Going Rogue: for cafedemonde
This is for cafedemonde who asked for:
Can I have Spike/Wes hotness, but from Season 1 AtS and pre-chip? Lets screw with the timeline.
Well, sweetie, the timeline is feeling less than messed with - more bent. This is sorta before Wes' appearence in S.1 of Angel - and who knows how much before? And just before Spike's capture in Buffy S. 4.
Pairing: Spike/Wes
Warnings: um... semi public sex, mild cussing
I'll give this one a strong PG-13.
Wesley Windham-Pryce, Rogue Demon Hunter, cut through the sultry night on his motorcycle, his visage grim and commanding.
(Or at least that’s how Wesley described it to himself. A quick glance at the rear-view mirror corrected his assessment with the huge grin he was wearing. He quickly scowled at his reflection and set his jaw in a more appropriate attitude.)
Trouble had him driving north from the city. A tip he’d gotten from one of his hard-won contacts in the demon community told of serious trouble up Highway 101 near San Luis Obispo. Some new vampire creating a reign of terror. Wesley was no fool. That was the way to Sunnydale. He might not be a watcher anymore, but he could not let the slayer be caught unawares by this menace.
A watcher would have called his superior, gone up the chain of command to alert the slayer’s current watcher. How safe, how ordinary. Well, he was a Rogue Demon Hunter, thank you very much, and he didn’t need the slayer to deal with one vampire.
He pulled into a roadside tavern near Pismo Beach. The neon palm tree over the entrance and general surfer décor did little for his image, but at least he was feeling gritty and wind-blown. (One had to make concessions for California.)
He un-buttoned his leather jacket as he strode across the bleached boards of the bar’s deck and purposefully up to the bar. “Whiskey,” he said, placing his fist on the brass rail.
The twenty-something girl behind the bar raised one eyebrow. “What kind?”
“Have you got any single malt?” Wesley asked, his voice less gruff and more eager.
(Damn. He was really going to have to work at this.)
“Rocks?”
He shook his head. The girl disappeared to fetch his drink. He turned his back to the bar, resting his elbows and surveying the scene with, he hoped, a visage that was not to be trifled with.
“Lord, mate. You’re just… cute.”
Wesley was startled by the voice close to his ear, and then by the sound of a British accent after so many months surrounded by Californian dialect (which managed to be quick and slurred all at once, as though the speakers didn’t care if they were understood, only that they said their peace before someone else could speak over them.)
And third, he was surprised by a devastatingly handsome man, close enough to touch, smirking at him over the lip of a beer bottle. There was something faintly familiar about him, but no, Wesley was sure he’d remember those startling blue eyes and that neon white hair, not to mention those soft pink lips…
Wesley realized he was staring in a most un-rogue-like way, and recalled that he’d just been called “cute”. He straightened and glared. “I beg your pardon.”
Great. That wasn’t terribly “rogue”, especially given the handsome man was now chuckling openly, unable to finish drinking his beer.
“I fail to see what is so funny, and I don’t have to take this disrespect,” Wesley said, his anger adding a hard edge to his words. “Apologize or bugger off and leave me to my drink.”
The man shook his head and pointed with the hand holding his beer. “Watcher, right?”
Wesley had never been happier to say, “No. I’m not.”
He was rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty in those sharp blue eyes, but it was quickly gone, replaced with a shrug as the man tossed back his beer. “Would it trouble old blighty to stop exporting ponces? Hard enough for a bloke to maintain a reputation.”
“I happen to be on a very important mission.”
“See, that’s your problem. You don’t say you’re on an important mission.”
“Oh? What should I say?” Wesley picked up his whiskey, noting it was set behind him. “Something derogatory and snide?”
“It’s like the only blokes who talk about sex are the ones not getting any. I’m on a mission. You don’t hear me blabbering about it at the first opportunity like I’m desperate for attention, do you?” He waved to the bartender and muttered something under his breath. Wes wasn’t sure but he thought it was something about “getting my balls back.”
Oh how Wesley wanted to wipe that smirk off the man’s face. He had a few inches on him and used them as best he could, straightening to his full height and glaring coldly down at him as he took a sip of scotch. “Are you finished?”
