Fic: The Mad Ones (Interdimensional Plasma Dynamics Remix) [Angel T.S.; Fred/Spike; NC-17]
Title: The Mad Ones (Interdimensional Plasma Dynamics Remix)
Author: eyebrowofdoom
Summary: The bloody Reaper has not counted on old Spike, has not counted at all. (A key scene in Hell Bound goes a very different way.)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Angel the Series
Warnings: sex, violence, references to sexual violence.
Spoilers: Season 5 through Hell Bound (#92).
Original story: untitled Spike/Fred drabble by lodessa.
The bloody Reaper has not counted on old Spike, has not counted at all.
“The girl or the flesh,” the ponce says, livid hand around Fred’s throat. “There's no time for both.”
Who does he think he is, trying to make William the Bloody choose? Offer two, Spike takes two. In a flash, Spike’s forearm is chocked securely into the crook of the arm the Reaper is using to strangle Fred, his other fist connecting with the Reaper’s face - meaty, satisfying. Reality bends to desire indeed, and for the first time in this whole sodding ghost palaver of a stage in his un-life, he’s boiling, spitting with purpose.
He can feel the energy of the machine behind him just crest, and then pause for a moment - this is the breath before it begins to subside.
He staggers recklessly backwards, trips on the rune-covered metal ring on the floor, gets one foot down inside the circle, cannot get the other foot under him - teeters, wavers. He denies, then accepts, then is overwhelmingly enraged that he is about to fall backwards, out of the circle and onto his arse.
Instead he is obliterated by the machine. Boiled like a bunny, dissolved, burnt to a crisp then windblown to ash.
He is discontinuous.
Any amount of time might have passed.
He puts his second foot down, stumbles, bangs the toe of his boot into the side of the circle. It rings out - a real steelcap boot striking metal. He is physically here.
Physically here, and still off-balance, staggering onward, erupting out of the vertiginous dark and careening joyously, bodily into Fred, carrying her featherweight skeleton with his momentum. Now she’s pressed between him and a workbench, glass beakers knocked over tinkling behind her. Warm twitching bundle of birdbones in his arms - he could kill her; he could fuck her; he could snap her bones into matchsticks; squeeze her to pulp.
He’s had girls like her, virgin brides back when they married them young, fucked them on the altar after the congregation has fled.
“Um, Spike?” a voice says - Gunn’s.
“I’m fine, thanks, thanks for asking,” Spike says.
He’s not going to kill her. “I knew you’d do it!” he says to Fred. “I knew you could!”
She beams back at him, fuzzy in close-up. Smells like girl, feels like wriggly flesh around warm beating heart. Struggling against him slightly, helpless little foreshortened movements, no match for vampire strength.
To go from needing all his concentrated will merely to brush her shoulder, to this!
He picks her up off her feet and swings her around. “You knew I was there, didn’t you,” he says. “All along! Heard me call you a genius. Knew what needed doing.”
He’s laughing; she’s too breathless to laugh. She’s holding him around the neck now, like she actually means to embrace him. He could smell her all night: floral shampoo, skin, panic, elation. He could go all night, swinging her around and around.
“Guys?” Angel says.
“Where’s the Reaper?” Wes is saying. “He can’t have…”
“What’s his next move?” Gunn asks. “Dude could be anywhere. And he can strangle people now? What’s up with that?”
“Things to do, gents,” Spike says. “Later.” He lets the arc of his swing spread and straighten, and carry them right up the few stairs to the storeroom.
“Spike,” Angel calls out, “what the hell are you doing?”
Spike slams the door behind him and locks it. It’s dim inside, with a faint dry chemical scent. A lower bank of shelves juts out, making a kind of bench. He sits Fred on the bench and kisses her.
He likes to give it about a count of ten, with a girl, before he slips the tongue in. In it goes now, nice and wet. She’s not struggling so much now: little sparrow body stilling, little sparrow heart quieting.
