Remember Me - Chapter 11.
In some ways, this is just as Spike feared it would be. Him downstairs, me working, then coming down to…love him. Not that he would use quite that terminology, of course. But in other ways it is exactly the opposite of that. He actually doesn't wait downstairs much, he comes around when he feels like it and it is always a surprise. He keeps me in a state of permanent arousal, not knowing, when I come downstairs from a long day in the office, whether he will be there or not.
Because during all his long, painful recitation that night, he left out one key factor that has changed our relationship dramatically. He left out the minor, but critical, fact that during his spending-spree in the city of Angels, he bought himself another place. A bolt-hole just for him.
So he doesn’t sit downstairs at all. He suits himself when he comes and when he goes.
I never know when he will be downstairs waiting for me, or when I will find my apartment empty and myself alone. He reckons it is good for me, character building or something. He has a lot of theories, these days, on what is good for me. Mostly he is right, because mostly it is…him. He's decided, he, is good for me, and I have to agree with him on that.
When he does come around, which thankfully is almost every day, he does…absolutely nothing. He sits around complaining about my TV, my lack of entertainment and drinking my stocks of blood. But the fear that he is turning into some sort of, 'fuck toy,' to use his own, so eloquent, words never occurs to either of us. It is very difficult to see him in that light when he earns considerably more than I do. And, earns it by sitting on his backside and doing precisely nothing all day.
It would all be slightly galling, except for the fact that he spends most of it on me anyway. I have never felt so loved before. He showers me with gifts. All carefully thought out, even more carefully wrapped – he never tires of that little joke. And all of them…every single gift, just what he would have bought for himself, if only he had been that selfish.
He hasn't invited me to his place yet. He says he's still getting it ready, still getting it…just right. I think he's enjoying actually buying stuff instead of stealing it or scrounging it from a dump. Although, as I point out to him at frequent intervals, you could argue that given the source of his newfound income, he is still stealing stuff. He only cocks his scarred eyebrow at such blasphemy and buys himself something else.
Poor Cordelia was beside herself with envy. Envy not helped by his occasional visits upstairs where he lounged around in her office, deliberately browsing catalogues. Two days ago, however, a major change occurred. She overcame her intense jealousy enough to look over his shoulder; made a useful suggestion and they have not been seen since. They are on a spending-fest as Spike now calls them. I'm glad. Something I want to be part of my eternity has to be part of my today.
Sometimes in the night when I am lying without Spike, when, on those rare nights he has not come over, I think about the contrast between my life now and my life then. I think about life before and life after, Spike. It's much more enjoyable than brooding. It's like a game. With no effort at all I can put myself back two months to…before Spike. I imagine myself before Spike again. All the loneliness, all the boredom and all the fear come rushing back. I once told Buffy that not being able to have her tore me up inside, but that the only person I had to share that with, was me. But it's fun making myself miserable remembering the past because now…it's not true. He is here, he is mine and we have a real possibility of having a future together.
I am trying to get him interested in my work. He could be such a help to me. He is a superb fighter, he has street instincts and he loves killing things. But he's taking a selective interest only. Funnily enough he's only interested in cases that involve children; lost children. In those cases, he's relentless. Funny that. He won't stand teasing about it though. He just stomps off mumbling about easy money. I may not have known my Childe very well two months ago, but I'm getting to know him very well now. He's my study, my interest, and my obsession.
And now the big day has arrived. I've been invited to…his place. It was such a casual invitation I almost missed it.
'What do you want to do tonight, Mate…and don't suggest anything that involves slime, muck or scales.'
'How about a movie?'
'Yeah. Maybe a vid?'
'Err…I don't have a player.'
So we went to his place and watched a video. Eventually. By the time we got around to the movie I was a little…spent. I think I fell asleep on Julia Roberts. Which, nice thought though that is, has led to a continual barrage of harassment from the small evil one that I'm getting past it. There was only one way to shut him up. It was effective and…fun.
And this place has been quite a surprise.
This is Spike's personality manifested in material things. It is him…laid out for inspection. No wonder he was so cagey about bringing me here. I don’t think he has ever let himself be so laid bare before. I feel the privilege he has bestowed on me acutely. He has never let anyone see him this intimately before.