“Aw c’mon, it’s too funny.” He held out his hand and said, “Spike.”
Wesley froze.
“It’s called a hand,” Spike said, “You shake it.”
That was where Wes had seen this man before. Not blonde, no, but the same slicked-back coiffure, the scarred eyebrow, the saucy expression: in black and white, a photograph in Petersen’s Guide to Notorious Vampires, the last known photograph taken of…
“William the Bloody,” Wes spoke breathlessly.
Spike scowled. “You’re bloody cheating. Knew you were a watcher.”
The next sound Wesley registered was the cracking of his whiskey glass as he smashed it, and his right fist, into the vampire’s jaw. This was followed by the sound of a bar stool falling over and clattering across the floor. Then the “oof” of air leaving the vampire’s lungs as he hit the wall, half on the dart-board. Wesley had his stake out, and was bearing it down toward the stretched black t-shirt when an impossibly hard hold grasped his wrist, stopping it cold.
Then he registered the pain in his bleeding hand, cuts stinging with whiskey, knuckles throbbing from the impact, and slightly after that the shouting of the bartender and the bouncer, whose beefy hands were trying, and failing, to wrest them apart.
And Wesley realized he had failed, and was most likely about to die He felt his body relaxing, his fingers letting go as Spike took the stake from him.
“…take it outside,” the bouncer was finishing.
“It’s all right,” Spike smiled. His hands were like steel, pushing Wesley around and draping an arm across his shoulders that looked loose but held him firmly. “Just my mate here’s had a bit too much already. Besides, I shouldn’t have said his mum was loose. Took me ages to bag that old bat.” Spike winked and dragged Wes with him to the exit.
Feeling more than a little numb, and facing the door to the outside as though it lead to the gas chamber and his own execution - which it may as well have - Wesley still bristled and gasped, “How could you say that about my mother?”
“Oh, is she actually a goer, then? Takes all kinds.” Spike pushed open the door with one hand and muscled Wesley out onto the bar’s deck. Smoking patrons cleared a path before them. Soon Wesley was walking on sand. The noise and lights of the bar faded and they entered a copse of palm trees. Spike shoved him up against one, the spiny bark digging into Wesley’s back even through the thick leather of his jacket.
Spike’s face was angular and cold in the blue light, utterly a killer, utterly dead. How had Wesley missed it?
“You know I’m going to kill you now.”
Wesley nodded. He kept his gaze steady, meeting the predator’s glare. He wouldn’t die with his eyes closed.
And then, suddenly, Spike’s stone cold expression melted, he sagged a little. “Christ. You’re just going to take it?” He sounded - and looked - mildly offended.
“Well, if you would prefer, I would happily take my stake back.”
“Heh.” Spike’s knee slid between Wesley’s legs. “You’ve got some balls on you, after all.” He leaned close, peering at Wesley’s face as though trying to read something there.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep them.”
“Yeah?” The vampire snickered like it was a come-on. He tilted his head. “Why’d you say you weren’t a watcher?”
“I’m not.”
“Bollocks.”
“Yes, you’re quite pressing them. If you don’t mind?”
The knee pressing into his groin shifted slightly, in a disturbingly practiced sort of way, tracing out his genitals. “I’m not minding in the least.” The vampire licked his lips and leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Wesley’s face. “So if I were to say the watcher’s council are a bunch of overfed, brainless wankers, your response would be?”
“Complete agreement, and not just because you’re likely to rip my throat out at any moment. I’d also add immoral to that list, not that you’d care, and dangerously smug. Why do you think I left them?”
The vampire growled - a very frightening sound at such close quarters, where Wesley could feel the chest before him vibrating, and then he was ghosting his lips up the side of Wesley’s neck.
Oh god, he was getting hard. He tried to control his breathing and… other reactions.
“Now, watchers,” Spike spoke huskily against Wesley’s skin, “have never done much for me. Dried up wankers. But an ex-watcher. That’s a rare vintage.”
