by Abbie


Shtip. Shtip. Shtip.

Wesley paused just inside the door to his office, the soft sounds familiar, although he couldn't quite place them. Spike sat in Wesley's chair, leaning back, obviously fascinated by a book propped up on the desk.

"Spike, what are you doing?" Wesley asked, taking a few more steps into his office.

"Shit. You're not supposed to be back for two more days. Daddy-angst all healed then?"

Wesley couldn't help how his back stiffened at the question. His "daddy-angst" still . . . hurt, for want of a better term. Everything in him ached, like mites had crawled between his joints and his thoughts and had eaten away at everything that made movement and connection natural, simple, uncomplicated. He chose to ignore Spike's comment and his own reaction, and focused instead on the annoying vampire in his office.

The sounds paused, then continued. What was that smell? Wesley knew he recognized it, or would, in another minute or so.

"Officially, you're correct. I'm not due back for another two days," Wesley said, moving forward slowly, both from pain and trepidation. Surely Spike wasn't . . . "I just thought I'd catch up on some of my correspondence before I actually returned."

Wesley got close enough to see Spike's pants slumped around his ankles, his hand moving up and down his cock. "What are you doing?" Wesley wanted to look away, but couldn't. It had been an age or more since he'd played these types of games with another man. Spike's foreskin had been pulled back to expose a darkened slit. Long pale fingers rode the vampire's penis, pausing to tickle the bundle of nerves under the head, precise and twisting.

"I'd think a wanker like you would know," Spike said, smirking.

"You're corporeal." Wesley tried to stick with what should have fascinated him, the mystery of a ghost made solid, but his mind skittered away from the point, suspiciously in time with the movement of Spike's hand.

"Yeap, all fleshy here."

Wesley forced himself to look away. He would deny that the sight of Spike fondling himself was exciting, that his own cock had started to twitch. If pushed, he'd say that it was fascinating like a train wreck; horrible, deadly, but mesmerizing just the same. He looked to see what book Spike was using for, ah, stimulation.

"Where did you get a copy, an animated copy at that, of Gruksler's Demonic Sutra de Kama?"

"It's in your library, mate."

Wesley peered more closely. Spike was using one of the template books.

"Really Spike. These books are quite precious. They aren't to be maltreated for your entertainment."

"Wasn't going to blow all over it. Oh, did you see that?"

Wesley sighed. "No, Spike, I did not, nor do I want to see--" he paused, forgetting what he'd been about to say, arrested by the figures on the page. "What are they . . . ?" He'd known the Slithkufey were ambidextrous, as well as double-jointed, but not that their mating, ah, limb it appeared, was prehensile.

"Oh my," Wesley said. Unconsciously he adjusted himself. Spike's abrupt hand around his wrist made him realize what he'd just done.

"Right handful, aren't they?" Spike asked. "Seems like you've got a handful there yourself." He released Wesley's wrist and cupped his balls before Wesley could step back.

"Spike, really, I--"

"Let's just call it your welcome back pressie, alright?"

All Wesley had to do was walk away. Take even a single step back, out of Spike's reach. Deny himself, as he always had. This vampire, any vampire, all vampires . . .

One step back into pain, into memory, into just fantasies. Surely staying for a moment, just a brief respite from everything, wouldn't do anyone any harm?

He knew better than to just stand there, stay still.

He still stayed.

"Good lord, are they really . . . ?" Wesley said as he willed himself to look back at the book, not allowing himself to flinch as cool fingers unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, then gently eased his cock out. Not permitting himself to consider what he was about to let happen. Not admitting how often he'd thought of other hands more meaty but also lacking heat.

"Shh, it's alright, it's okay." Spike stroked Wesley's penis with the tips of his fingers, as if soothing a wary animal. "I know you won't start by thinking about me. But by the end, you will." Spike paused and tugged on Wesley's cock, hard enough to make Wesley shift his gaze away from the book, down at the man handling his cock. "Promise," Spike said as he kissed the tip, reverently making his covenant.

Then, in a move faster than Wesley could follow, Spike took him all the way into his mouth and down his throat and sparks and blue-green jade scalpels hit Wesley's vertebrae eviscerating pain and stasis and motion and oh. Spike grumbled or growled or did something low in his throat and the harmonics splintered the freight-train wreck that started in Wesley's hips as he tried not to snap forward, but stay still and watch and listen and learn. Sounds of slurping and satisfaction and a clever tongue that had forked its way both around and down his cock and stroked his balls and toppled the aching temple blocks that he'd used for edifices he no longer remembered or needed.

A clenching of throat mirrored his hands tightening and the bobbing sway of legs and mouth and when Spike wrapped his fingers around Wesley's hips his own duplicated the motion and found boney shoulders to dig into and hold onto and stabilize and push against. Moans reverberated, bouncing between them weaving into the other dirty sex sounds and swimming between ganglia and impulse and action. The taste of old books and sweat and come whitewashed his mouth as he gasped for breath for words he wouldn't allow even if he did have air for more or harder or even for please.

When Wesley could see the final finish mere heartbeats away he looked down again, surprised that he still had enough awareness to, and saw blue eyes gazing up--deep cenotes primed for sacrifice and falling linked straight to a new journey that was there for the taking. His taking. His choice.

"Spike," Wesley offered and it was all he could carve out of himself, all he could make out of blood and bone and years of duty and finally, finally, it was enough.

The coming focused into a single pinprick of light shooting above the celestial monster protecting the heavens protecting him after his flight with the gods. He realized afterward that Spike only had a single hand on his hips, that the other had fallen to drag Spike along with his ride. Then he was plummeting and mortal again and collapsing into Spike's lap his knees no longer stiff and the pain living in his marrow gone and sadness and guilt and Daddy left behind above the stars.

At least for a little while.

Soft kisses along his neck, kittenish tongue lapping at sweat, then a whispered voice that brought a smile where none had been for too long:

"Liked that, did you? Just imagine what my Christmas present will be like . . . "





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