Errand Boy Blues



Spike’s walking up to me, as I stand by the door, swagger set to eleven, cheekbones honed. He looks so – oh, what’s a word for Spike? Irritating, aggravating, evil, despicable, back-stabbing, untrustworthy... no, all of them describe him, but there’s only one that sums him up.

Fuckable.

It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at that face and only wanted to hit it, fist against flesh. I still do - in daylight - but at night when I dream, I’m not making him scream in pain and he’s not calling my name begging me to stop.

He’s close now, close enough to grab, close enough to kiss. Never going to happen. If there’s one thing as certain as the sunrise, it’s the way he feels about me. Contempt would be an upgrade.

“Harris? I need you.”

My brain shuts down. Not just an expression; I really think, just for a moment, the world went away. His words fit my thoughts so perfectly that I’m terrified I said them aloud and I’m looking for somewhere to hide.

“Earth to loser. I’m talking to you.”

Ah. Back to normal. This I can deal with. The trading of the insults, the giving of the digs. Better. I’m good at this, I can deal.

“And what makes you think I want to listen to anything you have to say, oh, peroxided one?”

He’s leaning in close enough for me to count freckles now. As if I’d want to (three on his nose, one on his forehead, none of them very visible even though he’s so pale. Guess he doesn’t get out in the sun much, heh).

“Look, it’s nothing bad, no matter what they tell you. Not going to hurt me and it won’t do anything to you. Promise I won’t tell the Slayer or Red you did it, if that’s what’s bugging you.”

“Tell... Buffy... tell... Willow?”

I’m surprised he can understand my words. Even I’m having trouble, I’m squeaking so high.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake! I’d go myself, but it’s broad daylight out there. I’ll owe you, OK? Promise I won’t piss you off for a week at least.”

“Oh? Going to stake yourself then? Because that’s the only way you could manage that.” I’m starting to realise there’s a failure to communicate here and it’s a relief to be honest. Yes. It is. A relief.

He growls with frustration and the hairs on my neck rise in response. Other parts of me don’t because they’ve been as up as they can get since I came into the basement and saw him. I’ve spent so long wondering if he can tell... decided he can’t, or he would have said something. Spike miss a chance to put the boot in? Never! (Spike in boots... nothing but boots, long pale legs and scuffed, black leather. Maybe the coat too, draped back so it’s hiding nothing, displaying every... no!) Though if he’s got eyes, and he has, blue eyes, blue like the blue raspberry popsicles that turn your tongue and lips blue when you suck them - did I just put Spike and suck in the same thought? Am I insane? If he’s got eyes, he must see how hard I am...but why would he be looking ...  there? He wouldn’t, right?

“I’m asking you for a favour,” he says slowly. “Go and get me some smokes and, look, I’ve even got the money. You can keep the change.”

I glance at the crumpled dollar bills he’s holding out to me and estimate that’ll be about a quarter. I grab them, fighting back a snarl, and turn to leave, feeling the weight of thwarted expectation make every step drag.

“Harris.”

“What?” I don’t turn; don’t want him to see me, even fleetingly, in silhouette. I’m running an errand for him and God, even that’s a thrill in a sick way. I’m so lost here.

“You better hurry.”

“Why?”

I’m gritting my teeth hard enough to flake off enamel. One more snarky comment from him and I’ll...

“Because when you get back, I’m going to be lying on that excuse for a bed of yours, naked. And if you’re not out of those clothes sixty seconds after you come in, I’ll rip them off you. Be a pleasure, believe me. And then I’m going to make you pay for every time I’ve been hard and you were the reason. Doubt you’ll survive but you’ll die smiling, right?” He’s still talking but I think he lost me at ‘naked’. “– and then I’ll want to smoke. That’s traditional, yeah? Are you still here?”

And I’m hurrying, but not to the shops. If he thinks he’ll have the energy to smoke afterwards, he’s wrong.

Besides, by the time I’ve finished with him, it’ll be dark and he can get his own.

***

Spike’s looking as if he tried to swallow a banana sideways, he’s smiling so wide. Good practice for later, I suppose...yes, I’m boasting. It’s expected, right? He’s saying something but the image of him naked on my bed is overloading every sense I have. Can’t hear, can’t talk, can’t...he starts to strip off his clothes and everything rushes back, going from silent movie to Terminator 3 in a split second and I’m this close to falling on my knees and begging but I don’t. Score one for me.