He's made an ideal choice for the place he actually intends to live in. It's a large, converted basement. A bit like mine. But there the resemblance ends. I think my place exudes a sense of order and quality, a sense of historical perspective. The first impression you get of his, is that Bill Gates has had a Birthday. There is high-tech equipment in every room, state-of-the-art televisions with plasma screens: so Spike informed me gleefully. He has a computer and a lap-top, although he refused to be drawn on why he needed a lap-top computer in his current, and probably future state of unemployment. His music system takes up the whole of one wall, along with something called a DVD player. What looks to me like thousands of discs line wall-to-wall shelves. When I look closer, I'm amazed to find an eclectic and provoking selection of music and movies from different countries and eras. My Childe never ceases to amaze me.
The most surprising feature in this room, to my eye though, was a large, floor-to-ceiling set of books. Spike's never read anything except porn magazines to my knowledge, but these books display a wide-range of subject matter: many of them photographic collections of landscapes.
His kitchen was a mystery to me, I'd never seen a popcorn maker, a waffle machine or a doughnut cooker before, or many of the other gadgets he'd bought himself to make endless, sugar filled snacks. Apparently he'd had help with his kitchen purchases from one Xander Harris. I couldn't find a bedroom till he pointed out a large, reclining leather chair placed strategically in front of one the giant plasma screens. The bathroom was easier to find, he'd had a shower fitted that looked exactly the same as mine. We have similar tastes in some things then. No towel rail though, no towels, no linen closet. There was one very large, walk-in closet which surprised me, given he seems to have no clothes. When I looked inside, one side had a pair of jeans, one pair of leather pants, a find which I noted and filed away for future fun, two shirts and a tee-shirt, all in black, the other half completely empty. He told me it was for me. So, he sees me coming over here often, often enough to leave clothes then. I wonder where he thinks we will…sleep. Another surprising thing about the whole place is the colour scheme. There is light everywhere, brilliant spotlights, ceiling lights, wall lights; the place is flooded with light. The walls are painted in a strange kind of slate blue/gray and he has hung large, strategically placed prints on the main walls. Each print a series of mutely coloured shapes in mossy greens and yellows: although he laughed when I described them as this. The floor is wooden, like mine, but where mine is done in a quiet oak stain, his is in an odd watery paint-effect purple which he sharply informed me was called Wild Heather. Hum. Most of the fitments are pewter gray, so the combined effect of the walls, prints, floor and fitments is utterly striking and unique. It reminds me strangely of someplace I have been before, but can’t quite name.
He's following me around, anxiously watching my face. I know he wants me to like it. I know he needs me to approve, as if by approving this, I am approving him and our relationship.
I look at him with what I hope is a thoughtful, Sire-like expression. What I'm actually thinking is that I desperately want to try out his new shower and discover how he intends to get me dry without any towels, but I don't tell him that: yet.
'So I'm supposed to come over here then?'
'Oh. You don't like it.'
'Spike, whenever I see you I want to fuck you into a mattress of some sort, so I think we should compromise and get a bed.'
'Angel, you just said the f-word! That's a first, hey, I'm having an effect on someone after all.'
'Oh, don’t worry, I think the f-word quite a lot when I am around you. So, a bed?'
'Yeah, okay, but I'm choosing it.'
'And paying for it as well, easy-come-easy-go, after all.'
'Angel we've had this discussion before and as I told you, it was not easy…' but what he was about to say on the subject of how hard it had been for him to become so wealthy for three hours of sitting on a couch doing very little, I never found out. I decided I needed a shower.
He decided I did too.
We both decided he was completely filthy, so we had a lot of cleansing to do.
He undressed me this time. It was a little disconcerting being undressed under over a thousand watts of spotlight. I filed away another compromise to make…less light. But he seemed to enjoy the view. He started with my shirt. He took his time over every button, just watching my face with a cocky, sensual smirk on his face. He knew exactly the reaction he was having with every, slow unbuttoning. When the material fell loose and open at the front, he ran his hands over my nipples, teasing them, pulling them, testing them like I had his. He wouldn't let me hold onto him, as I desperately needed to do to support my trembling legs. He made me stand there while he peeled the shirt off my shoulders. Then he walked slowly around to the back and took me tightly around the waist. I asked him what he was going to do from there, given I still had my pants on and the obvious was not yet possible. He had his own agenda carefully worked out apparently and told me to mind my own business. And it seems he did. He started tracing the pattern of my tattoo with his tongue, running it lightly over every line, his fingers making a matching, teasing pattern on my belly. I was desperate for him to lower his hand to my cock. I wanted him to feel it straining against the material, to feel how he affected me, to feel his power over me. But he already knew. He pressed his own erection against me and chuckled, nipping lightly over my shoulder blades with his blunt, human teeth. I leaned back into this embrace, tipping my neck back. The invitation was unmistakable and he did not miss it. As he pressed his hard cock against my backside with a delicious promise of pleasure to come, I felt razor sharp fangs descend into the soft side of my neck. At the erotic sensation of blood draining from my body, my legs buckled under me, he fell too but continued to feed as we lay on the stark, white, bathroom tiles. A trickle of my blood made a crimson river flowing towards the drain. He moved his hand to it and started making blood-red palm prints on his floor. He didn’t feed for long, claiming I'd need my strength for other things. We stayed on the floor though and he slowly took off the remains of our clothes.
