InsaneJournal

[BTVS/ATS] Do These Wings Make My Arse Look Big?
Title: Do These Wings Make My Arse Look Big?
Author: cozzybob
Rated: NC-17
Pair: Spike/Angel
Warning: um. wings. maybe fluff. oh and sex. sorta crack. weird.

Note: For FMK's 48 hour open challenge. My very first FMK post, I also used the open challenge at slashthedrabble to steal their old “wings” prompt for inspiration. But this isn't really a drabble, so. xD Yeah, my kink is winged!Spike. Who doesn't love winged!Spike? (This was written in the middle of the night. I haven't looked it over once. I'm going to regret this in the morning. xD)

Summary: Spike spontaneously grows wings in the middle of the night. He calls Angel for help... and Angel... err... helps. Sort of.



He woke screaming in the middle of the night, black-feathered monstrosities piercing up from his shoulder blades with a sick crunch of bone and the wet, bloody beating of wings. Terrified in the land of half-sleep, Spike had reached behind him with a shaking hand and stroked the feathered tip of his left wing with a tiny, awed groan. It hurt to move them, fragile as they were in their apparently fresh state. He took the time to wonder why he'd grown wings in the middle of the night, then shrugged with a painful, weary sigh.

Spike crawled out of bed and immediately fell to the floor on his wobbly legs. He sat there holding his head, naked and crouched in the low light of night, the wings forming a protective black shell around him while he tried to breath steadily and contemplate his options.

Panic? Working on that. Spike breathed deeply again, digging his fingers through his fluffy, bed-head hair.

If only he could stand up, he would run around in a terrified circle, screaming at the top of his lungs. Unfortunately, the wings put him off balance, and he struggled to even remain upright. Damn they were heavy, solid bone with thick, bloody feathers. Spike experimentally flexed his shoulder blades, the wings wavered a little. He wondered how he'd wash the blood off them. And he wondered if he could fold them down and hide them under his coat... oh God, what if he couldn't? How was he going to wear his coat, with wings flapping around at his back? And weren't they just screaming vulnerability? Get in a tussle with a decent-sized fyarl, the thing's liable to rip them right off his back. Like a pair of earrings. S'why he stopped wearing them, they were such a--

Call Fred?

No, no, no, it was late, the bird needed her rest. Call Angel, then. Yeah. Angel would know what to do.

Oh fucking hell.

Spike crawled on his hands and knees and grasped at the bedside table for the phone. He yanked the cord, and the phone fell into his lap. He stared at it for a good minute—what to say? How to say it? Maybe Spike could just... rip them off himself? Maybe he could.... Spike reached behind him again, following the curve of thick bone where it conjoined with his back. The angle was awkward, but maybe if he got a really good grip—no! No, no, no.

Call Angel.

Spike repeated this in his head, staring at the phone. wings flapping nervously at his back: call sire.

His fingers took on a life of their own, dialing a number he'd never admit he could recite in his sleep. It rang five times, and Spike wobbled to his knees and crawled back on the bed, which he now noticed was littered with pretty black feathers. He plucked one up and twirled it in his hand, cursing Angel to answer on the other end, even if he had no idea what he was going to say.

The feather was very pretty, Spike decided. Maybe the wings made him more sexy. Maybe... oh fucking hell.

Finally, with a pissed-off grunt, Angel answered, “What?”

“I... um.”

How the hell do you start this conversation?

There was a weary, “Spike?”

“I'm coming over.”

“W-What? Spike--”

He clicked the phone off and tossed it in the general vicinity of the table. Staring longingly at his coat for a moment, Spike scrounged around the floor for a pair of jeans.

He went to the roof and stood in the ledge, glancing down at the streets for a single, hesitating moment. If he fell, it wouldn't hurt too bad. Break some bones, heal in a day or so. Wasn't a big deal. No need to be a nancy about this.

With a shrug, Spike leapt like a fledging tossed out of a tree, flapped furiously for a few fumbling seconds, and then flew away toward Wolfram and Hart, whooping with joy.

**

Angel was pissed, and tired. Well, pissed, tired and drunk, because he'd gone to bed favoring a bottle of ancient Irish whiskey, cursing every decision that he'd made in the last decade or so. It was a habit of his, going to bed drunk and depressed, and he was still fairly drunk when Spike woke him from a dead sleep to tell him he was coming over. Which, again, made him depressed. It was three in the morning! Which was another thing. Wasn't normal for a vampire, sleeping this time of the night. Wasn't fair that he'd never get used to it. Wasn't fair Spike seemed to adapt like a fish in water. Did he ever sleep? And God, but Angel was tired. He wobbled out of bed and meandered toward the huge bay windows that overlooked LA, wondering if the phone call had been a bad dream and any second now he could return to his comfy mattress in peace.

Spike flew by the window, great black wings flapping, bare-chested and clad only in jeans. If Angel could've had a heart attack, he would've, then. He breathed harshly, blinked, stared, rubbed his eyes. Spike knocked on the window, laughing like a loon, and flew out of sight toward the bathroom.

The bathroom window knocked.

Angel stared.

Spike appeared again, this time looking irritated—this was some strong hallucination, Angel decided, and persistent just like the real thing. Spike pounded on the glass, looking furious. Angel blinked dumbly again. The younger, flying vampire shouted something, and then vanished for the second time.

Angel decided he needed to stop drinking before bed, and he wobbled back to said bed, and sat down. Waiting for Spike. Wondering what was taking the bastard so long. Wondering what the hell he wanted. Sex, maybe? Money? A new car?