Angel is banging on the door. “Spike? What are you doing?”
He lays a finger across Fred’s lips; looks at her sternly. If she starts to talk, he’s finished: she will reason her way right out of here at a thousand words a minute.
“We’re perfectly alright,” Spike shouts, forcibly urbane. “We’re busy right now. We’ll be back later. Please go away.”
“Fred?” Angel calls.
“I’m fine,” Fred calls back, muffled by Spike’s finger. She’s breathing moistly on him.
“Well,” Angel calls. “Alright then.” There’s a pause. “I guess.”
Footsteps retreat outside.
He’s on her again, tongue in her mouth. He maps out the fragile lantern of her ribcage with his hands. Her little fingers, he’s pleased to note, are in his hair; under the collar of his coat. He shrugs the coat off - it’s in the way.
Slim beige lacy things, slim pink floaty things she wears as clothes, like ladies’ undergarments from when he was a boy. He pushes her thin vest up; remembers to unhook, not tear, the bra. Here they are: breasts like little white doves. He saw her in the shower, but he wasn’t a man then: it’s coming back to him now, like a movie he didn’t see properly the first time. He rolls her nipples between his thumb and forefinger; tugs; palpitates.
He remembers the dimpled backs of her thighs, in the shower; the delicate little knock-knees - he wants to get his hands around them. He needs to get this skirt up first, different layers of it like tissue paper, mustn’t tear it or he’ll frighten her.
There - up behind her bottom the skirt goes; lifting her a bit to get it under. He muffles her mouth with his. He picks her knees up and hooks them around his hips, like playing with a doll. Her heels bounce on the back of his thighs. He slips his fingers into her knickers, under the elastic. It’s dirtier if you don’t take their knickers off at first.
He just needs to - there. Her hips cant forward; she stiffens.
Now he can stop kissing her. He lowers her back so she’s slumped against the shelves behind the bench. He pinches a nipple; shifts the weight of the breast with his palm. Sure enough, her mouth is open, but silent.
The knickers he will tear - once quickly at each side, and they’re gone. Now he can finger her as he likes, spread the wetness everywhere. Hot vital juice of her insides all over his tepid hand: who says you need to kill them - who says?
He gets his knob out. Now she looks like she might speak. But he’s got it pushed up firm against her hole, not quite putting it in, just beginning to make the muscles stretch. Now he’s rubbing it luxuriously up and down her slit, teasing.
Now he’s sliding it in.
“Spike,” she says, quiet and frantic.
“Hush,” he says. He pushes an arm under her and lifts her hips clean up off the bench. Might as well give her the full vampire experience.
He plays with her labia while he thrusts into her. “Whatever,” he says, “you were going to say - can wait till I’ve finished putting it to you.”
“Okay,” she says. Breath jolting sweetly out of her. He’s making her tits bounce - lovely.
They’re in a continuous present. He picks her right up and cradles her against his chest for a while, bringing her down on it while she squeaks. Puts her down again and does it slow for a while. Does it fast when he can’t stand it anymore.
Explodes at last, empties his load into her with a force fit to catalyse a shift in interdimensional plasma dynamics all over again.
Then he holds her and rubs her, while she squirms.
“Girls,” he complains, “take forever.”
“You’re immortal,” she says, bearing down on his fingers. “How can that be your idea of forever?”
She comes, finally, frantically clutching him, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade. He holds the limp noodle of her up.
They sit there quiet for a while.
“Spike, I’m coming in!” Angel shouts. The door comes crashing in, off its hinges, barely missing them.
The bright bluish-white light of the lab floods in.
“Oh,” Angel says, standing in the doorway.
“Do you bloody well mind?” Spike says.
“Angel,” Fred says, “an employee in the state of California is entitled to a fifteen minute rest break for every four continuous hours of work. And furthermore…”
“Well,” Angel says. “Alright then.” He disappears, extremely swiftly, with a scuffling noise.
