thatotherperv | Made: a new fic which is Very Very Wrong.

ummmm, yeah, I wrote something today? some of you have already seen this, but I wrote part 2, and I decided to post the thing publicly.
just like my muse to make a goddamn liar out of my earlier post, haha. bitch.

I’m going to do something I swore I’d never do. Writer’s Frustration ™ has driven me to the point of desperation wherein I will begin a story with the extremely annoying narrative device:

I want to write a fic about William. Or maybe it’s Spike. And Angelus, though we’ll call him Angel, because Angelus is a stupid name for a human. And Darla.

See, Angel and Darla are married. And bored. And jaded. Think canon 19th century, only…human, plunked into modern-day suburbia. Did I mention they’re bored? And they’re not very nice people, in the end. So they adopt this boy.

Ohhh….should I tell you that this story I’m thinking of is Very Wrong? Very Very Wrong? Yes. So wrong, in fact, that the first time I posted this, it was filtered to only a handful of people. only now I've decided to post it publicly and I'm really hoping I don't regret it. Moving on….

They adopt this boy. Or maybe they’re just fostering him. I really don’t care. The point is, William is fifteen and a half. Don’t blame me, Kari decided. He’s young. And he’s still William, mostly, but already begun to get all defensive and prickly…. His first few years in the foster system haven’t exactly been *kind*, and he’s got Spike-ish leanings.

He’s still a virgin. Mostly. Below the waist. But he understands that the world isn’t all sunshine and kittens.

Still, he’s kind of confused about why these people, with their nice car and nice house and life obviously not designed for the rearing of children, are bringing *him* into their home. He’s enough of a discipline case that his stupid dreams of being adopted and becoming a Real Boy have gone the way of his soprano choir-boy voice. Dried up around puberty, never to be seen again.

Except, he’s still got all that hope, buried down deep. It’s just wrapped up in a Teflon coating of suspicion.

Which is pretty much confirmed his first night home. Because the way Angel looks at him…it’s not very fatherly, get it? And Spike (as he’s already begun calling himself) has seen that look before. Some day, he’s going to be sturdily built and strong-featured, but at the moment, he’s still…well…pretty. Pretty in a way that gives the wrong impression.

Or actually, the right one, but he’s still kind of on edge about the whole thing. The idea fills him with this buzzing fear and anticipation, and he might cock his brow and mouth off and pretend he knows everything, but really, he’s scared shitless.

So dinner is weird. Because the food is great, and they’re eating on china, not out of plastic cartons in front of the tv. And they’re both being bizarrely nice to him. And Angel’s watching him with this little smile, and Darla is chatting to him in a way that sort of gives him the willies, because it’s so nice that he almost feels like she’s up to something.

After dinner, it’s still pretty early, but Spike is tired…going to a new home is always so exhausting, because he hasn’t figured out what they want from him yet, and all the pretending not to care wears him out.

So Angel shows him to his room, which is just down the hall from theirs. It’s a pretty big house, but it’s not a mansion or anything. Spike sets his bag down next to the biggest bed he’s ever had. The room is really big, actually, and when he checks, there’s an adjoining bathroom that also opens to the hall. He’s never had his own bathroom before, and it’s all a little overwhelming.

He turns to find Angel still in the doorway, leaning against the frame, watching him with his arms folded over his chest.

And there’s something irritating about it.

“What?”

Angel smirks and lifts his eyebrows, which only annoys Spike further. “Nothing. Just…wanted to help you settle in.”

Spike gets this weird prickle of the hair on the back of his neck, and without realizing it, his shoulders stiffen inside his leather coat. “Ta ever so, but I think I can handle it from here.” When Angel doesn’t move…when the smug expression doesn’t change at all, Spike feels another wave of irritation. “Some privacy, if you don’t mind?”

And he probably shouldn’t snap at his new foster dad on the very first night, but the bloke is really putting him on edge, and anyway, it doesn’t seem to matter to Angel. He just smiles in a way that doesn’t really touch his eyes and points his thumb over his shoulder.

“Sure. You know where to find us.”

Spike feels really awkward. “Yeah. Sure. G’night.”

Angel shuts the door behind him.