“I’m glad my death is going to be tasty,” Wes said with heavy sarcasm. Spike was pressing ever closer to him, and he could feel the outline of his lithe body through his clothes. His hands were free. Could he reach for the stake? What had Spike done with it? Wes fumbled helplessly for the vampire’s pockets while Spike continued to savor Wesley’s neck, brushing just close enough to bend the fine hairs of his skin and breathe wetly on prickled goose-flesh.
Spike’s choked off groan implied he miss-understood Wesley’s intentions, and before he knew what was happening, his mouth was full of vampire tongue.
Wesley stiffened and made a squeak of part shock, part confusion, but that tongue was diving into him, insistent, confident, and…
Ah well, when in Rome. (Or when about to die anyway?)
Wesley relaxed into the kiss, responding passively at first, then fighting for dominance. His hands stopped searching for pointy wood and rested on the pleasant curve of Spike’s ass, pulling him closer.
The malty taste of beer and the smooth strength of the kiss blended together into an absorbing, delicious whole. Wesley groaned himself, pressing against the tight body in front of him and wondered, idly, what a watcher’s diary entry on this would look like.
It appears, esteemed colleagues, that vampire strength and stamina is preternatural in all muscles of the body, including the tongue. The heightened eroticism of near-death experiences have, of course, already been well documented…
Wesley found himself trying to climb the vampire, wrapping his legs around him to get more friction on his trapped cock.
Spike leaned back, chuckled, and said, “Always the quiet ones,” before diving in again.
Fabric ripped and then there was an airless feeling as Wesley was falling forward, onto a now prone vampire who was wriggling deliciously to get out of his clothes.
Wesley, not sure what drew him to do so, bit the pale, exposed throat.
Spike hissed.
Wesley sat back on his haunches. “You are going to kill me, aren’t you?”
Spike grinned. “Definitely,” he said, and rolled them into the deeper sand.
***
Spike picked up his coat and rummaged in it, finally retrieving his cigarettes and lighter. “So if you’re not a watcher, what’s the mission? What are you?”
“R.. rogue demon hunter,” Wesley said, suddenly embarrassed by the pretension, and his nudity. He picked up his own jacket and shrugged into it.
“Now if you’d introduced yourself like that, I would have killed you pretty quick.” Spike leaned forward to light his cigarette, his face momentarily bathed in firelight, demonically pretty. He drew the smoke into his lungs and expelled it before flashing Wesley with a sharp smile, all dagger promises. “Lucky for both of us, eh?”
“I do feel slightly luckier, being not dead.” Wes scooted closer to his pants, trying not to move too quickly or draw attention while dressed as hastily as possible.
“You’re a good egg, watcher. Don’t sell yourself short. Balls of steel. You’ll get so you trust that, and then the cool comes naturally.” Spike spread his arms to either side, as though offering himself as an eminent example of cool.
He was very naked, muscles raked by moonlight. Despite the cold, the sand-burns on his knees, and the still very present danger, Wesley felt his libido stir.
By the way the vampire turned and stretched, he was aware of the appreciation. “Well, lovely shag, but I’m running late on my own mission. Got a date with a slayer.”
Wesley felt a cold stab through his core that had nothing to do with the sea-breeze.
Spike continued his soliloquy, not noticing Wesley’s changed demeanor. “We’ll see who’s not monster enough then. Oh yes, the big bad…”
Wesley always had a backup stake in his jacket. Pants not yet fastened, no shirt on, he lunged at the vampire.
They tumbled into the sand. Wesley ended up on top. “I can’t let you hurt her,” He said, raising his stake.
Spike sighed, and looked… disappointed?
That was the last thing he remembered. Wesley awoke with sand adhering to his face with drool, and the pleasant sensation of sunshine on his bare buttocks.
“Dude,” said someone behind him. He turned to see a dark-brown California beach bum giving him a brilliant white smile and a thumbs up.
Wesley shifted back and pulled up his pants. His shirt and other clothing items were where they’d been left, strewed about the beach. He gathered himself up with as much dignity as he could and limped back to his bike.
When he settled onto the saddle and felt the sunburn and sand under him, he had to admit he did feel just a tiny bit more “rogue” than the night before.
With a grim expression, he turned his bike south into the sunrise.
