Untitled Angel ficlet
May. 13th, 2004 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
keelywolfeI'm sort of toying with the idea of writing an Angel fic which drags Doyle back from the dead and into the current season. More like toying with toying with the idea....er...well, something like that. I'm half terrified to try it, partly because I really hate getting into well established fandoms. Everything's been done so many times you really have to fight to get an original idea and, well, bringing someone back from the dead isn't exactly original.
Anyway, here is a little tidbit that would be in it. Not really a drabble but something else. I guess.
Untitled Ficlet
Spike/Doyle
NC-17
~~*~~
It wasn't the most brilliant shag he'd ever had, but it was decent enough. The mick smelled clean and tasted good, and made lovely, soft little sounds whenever Spike pushed in just a bit too hard. His fists were clenched white in the sheets, tendons visible in the backs of his hands. It made Spike want to bite them, feel the tough little bits part beneath sharp teeth, the flood of wet, salty heat that would pour over his tongue with it.
He reined the thought in, closing his eyes. The better to escape temptation, my dear. Like it was possible when he was buried balls-deep in heat, blood-warmth, and no, bad idea, that, but knowing it didn't make him stop wanting.
One cut wouldn't hurt, just enough blood to bubble at the surface like beads of scarlet sweat. Probably Doyle wouldn't care. Might not even notice the way he was squirming, hips swiveling back against Spike's, grinding him deeper in a way that threatened a too-quick ending. He dug his nails into smooth skin, hard as a bite and another lovely little whimper slipped up to tempt him.
A dozen jagged-edged fantasies thrown past his eyes by his inner demon and Spike hated it for that, hated himself for wanting it so fucking badly. Crouched deep inside him like a tumor, the hateful, desiccated part of him peered out with yellowed eyes and wanted blood, sex, hot and tearing, any excess available in this fragile human beneath him. Or if not completely human then close enough.
Instead, Spike just fucked him harder, dragging the faint whimpers up into pure cries, wordless pleading until the bastard finally came, the weight of it hot as the sweetest blood in Spike's palm. He slid it over Doyle's chest, up over his face, slippery and hot as he forced him to taste it, licking at it himself, darting his tongue between his slick fingers to lick it from Doyle's cheek.
"Jesus," Doyle moaned, loudly, and it made Spike laugh silently.
"No roleplaying," he murmured, and it was easier to let go now, the taste of salt thick on his tongue, and his balls felt swollen from the wait but it was all right. All right to finally spill it into that heat.
Afterward, sprawled on the messy sheets, he watched as Doyle snagged a cigarette out of his pack. He didn't bother with the lighter, instead leaning forward to light it on Spike's. "You seem to have a habit for fucking the recently back from the dead," Doyle murmured, his voice blurred around the fag.
"Yeah, well, usually prefer the undead but after having steak every day, you get a bit of a craving for chicken, don't you."
Doyle shrugged, didn't seem to really care about the answer. He scratched his cheek, and Spike could see tiny flecks of dried semen flutter down onto the bed. Probably disgusting how it made a flicker of lust stir in him. Fucking perverts, the both of them.
"It'd rip his poor little dead heart out if he saw you like this, you know?" Spike said abruptly. No need to say who –he- was, was there.
Doyle exhaled a stream of smoke slowly, a pale cloud against reddened lips. Face half in the shadows, his one visible eye was green as a lynx's, flicking towards Spike then away. "So? Why pretend that you care?"
Spike snorted. "Don't, really. But I thought you were supposed to."
Green eyes turned towards him, cool as glass. "Don't think, eh? Save it for someone who's more qualified."
Enough with the foreplay. Spike snatched the cigarette away and flicked it into the overflowing ashtray on the side table. He rolled Doyle beneath him, twisting one sturdy wrist behind his back, just until he made another one of those lovely noises.
Fucked up bastards, both of them, but Doyle at least had one thing on him. He'd seen real angels, poor sod, not just the pathetic shadow that had called him back to earth. He'd seen heaven.
