to prove, no shining reward; there is only what is right, followed by an eternity to pay for what was so wrong.
Later, when Angel finally asks the question, he will be the first to raise his hand.
THE END.
pensive