I watched him play his palm print game for a while, me face down on the cold tiles, him lying on me, his face lightly resting above my tattoo, occasionally lifting it up to lick at the now, healing wound in my neck. I thought he'd tired of his game, when he moved his hand back out of my sight, but he'd obviously thought of a new, and much more interesting game. He slithered off behind me and pulling me up by the waist, positioned himself behind my aching, ready entrance. I arched down to the floor to give him better access, and was rewarded by the feeling of his blood-coated finger being eased in past the tight ring of muscle. He worked me for a while with just that finger; he seemed to like it when I groaned and pushed back against him, trying to get him deeper. He obliged by adding another finger, then a third. By this time I was more than ready for something bigger and longer, but my pleading only brought a low chuckle from my torturer. He did put his other hand on my throbbing cock though to pinch and play with my foreskin, milking drops of precum, which he swirled around the swollen, sensitive tip. I was starting to become desperate when he added his final fingers, stretching me intensely. I was about to protest when he gave an evil giggle and a stab of pain shot through me and made me cry out. He had added his thumb and was busy making his hand into a fist, twisting it from left to right. Spike's fist must be at least eight inches in circumference: I was in agony. I reached behind and tried to grab his forearm, but he batted me away with a huff of annoyance. He leaned over my back and whispered seductively in my ear.
'Trust me, Luv.' In my fear, I didn’t catch whether that was a question or a command, I'm not sure which one would have been more reassuring, but I tried to relax, tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He started to push his fist further up, and for each inch of progress he made, he pulled back to the beginning and started each push anew. After a few thrusts, he pulled out further and bent down; I thought he was going to bite me. I was wrong: he bit himself. He used one razor-sharp fang to open up his own wrist. The blood surged, pulsing out. He surfed his fist back into my waiting passage. We both knew to the second when my moans of pain turned to moans of ecstasy. When he heard the change, he took his cue and started thrusting hard and fast, his arm almost buried to the elbow, or so it seemed to me. I guess this the most that anyone can be inside someone else's body. I felt I was swallowing him from behind. He started panting with the effort of his exertions, quick, light, unnecessary gasps. His hand returned to my cock and made a counter-point rhythm to that he was making with his fist. I felt my entire body being…used: it felt sensational. I smelt his blood, rich and enticing. I reared my head back and let my demon free. I think that at the sight of his beloved Sire returning to him, Spike lost control of his own human mask. Two Vampires howled their passion to the echoing room. I felt it coming, that tightening, quickening rush in the bowels. My cock thickened in his hand, the veins swelling and hardening the throbbing length. I screamed out to him that I was near and he increased his thrusting till I exploded onto the floor beneath me, an endless stream of thick, cold cum. It seemed to spurt for forever; he kept it coming with soft, even pulling on the shaft. When he felt it cease, he gently eased his arm from my hole. It felt like a large organ was being taken from my own body. I felt quite empty when it was gone. I thought he was done: apparently not. He pushed me flat to the cold floor; spread my unresisting legs wide and proceeded to lick at my sore and stretched hole. His cold tongue thrust in and it felt like balm. I felt the burning stretch subside to leave a delicious, low throbbing. He eased his licking and slid up a bit until I felt his cock, now engorged and desperate for relief, resting against me. He didn’t thrust in, he just played with it over my hole, rubbing the soft, cold tip over the puckered surface, releasing drops of icy precum onto the friction-hot edges. It was bliss and he knew it. He started to murmur soft meaningless words to me describing how I looked in this intense, bright light. I never realized what store my Childe placed on the visual. I turned over, swinging one leg over him, till I was on my back, watching him. He liked that. He grinned up at me with a self-satisfied look and sat back on his heels, working himself lightly with one hand. He was putting on a show for me. I sat up and grasped his face in my hands, he slipped back into human form: I mirrored him and thrust my tongue into his sweet, waiting mouth. I kissed him with a desire I thought I would never be able to satisfy: mouth open, to open mouth, tongues clashing for dominance, teeth nipping and teasing. He took my hand and placed it over his cock and together, lost in the kiss, we brought him to his own crashing orgasm. As he came he pulled his mouth from mine and screamed out, his neck arching back, stretched, the blue veins starkly visible against his pure, white skin. I sank my fangs into him and his stretched skin parted as if under a surgeon's knife. I felt his cold seed erupting against my belly as his blood spurted down my throat. He thrashed against me as if I had cut his throat and he was in his death throes. I drank long after his cock subsided in my hand. I drank till he collapsed against me. I drank until I could hear his thoughts gossamer light in my mind. I drank until I heard those thoughts endlessly repeating my name.