But Spike wondered if that wasn't what he dreamed about at night.
~~*~~
Anyway, here is a little tidbit that would be in it. Not really a drabble but something else. I guess.
Untitled Ficlet
Spike/Doyle
NC-17
~~*~~
It wasn't the most brilliant shag he'd ever had, but it was decent enough. The mick smelled clean and tasted good, and made lovely, soft little sounds whenever Spike pushed in just a bit too hard. His fists were clenched white in the sheets, tendons visible in the backs of his hands. It made Spike want to bite them, feel the tough little bits part beneath sharp teeth, the flood of wet, salty heat that would pour over his tongue with it.
He reined the thought in, closing his eyes. The better to escape temptation, my dear. Like it was possible when he was buried balls-deep in heat, blood-warmth, and no, bad idea, that, but knowing it didn't make him stop wanting.
One cut wouldn't hurt, just enough blood to bubble at the surface like beads of scarlet sweat. Probably Doyle wouldn't care. Might not even notice the way he was squirming, hips swiveling back against Spike's, grinding him deeper in a way that threatened a too-quick ending. He dug his nails into smooth skin, hard as a bite and another lovely little whimper slipped up to tempt him.
A dozen jagged-edged fantasies thrown past his eyes by his inner demon and Spike hated it for that, hated himself for wanting it so fucking badly. Crouched deep inside him like a tumor, the hateful, desiccated part of him peered out with yellowed eyes and wanted blood, sex, hot and tearing, any excess available in this fragile human beneath him. Or if not completely human then close enough.
Instead, Spike just fucked him harder, dragging the faint whimpers up into pure cries, wordless pleading until the bastard finally came, the weight of it hot as the sweetest blood in Spike's palm. He slid it over Doyle's chest, up over his face, slippery and hot as he forced him to taste it, licking at it himself, darting his tongue between his slick fingers to lick it from Doyle's cheek.
"Jesus," Doyle moaned, loudly, and it made Spike laugh silently.
"No roleplaying," he murmured, and it was easier to let go now, the taste of salt thick on his tongue, and his balls felt swollen from the wait but it was all right. All right to finally spill it into that heat.
Afterward, sprawled on the messy sheets, he watched as Doyle snagged a cigarette out of his pack. He didn't bother with the lighter, instead leaning forward to light it on Spike's. "You seem to have a habit for fucking the recently back from the dead," Doyle murmured, his voice blurred around the fag.
"Yeah, well, usually prefer the undead but after having steak every day, you get a bit of a craving for chicken, don't you."
Doyle shrugged, didn't seem to really care about the answer. He scratched his cheek, and Spike could see tiny flecks of dried semen flutter down onto the bed. Probably disgusting how it made a flicker of lust stir in him. Fucking perverts, the both of them.
"It'd rip his poor little dead heart out if he saw you like this, you know?" Spike said abruptly. No need to say who –he- was, was there.
Doyle exhaled a stream of smoke slowly, a pale cloud against reddened lips. Face half in the shadows, his one visible eye was green as a lynx's, flicking towards Spike then away. "So? Why pretend that you care?"
Spike snorted. "Don't, really. But I thought you were supposed to."
Green eyes turned towards him, cool as glass. "Don't think, eh? Save it for someone who's more qualified."
Enough with the foreplay. Spike snatched the cigarette away and flicked it into the overflowing ashtray on the side table. He rolled Doyle beneath him, twisting one sturdy wrist behind his back, just until he made another one of those lovely noises.
Fucked up bastards, both of them, but Doyle at least had one thing on him. He'd seen real angels, poor sod, not just the pathetic shadow that had called him back to earth. He'd seen heaven.
But Spike wondered if that wasn't what he dreamed about at night.
~~*~~
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-05-14 02:28 am (UTC)I say go for it.
*Wolfling nods sagely*
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