The elevator dinged and Spike burst through with, once again, his huge black wings. He pointed a finger at Angel, pissed as hell. “I knocked in the window, you git! Why didn't you let me in?!”

“Spike, you have wings.” Angel said this very, very dully, not quite registering that he wasn't dreaming and this wasn't a hallucination.

The other vampire looked over his shoulder, then, in awe at them, as if hardly noticing them before, himself, or perhaps just taking in the sheer crackness of the moment for the first time. Then Spike grinned, shrugged, and said, “Yeah! I do, don't I? Fuckin' glorious, they are, flew all the way over here. Dunno where they came from, just sorta--”

“That's neat,” Angel interrupted with a yawn, not really paying attention.

Spike glowered. “Angel, I have wings. That's not neat, that's... that's... it's bloody irritating is what it is! 'Sides the flyin', I mean, that was fucking glorious, like I said. Just, can't put on a shirt anymore. Might have to cut holes in the backs of them or something... miss my coat already.”

“Spike. I'm tired. Can we discuss this in the morning?”

Spike stared at him, both outraged and stunned by Angel's nonchalance. The wings bristled, the feathers fluffing up in a cute, angry fashion. He marched forward, grabbed Angel's hand, and yanked it to the left wing at his back. “Feel that? That's not going to wait until morning!”

Angel found himself stroking the wing, his eyes sliding shut at the soft, silky texture. Well, okay, there was blood encrusted on them, but he was pretty sure with a little scrub and wash--”Wait a second,” Angel said, and he finally woke up a little bit, sobering. “Spike, you have wings.”

The other vampire rolled his eyes.

“Wings!” Angel stroked them, gently scratching the blood off the feathers. Spike shuddered and the wings gave a little, shimmering quiver. Angel reached for the high, arching bone, and stroked all the way along it, from where it vanished into Spike's solid back to four feet out to the tip of the wingspan. Spike groaned again, louder this time, and Angel hardly missed it dripping with sex.

“Amazing,” Angel said dumbly, still petting and scratching at the wings, examining every shining black feather.

Spike teetered on his feet and moved toward the bed. The wings flapped at his back eagerly, as Spike flopped down into the mattress, lying on his stomach. He unfastened the button of jeans and thrust a hand inside, touching himself with his groin rubbing into the mattress.

Angel lifted a brow.

“C'mere,” Spike said, hips canting absently into his hand with another sexy groan. “Feels good when you touch them.”

Angel ruffled the feathers with his fingertips. He loved the way the wings seemed to shudder, begging for his touch, craving more of his attentions. Spike began to pant quietly, leaning back into him like a winged cat. He purred, his hand jerking a little harsher when Angel fingered the place where the wings pierced from his back, and licked at it.

Whispering into his ear, Angel said, “I've always wondered what it'd be like to fuck a real angel, you know? That whole Catholic kink. Haven't you? Wondered, I mean?” Spike didn't answer, of course, too busy jerking off. Angel grinned something vaguely evil. “Keep stroking, but don't come yet.”

There was a whimper, and Angel knew the order had only turned on Spike more because the other vampire didn't bother to argue, jerking himself furiously, now, only pause when he reached the edge, his free hand fisting into the sheets in frustration.

Angel reached underneath him, and unzipped the jeans all the way, pealing them down beyond Spike's hips. Spike obediently kept stroking, and Angel was amused to see the wings flapping in tiny movements, squirming just as the rest of him.

He positioned Spike on his knees, caressing that fine rump exposed to Angel's cupped hands. Angel reached over, plucked a feather from one of wings to the indignant, pained yelp of Spike.

Angel ran the feather down Spike's spine, savoring the delicious way the other man shivered.

“Angel--”

“Shh. I'm exploring.”

Spike stopped stroking again, once again too close to the edge to move. Spike was gritting his teeth, privately seething his own obedience as he said, “If you don't bloody fuck me, I'm going to get up from this bed, say to hell with the kink, and walk right back out that door, Peaches!”

When Angel didn't answer, not even from the insult, Spike huffed and made to get up.

Angel pressed him back down with a firm hand and shoved too fingers deep inside him. They were coated in lotion he kept by the bed stand.

“Angel, I'm serious—”

“Shut up, Spike.”

Two fingers became three. Angel stroked them once or twice, and then thrust in, his cock unbearably hard, suddenly far too impatient to wait. Despite his own threats, Spike gave a pained shout. Moments later, there was a shout of pleasure, and Spike was thrusting back with steady moans.

Angel fingered the wings as he fucked him. This made Spike purr and clench around him, which made Angel fuck harder, aching for his own release. When he finally came with a roar, he collapsed down on top of Spike, laying his head on the right wing and petting it fondly.

“I like these,” he said, sleep pulling down his eyes and forcing him back into an alcohol-induced coma. He yawned and wondered vaguely if he was going to remember this dream in the morning.

Spike squirmed out from underneath him and wriggled until he lay on his belly on top of Angel, both wings curled tiredly around them.

Spike sighed, and closed his eyes. “Bet they make my arse look big,” he said sadly.

Angel opened one eye, reached down, and cupped the arse as if to make sure it was still that beloved, perfect shape. He relaxed when it remained unchanged, squeezing the delicious curve of flesh. “Ridiculous,” Angel muttered into the feathers. “You have a perfect ass, Spike.”

“And wings.”

Angel yawned again. He snuggled into the wings, drifting off to a happy place. “Yeah,” he said, and started to snore.


--Fini