“Well then,” Spike says
Fred puts her glasses back on. “Well,” she says, “indeed.”
Spike always was good with the mad ones.
Author: eyebrowofdoom
Summary: The bloody Reaper has not counted on old Spike, has not counted at all. (A key scene in Hell Bound goes a very different way.)
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Angel the Series
Warnings: sex, violence, references to sexual violence.
Spoilers: Season 5 through Hell Bound (#92).
Original story: untitled Spike/Fred drabble by lodessa.
The bloody Reaper has not counted on old Spike, has not counted at all.
“The girl or the flesh,” the ponce says, livid hand around Fred’s throat. “There's no time for both.”
Who does he think he is, trying to make William the Bloody choose? Offer two, Spike takes two. In a flash, Spike’s forearm is chocked securely into the crook of the arm the Reaper is using to strangle Fred, his other fist connecting with the Reaper’s face - meaty, satisfying. Reality bends to desire indeed, and for the first time in this whole sodding ghost palaver of a stage in his un-life, he’s boiling, spitting with purpose.
He can feel the energy of the machine behind him just crest, and then pause for a moment - this is the breath before it begins to subside.
He staggers recklessly backwards, trips on the rune-covered metal ring on the floor, gets one foot down inside the circle, cannot get the other foot under him - teeters, wavers. He denies, then accepts, then is overwhelmingly enraged that he is about to fall backwards, out of the circle and onto his arse.
Instead he is obliterated by the machine. Boiled like a bunny, dissolved, burnt to a crisp then windblown to ash.
He is discontinuous.
Any amount of time might have passed.
He puts his second foot down, stumbles, bangs the toe of his boot into the side of the circle. It rings out - a real steelcap boot striking metal. He is physically here.
Physically here, and still off-balance, staggering onward, erupting out of the vertiginous dark and careening joyously, bodily into Fred, carrying her featherweight skeleton with his momentum. Now she’s pressed between him and a workbench, glass beakers knocked over tinkling behind her. Warm twitching bundle of birdbones in his arms - he could kill her; he could fuck her; he could snap her bones into matchsticks; squeeze her to pulp.
He’s had girls like her, virgin brides back when they married them young, fucked them on the altar after the congregation has fled.
“Um, Spike?” a voice says - Gunn’s.
“I’m fine, thanks, thanks for asking,” Spike says.
He’s not going to kill her. “I knew you’d do it!” he says to Fred. “I knew you could!”
She beams back at him, fuzzy in close-up. Smells like girl, feels like wriggly flesh around warm beating heart. Struggling against him slightly, helpless little foreshortened movements, no match for vampire strength.
To go from needing all his concentrated will merely to brush her shoulder, to this!
He picks her up off her feet and swings her around. “You knew I was there, didn’t you,” he says. “All along! Heard me call you a genius. Knew what needed doing.”
He’s laughing; she’s too breathless to laugh. She’s holding him around the neck now, like she actually means to embrace him. He could smell her all night: floral shampoo, skin, panic, elation. He could go all night, swinging her around and around.
“Guys?” Angel says.
“Where’s the Reaper?” Wes is saying. “He can’t have…”
“What’s his next move?” Gunn asks. “Dude could be anywhere. And he can strangle people now? What’s up with that?”
“Things to do, gents,” Spike says. “Later.” He lets the arc of his swing spread and straighten, and carry them right up the few stairs to the storeroom.
“Spike,” Angel calls out, “what the hell are you doing?”
Spike slams the door behind him and locks it. It’s dim inside, with a faint dry chemical scent. A lower bank of shelves juts out, making a kind of bench. He sits Fred on the bench and kisses her.
He likes to give it about a count of ten, with a girl, before he slips the tongue in. In it goes now, nice and wet. She’s not struggling so much now: little sparrow body stilling, little sparrow heart quieting.
Angel is banging on the door. “Spike? What are you doing?”
He lays a finger across Fred’s lips; looks at her sternly. If she starts to talk, he’s finished: she will reason her way right out of here at a thousand words a minute.