So now Spike can really look around. His closet is huge, and it occurs to him that even when he unpacks everything he owns, it’s going to look absurdly empty, but hell if he’s asking them for anything. Good way to get booted, that. There’s a big desk, and a chest of drawers…this other cabinet job that opens to reveal the nicest fucking telly he’s ever owned in his life. Though he doesn’t own this one now. But it’s not alone. There’s dvd, dvr, stereo, and…holy fuck. A brand-new Nintendo Wii.

He stares at it for the longest time. That had to mean…did they buy that for him? He knew he was their first foster kid, and it seems highly unlikely that either of them gives two shits about gaming systems. Did they buy *all* of this for him? It wasn’t possible.

He closes the cabinet, and opens the compartment below, which is full of DVDs and games.

And it’s all a little much, so he closes that too, and sits on the bed. Pulls off his boots. The bed, he discovers, is the most comfortable thing he’s ever sat his arse on, and when he falls back onto the pillows, it’s heaven. He stares at the ceiling for the longest time, trying to decide what to make of it all. And his eyelids get heavier and heavier…one minute he decides there’s got to be a catch, and the next he’s asleep. Duster and all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He wakes up out of a dead sleep hours later, groggy and disoriented. At first he can’t figure out why. He was having this really bizarre dream….

And then he hears them. Angel and Darla.

Fucking.

They must be down the hall in their bedroom, but they might as well be next to him, he can hear them so clearly through the walls. Darla is breathy and vocal, makin’ these little cries that have Spike’s balls tightening up against his body. His jeans are already tented…must have been a good dream, after all. He reaches down and palms himself, even though he feels like he shouldn’t…. They probably don’t realize he can hear them. They’re not used to living with someone else…it would be an awful invasion of privacy, and the poncy old William that still hasn’t gotten the picture most definitely objects.

But when a deep male groan sounds out, Spike can’t help rubbing himself. Angel says something to her, too low for Spike to catch anything but the rumble of his voice…and then Darla laughs a laugh that blends into a gasp…and then a wail…and the bed starts thumping against the wall so hard he can *feel* it from here…Darla and Angel panting and moaning louder and louder until Spike’s toes curl with the need to come. He reaches into his pants and bites his lip and then Angel shouts and Spike shoots his load right into his jeans.

And he’s still gasping and reeling when the sounds down the hall suddenly fall silent. He’s sticky. When he checks the clock, it reads 12:22am.

He sits up and eases out of his duster, because he’s bloody hot, but he’s sure as hell not going back to sleep like this, so then he strips and runs the shower.

Runs it hot. And he takes a long one. It’s posh, like everything else in this house, apparently, and clean. No mildew. And the heat just lasts forever. He leans against the wall and lets it run over him…closes his eyes and puts a visual to those sounds, drawing on every porn film he’s ever seen.

And then he’s hard again, because fuck-all, he’s fifteen and it doesn’t take much. And the idea of those two shaggin’ like rabbits in heat is plenty.

Takes himself in hand properly this time, and as he gets into it, he realizes he’s imaging himself in the bed with them. He whines in his throat. In his head, he’s between them, and Angel’s fucking him (he tightens his grip and pumps harder) and he’s fucking Darla. His hips buck into his fist at the thought, and he stifles a whimpery moan, because the first thing you learn in a group home is that bathrooms have acoustics that tend to broadcast private moments. Somehow he doesn’t think they’re gentle, in his fantasy. They’re teeth and nails and hard, unforgiving thrusts—

And this time when he comes, his moan is too loud.

But not loud enough to drown out the click of a door closing, or the noticeable draft of cold air.

He freezes guiltily, and yanks aside the curtain, but he’s alone.

There are towels stacked on the floor that weren’t there before. And the door to the hallway is unlocked.

He wipes the water out of his eyes and turns the taps. Later, as he lies in bed, unable to go back to sleep, he wonders whether it was Darla or Angel.

And how long they stood there, watching him through the translucent curtain.

TBC, muse withstanding. sorry for the early style (which I personally have distaste for) but it occurred to me that the only time I've been able to play through a filthy scenario lately is when sharing an idea with a friend, so I figured I'd cut out the middle-man and get the ball rolling this way. and it worked. yay! dude, I have been one frustrated little bunny.

this will probably be heavy on the spangel, but there will also be spike/darla, angel/darla, and maybe angel/spike/darla, if I get around to it. yes, I know, scary het. but it will be filthy and hot. I promise, it won't hurt at all *grins*