Can I have Spike/Wes hotness, but from Season 1 AtS and pre-chip? Lets screw with the timeline.
Well, sweetie, the timeline is feeling less than messed with - more bent. This is sorta before Wes' appearence in S.1 of Angel - and who knows how much before? And just before Spike's capture in Buffy S. 4.
Pairing: Spike/Wes
Warnings: um... semi public sex, mild cussing
I'll give this one a strong PG-13.
Wesley Windham-Pryce, Rogue Demon Hunter, cut through the sultry night on his motorcycle, his visage grim and commanding.
(Or at least that’s how Wesley described it to himself. A quick glance at the rear-view mirror corrected his assessment with the huge grin he was wearing. He quickly scowled at his reflection and set his jaw in a more appropriate attitude.)
Trouble had him driving north from the city. A tip he’d gotten from one of his hard-won contacts in the demon community told of serious trouble up Highway 101 near San Luis Obispo. Some new vampire creating a reign of terror. Wesley was no fool. That was the way to Sunnydale. He might not be a watcher anymore, but he could not let the slayer be caught unawares by this menace.
A watcher would have called his superior, gone up the chain of command to alert the slayer’s current watcher. How safe, how ordinary. Well, he was a Rogue Demon Hunter, thank you very much, and he didn’t need the slayer to deal with one vampire.
He pulled into a roadside tavern near Pismo Beach. The neon palm tree over the entrance and general surfer décor did little for his image, but at least he was feeling gritty and wind-blown. (One had to make concessions for California.)
He un-buttoned his leather jacket as he strode across the bleached boards of the bar’s deck and purposefully up to the bar. “Whiskey,” he said, placing his fist on the brass rail.
The twenty-something girl behind the bar raised one eyebrow. “What kind?”
“Have you got any single malt?” Wesley asked, his voice less gruff and more eager.
(Damn. He was really going to have to work at this.)
“Rocks?”
He shook his head. The girl disappeared to fetch his drink. He turned his back to the bar, resting his elbows and surveying the scene with, he hoped, a visage that was not to be trifled with.
“Lord, mate. You’re just… cute.”
Wesley was startled by the voice close to his ear, and then by the sound of a British accent after so many months surrounded by Californian dialect (which managed to be quick and slurred all at once, as though the speakers didn’t care if they were understood, only that they said their peace before someone else could speak over them.)
And third, he was surprised by a devastatingly handsome man, close enough to touch, smirking at him over the lip of a beer bottle. There was something faintly familiar about him, but no, Wesley was sure he’d remember those startling blue eyes and that neon white hair, not to mention those soft pink lips…
Wesley realized he was staring in a most un-rogue-like way, and recalled that he’d just been called “cute”. He straightened and glared. “I beg your pardon.”
Great. That wasn’t terribly “rogue”, especially given the handsome man was now chuckling openly, unable to finish drinking his beer.
“I fail to see what is so funny, and I don’t have to take this disrespect,” Wesley said, his anger adding a hard edge to his words. “Apologize or bugger off and leave me to my drink.”
The man shook his head and pointed with the hand holding his beer. “Watcher, right?”
Wesley had never been happier to say, “No. I’m not.”
He was rewarded with a flicker of uncertainty in those sharp blue eyes, but it was quickly gone, replaced with a shrug as the man tossed back his beer. “Would it trouble old blighty to stop exporting ponces? Hard enough for a bloke to maintain a reputation.”
“I happen to be on a very important mission.”
“See, that’s your problem. You don’t say you’re on an important mission.”
“Oh? What should I say?” Wesley picked up his whiskey, noting it was set behind him. “Something derogatory and snide?”
“It’s like the only blokes who talk about sex are the ones not getting any. I’m on a mission. You don’t hear me blabbering about it at the first opportunity like I’m desperate for attention, do you?” He waved to the bartender and muttered something under his breath. Wes wasn’t sure but he thought it was something about “getting my balls back.”
Oh how Wesley wanted to wipe that smirk off the man’s face. He had a few inches on him and used them as best he could, straightening to his full height and glaring coldly down at him as he took a sip of scotch. “Are you finished?”