I keep walking towards him, and I’m telling him to hurry, and he’s smiling, still smiling, his tongue lapping out, reminding me of cats and cream, and again, good to see the dress rehearsal.

I’m not taking anything off until he’s naked, not risking it. I can see him waiting until I’d gone past No Return Point and then skinning back into his clothes at vampire speed, laughing all the way.

Then he kicks off those black jeans of his and I can see he’s not joking. Can’t fake some things and nine inches of  hard, thick...God, it’s tilting the same way he tilts his head, curving in a shape that looks as if it was designed for a very specific purpose by someone who knew what they were doing.

This time the urge to kneel is purely worshipful, but I send a mental thank you to the God of Orgasms instead and start undressing.

My clothes go, don’t ask me how, I wasn’t looking. I’ve seen me before. Spike naked...want to touch but then I’d be too close to look...decisions, decisions. I compromise by pointing to the bed and saying, “Lie there,” in a voice that, yeah, sounds sort of scary.

He does just as I tell him and it’s enough to make my teeth dig into my bottom lip hard enough to draw...oh, God I did. I’m bleeding slightly and his eyes just flared hot and if I thought he looked good before, I’m going to have to invent a new word now, because he’s leaning back, one arm behind his head, the other wrapped around his cock, sliding long fingers, loosely curled, up and down, mesmerising me.

“Want me to kiss that better?”

I crawl up the bed, knocking his hand away, grabbing it and pinning it with the other above his head. I can feel the bones move as his fist clenches then relaxes. “You don’t get to touch it now,” I say. “My turn. My toy.”

He arches beneath me, rubbing it against me and yeah, I compared them. It’s a guy thing, right? I’m thicker. He’s longer. We’re both hard. Does it need to get fancier than that? I don’t think so. The rubbing is like two cats saying hello, bumping and slithering past each other, over and over. I’m panting, my head goes back and I’m jerking my hips, once, twice, stopping with an effort and then doing it once more, just because I can.

He’s looking at my mouth, looking at the smudge of red, and he’s in just the right place  that I can dip my head and kiss him without an effort. clever Spike. He deserves a reward. He eats my mouth, delicate laps of his tongue against my lips, not a kiss, not ever, getting faster, biting down - and I swear the fangs came out and he forced them back. I want to feed him then, just in that moment, want to offer him my throat, but chip or not, something saves me and I pull back and slide down that body, licking and kissing and biting as I go, making him moan and curse and say my name, over and over until it’s echoing in my ears. Then he’s in my mouth, layered smooth hardness, tasting of need, smelling of sex. I know that smell. It’s been on my hands too often not to recognise it now.

My teeth scrape him as I experiment, as I play, but I don’t even bother apologising. He likes it. His hands, released now, fist my hair until I growl around his cock in a warning and he slackens his grip. I get him to the point where one more bob of my head would have him keening with release and I stop.

He looks down his body at me, wild eyes, free of any pretence for the first time ever and I kneel up between his legs and look at him. His eyes lock with mine and his hand goes out, yanking open a drawer, pulling out lube and I make a mental note to punish him for knowing where it is...and then let him off, as he drips it into his palm and reaches for me. Cool wet slickness on my heat and the contrast makes me hiss with pleasure verging on pain. He uses more and I watch him slide his fingers deep inside his body, making it easy for me every way and I shake my head, pulling his hand away, replacing his fingers with mine, doing it fast, not letting myself think.

Then cock goes where fingers went and I’m in deep and yeah, take that every way you like, too.

His legs are spread and he’s pulling his knees back, helping me. I can’t return the favour, can’t give his cock the touch he needs to send him flying, because his mouth is open on a cry that pleasure’s robbed of sound, and he looks so fucking hot right then that I come, shuddering, screaming, every muscle hard, as I thrust again and again, riding it out, and when I collapse against him, I drag my hand up, hold him tightly and make him come, make him spill out across his stomach, watching it as I’ve watched myself, seeing it spurt and already thinking that next time he’s going to come in me.

And when I look at him, he’s smiling and his hand skims his stomach, comes up wet and he tastes it thoughtfully and I know next time is right now.



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