I half carried him to the shower and turned the scalding hot water on over us. We stood there, my arms wrapped tightly around him, his head on my shoulder until the steam enveloped us both in a translucent world of our own. When I felt he was ready, I took the soap and began systematically washing his hair, his neck, the wound I had made, and on, down his body. I knelt in front of him and gently lifted his cock, soaping all around his balls, rubbing them lightly on my palm. I slipped one soapy finger into his tight hole, and his hands pulled at my hair in response. But I wanted to finish my task, so I moved on ignoring his groan of frustration. I worshipped at his long, thin legs. I bowed to his feet, lifting one, then the other into my hands. When I felt he was totally done, I pulled him down to kneel with me. The water was cascading over his face, into his eyes, but he blinked it away, not wanting to lose eye contact with me. We kissed again, slow, gentle kisses, which set my belly on fire again. Could I ever have enough of Spike to satisfy me? It seemed not.
Eventually he led me from the shower and we stood dripping and cold in the kitchen. He put on a few of his 'snack' machines and warmed some blood for us both. As I stood mindlessly watching the mugs revolve in the microwave, I felt his arms wrap around my waist and he demonstrated how he intended to manage without towels. He started on my shoulders and by the time he had finished licking my entire body, the blood had to be warmed again.
With mugs of blood for us both, and a bowl of popcorn for him, he dragged me over to the reclining chair. I made myself comfortable as well as I could whilst still slightly damp, naked and sticking to the leather. He put on one of his DVDs and the huge screen came to life.
Odd choice of movie for an evil, dead Vampire, I'd have thought, but he obviously knew it by heart and, curled up on my lap. With a soft throw covering us both, he proceeded to persuade me of the merits of light, romantic comedy.
So here we are an hour later. He's been quiet for ages, engrossed in the idea of an actress trying to escape her fame and a quiet bookish Englishman who loves her. I have my chin resting lightly on his still damp hair. I'm not even listening to the movie any more; I'm listening to his quiet, unnecessary breathing. He doesn’t even seem to know he's doing it, reverting to the familiar when so relaxed. I lean down and brush my lips softly against his ear.
'I love it.'
'Yeah I know, good film. I told ya.'
I give a low chuckle, 'No idiot: this place. I love this place. Except for the bed and the lighting.' He gives a low chuckle.
'Thought you might not like that, being a shadowy and taciturn sort of Vampire.'
'I wasn’t aware there was any other sort.'
'There's the, me, sort. Now shut up, this is the best bit, the dinner party.'
I keep quiet for a while and let him watch the film. I play with his hair, with his fingers, so long, so elegant, so able to give pain and pleasure in equal measure.
‘I am never gonna watch another film with you Mate, you’re hopeless.’
‘Where’s my ring?’
‘Err, in my pocket Luv, in me duster. It’s too big, I’m gonna get it altered, now SHUT UP and let me enjoy this.’
I let him watch his film without more interruption. Well, none except for the light rubbing of my hands across his belly with the occasional, accidental dip towards his soft, spent cock. I don't think I have ever felt so warm, so comfortable and so content since I began on my journey to redemption.
So it wasn’t really my fault I fell asleep for a while. I woke to find the movie nearly over, flash-bulbs going off at a movie premier, people in a park, nothing making any sense. I think Spike sometimes forgets that I play these lengthy and exhausting games after a full day at work, killing and maiming demons: and putting up with Cordelia. He spends most of the days in bed, as he puts it: recovering. I'll put up with his teasing for a few days, but if he doesn't stop I think I'll retaliate. I think I'll remind him that the Big Bad, the slayer of Slayers, was crying at the end of a silly film called Notting Hill. But I'll let him have his fun for a while more.