“Aw c’mon, it’s too funny.” He held out his hand and said, “Spike.”
Wesley froze.
“It’s called a hand,” Spike said, “You shake it.”
That was where Wes had seen this man before. Not blonde, no, but the same slicked-back coiffure, the scarred eyebrow, the saucy expression: in black and white, a photograph in Petersen’s Guide to Notorious Vampires, the last known photograph taken of…
“William the Bloody,” Wes spoke breathlessly.
Spike scowled. “You’re bloody cheating. Knew you were a watcher.”
The next sound Wesley registered was the cracking of his whiskey glass as he smashed it, and his right fist, into the vampire’s jaw. This was followed by the sound of a bar stool falling over and clattering across the floor. Then the “oof” of air leaving the vampire’s lungs as he hit the wall, half on the dart-board. Wesley had his stake out, and was bearing it down toward the stretched black t-shirt when an impossibly hard hold grasped his wrist, stopping it cold.
Then he registered the pain in his bleeding hand, cuts stinging with whiskey, knuckles throbbing from the impact, and slightly after that the shouting of the bartender and the bouncer, whose beefy hands were trying, and failing, to wrest them apart.
And Wesley realized he had failed, and was most likely about to die He felt his body relaxing, his fingers letting go as Spike took the stake from him.
“…take it outside,” the bouncer was finishing.
“It’s all right,” Spike smiled. His hands were like steel, pushing Wesley around and draping an arm across his shoulders that looked loose but held him firmly. “Just my mate here’s had a bit too much already. Besides, I shouldn’t have said his mum was loose. Took me ages to bag that old bat.” Spike winked and dragged Wes with him to the exit.
Feeling more than a little numb, and facing the door to the outside as though it lead to the gas chamber and his own execution - which it may as well have - Wesley still bristled and gasped, “How could you say that about my mother?”
“Oh, is she actually a goer, then? Takes all kinds.” Spike pushed open the door with one hand and muscled Wesley out onto the bar’s deck. Smoking patrons cleared a path before them. Soon Wesley was walking on sand. The noise and lights of the bar faded and they entered a copse of palm trees. Spike shoved him up against one, the spiny bark digging into Wesley’s back even through the thick leather of his jacket.
Spike’s face was angular and cold in the blue light, utterly a killer, utterly dead. How had Wesley missed it?
“You know I’m going to kill you now.”
Wesley nodded. He kept his gaze steady, meeting the predator’s glare. He wouldn’t die with his eyes closed.
And then, suddenly, Spike’s stone cold expression melted, he sagged a little. “Christ. You’re just going to take it?” He sounded - and looked - mildly offended.
“Well, if you would prefer, I would happily take my stake back.”
“Heh.” Spike’s knee slid between Wesley’s legs. “You’ve got some balls on you, after all.” He leaned close, peering at Wesley’s face as though trying to read something there.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep them.”
“Yeah?” The vampire snickered like it was a come-on. He tilted his head. “Why’d you say you weren’t a watcher?”
“I’m not.”
“Bollocks.”
“Yes, you’re quite pressing them. If you don’t mind?”
The knee pressing into his groin shifted slightly, in a disturbingly practiced sort of way, tracing out his genitals. “I’m not minding in the least.” The vampire licked his lips and leaned closer, his breath ghosting over Wesley’s face. “So if I were to say the watcher’s council are a bunch of overfed, brainless wankers, your response would be?”
“Complete agreement, and not just because you’re likely to rip my throat out at any moment. I’d also add immoral to that list, not that you’d care, and dangerously smug. Why do you think I left them?”
The vampire growled - a very frightening sound at such close quarters, where Wesley could feel the chest before him vibrating, and then he was ghosting his lips up the side of Wesley’s neck.
Oh god, he was getting hard. He tried to control his breathing and… other reactions.
“Now, watchers,” Spike spoke huskily against Wesley’s skin, “have never done much for me. Dried up wankers. But an ex-watcher. That’s a rare vintage.”