“We’re perfectly alright,” Spike shouts, forcibly urbane. “We’re busy right now. We’ll be back later. Please go away.”
“Fred?” Angel calls.
“I’m fine,” Fred calls back, muffled by Spike’s finger. She’s breathing moistly on him.
“Well,” Angel calls. “Alright then.” There’s a pause. “I guess.”
Footsteps retreat outside.
He’s on her again, tongue in her mouth. He maps out the fragile lantern of her ribcage with his hands. Her little fingers, he’s pleased to note, are in his hair; under the collar of his coat. He shrugs the coat off - it’s in the way.
Slim beige lacy things, slim pink floaty things she wears as clothes, like ladies’ undergarments from when he was a boy. He pushes her thin vest up; remembers to unhook, not tear, the bra. Here they are: breasts like little white doves. He saw her in the shower, but he wasn’t a man then: it’s coming back to him now, like a movie he didn’t see properly the first time. He rolls her nipples between his thumb and forefinger; tugs; palpitates.
He remembers the dimpled backs of her thighs, in the shower; the delicate little knock-knees - he wants to get his hands around them. He needs to get this skirt up first, different layers of it like tissue paper, mustn’t tear it or he’ll frighten her.
There - up behind her bottom the skirt goes; lifting her a bit to get it under. He muffles her mouth with his. He picks her knees up and hooks them around his hips, like playing with a doll. Her heels bounce on the back of his thighs. He slips his fingers into her knickers, under the elastic. It’s dirtier if you don’t take their knickers off at first.
He just needs to - there. Her hips cant forward; she stiffens.
Now he can stop kissing her. He lowers her back so she’s slumped against the shelves behind the bench. He pinches a nipple; shifts the weight of the breast with his palm. Sure enough, her mouth is open, but silent.
The knickers he will tear - once quickly at each side, and they’re gone. Now he can finger her as he likes, spread the wetness everywhere. Hot vital juice of her insides all over his tepid hand: who says you need to kill them - who says?
He gets his knob out. Now she looks like she might speak. But he’s got it pushed up firm against her hole, not quite putting it in, just beginning to make the muscles stretch. Now he’s rubbing it luxuriously up and down her slit, teasing.
Now he’s sliding it in.
“Spike,” she says, quiet and frantic.
“Hush,” he says. He pushes an arm under her and lifts her hips clean up off the bench. Might as well give her the full vampire experience.
He plays with her labia while he thrusts into her. “Whatever,” he says, “you were going to say - can wait till I’ve finished putting it to you.”
“Okay,” she says. Breath jolting sweetly out of her. He’s making her tits bounce - lovely.
They’re in a continuous present. He picks her right up and cradles her against his chest for a while, bringing her down on it while she squeaks. Puts her down again and does it slow for a while. Does it fast when he can’t stand it anymore.
Explodes at last, empties his load into her with a force fit to catalyse a shift in interdimensional plasma dynamics all over again.
Then he holds her and rubs her, while she squirms.
“Girls,” he complains, “take forever.”
“You’re immortal,” she says, bearing down on his fingers. “How can that be your idea of forever?”
She comes, finally, frantically clutching him, fluttering like a moth caught in a lampshade. He holds the limp noodle of her up.
They sit there quiet for a while.
“Spike, I’m coming in!” Angel shouts. The door comes crashing in, off its hinges, barely missing them.
The bright bluish-white light of the lab floods in.
“Oh,” Angel says, standing in the doorway.
“Do you bloody well mind?” Spike says.
“Angel,” Fred says, “an employee in the state of California is entitled to a fifteen minute rest break for every four continuous hours of work. And furthermore…”
“Well,” Angel says. “Alright then.” He disappears, extremely swiftly, with a scuffling noise.
“Well then,” Spike says
Fred puts her glasses back on. “Well,” she says, “indeed.”
Spike always was good with the mad ones.