“I’m glad my death is going to be tasty,” Wes said with heavy sarcasm. Spike was pressing ever closer to him, and he could feel the outline of his lithe body through his clothes. His hands were free. Could he reach for the stake? What had Spike done with it? Wes fumbled helplessly for the vampire’s pockets while Spike continued to savor Wesley’s neck, brushing just close enough to bend the fine hairs of his skin and breathe wetly on prickled goose-flesh.
Spike’s choked off groan implied he miss-understood Wesley’s intentions, and before he knew what was happening, his mouth was full of vampire tongue.
Wesley stiffened and made a squeak of part shock, part confusion, but that tongue was diving into him, insistent, confident, and…
Ah well, when in Rome. (Or when about to die anyway?)
Wesley relaxed into the kiss, responding passively at first, then fighting for dominance. His hands stopped searching for pointy wood and rested on the pleasant curve of Spike’s ass, pulling him closer.
The malty taste of beer and the smooth strength of the kiss blended together into an absorbing, delicious whole. Wesley groaned himself, pressing against the tight body in front of him and wondered, idly, what a watcher’s diary entry on this would look like.
It appears, esteemed colleagues, that vampire strength and stamina is preternatural in all muscles of the body, including the tongue. The heightened eroticism of near-death experiences have, of course, already been well documented…
Wesley found himself trying to climb the vampire, wrapping his legs around him to get more friction on his trapped cock.
Spike leaned back, chuckled, and said, “Always the quiet ones,” before diving in again.
Fabric ripped and then there was an airless feeling as Wesley was falling forward, onto a now prone vampire who was wriggling deliciously to get out of his clothes.
Wesley, not sure what drew him to do so, bit the pale, exposed throat.
Spike hissed.
Wesley sat back on his haunches. “You are going to kill me, aren’t you?”
Spike grinned. “Definitely,” he said, and rolled them into the deeper sand.
***
Spike picked up his coat and rummaged in it, finally retrieving his cigarettes and lighter. “So if you’re not a watcher, what’s the mission? What are you?”
“R.. rogue demon hunter,” Wesley said, suddenly embarrassed by the pretension, and his nudity. He picked up his own jacket and shrugged into it.
“Now if you’d introduced yourself like that, I would have killed you pretty quick.” Spike leaned forward to light his cigarette, his face momentarily bathed in firelight, demonically pretty. He drew the smoke into his lungs and expelled it before flashing Wesley with a sharp smile, all dagger promises. “Lucky for both of us, eh?”
“I do feel slightly luckier, being not dead.” Wes scooted closer to his pants, trying not to move too quickly or draw attention while dressed as hastily as possible.
“You’re a good egg, watcher. Don’t sell yourself short. Balls of steel. You’ll get so you trust that, and then the cool comes naturally.” Spike spread his arms to either side, as though offering himself as an eminent example of cool.
He was very naked, muscles raked by moonlight. Despite the cold, the sand-burns on his knees, and the still very present danger, Wesley felt his libido stir.
By the way the vampire turned and stretched, he was aware of the appreciation. “Well, lovely shag, but I’m running late on my own mission. Got a date with a slayer.”
Wesley felt a cold stab through his core that had nothing to do with the sea-breeze.
Spike continued his soliloquy, not noticing Wesley’s changed demeanor. “We’ll see who’s not monster enough then. Oh yes, the big bad…”
Wesley always had a backup stake in his jacket. Pants not yet fastened, no shirt on, he lunged at the vampire.
They tumbled into the sand. Wesley ended up on top. “I can’t let you hurt her,” He said, raising his stake.
Spike sighed, and looked… disappointed?
That was the last thing he remembered. Wesley awoke with sand adhering to his face with drool, and the pleasant sensation of sunshine on his bare buttocks.
“Dude,” said someone behind him. He turned to see a dark-brown California beach bum giving him a brilliant white smile and a thumbs up.
Wesley shifted back and pulled up his pants. His shirt and other clothing items were where they’d been left, strewed about the beach. He gathered himself up with as much dignity as he could and limped back to his bike.
When he settled onto the saddle and felt the sunburn and sand under him, he had to admit he did feel just a tiny bit more “rogue” than the night before.
With a grim expression, he turned his bike south into the sunrise.