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resemblance
“I can smell him on
you…” the vampire’s hissing into his ear, “That wanker, all over you…” Connor
gasps as the teeth scrape the length of his neck. He holds tight to Spike’s
shoulders, trying to climb further against him, into him.
“What you said…”
Connor manages to speak somehow, throwing his head back, “I…I know you…” hadn’t dared say it until
now.
Spike doesn’t seem
interested in conversation as forceful fingers twist into the human’s
dishevelled hair and pull his eager mouth back to his own. His lips are cool, insistent.
Connor struggles, suddenly aware of where he is, whom he’s with and what he’s
doing. He has to straighten this out, has to make sense of this feeling, the taste is familiar,
comforting yet terrifying.
***
Spike’s hands fall to
the human’s shoulders. Connor’s looking at him hard - bloody questions, and
it’s his own fault. He should have kept
quiet.
Doesn’t want to talk –
now’s not the time. Doesn’t want to think about his sire’s call. The pounding
heart, leaping against his own silent chest reminds him that this isn’t a
vampire. Course he knew – the heat, the taste – but the scent threw him for a
moment and conjured up the image of a sneering Angelus – holding him down
physically and mentally, always taunting.
In the old days Spike
had been consumed by desire for his sire, but Angelus needed a hunt. The
bastard always was the king of mind games and the fact that Spike, Drusilla’s
new pet, was easy meat made him unappealing. Angelus wouldn’t have needed to lure an eager
William; for the master vampire there would have been no spice without a
struggle.
Over time Spike grew
stronger and began to understand who he was and what it meant to be a demon. He
learned to read his opponent. You want me? Can’t bloody have me, mate. This was
the hand that Spike chose to play, understanding that disdain and reluctance
would make him appear a sweeter dish for Angelus. They gypsy curse meant that
Spike didn’t have the opportunity to discover if his tactic, his aloofness,
would have worked, and by the time a re-born Angelus took him in Sunnydale,
Spike’s hatred for his Grand-sire was very
real and the lust had died.
And here he was with
Angelus’s son. Taking his revenge? Redressing the balance? Helping? He didn’t
know himself.
Spike grips tight,
pulls the young face close again, one more look into those eyes – blue, so blue
like… how much blue had he seen in his unlife, how many variations, tones,
shades? William the Bloody struggled for a simile - Connor’s eyes reminded him
of the ocean in winter, deep and cold – swelling with rage, energy and
immeasurable power. He briefly flicks his gaze away – fuck, wishes they were
brown – like the one man he’s ever loved – the one human he’s ever felt equal
to. Poor kid – turning into a fantasy
vessel for the Big Bad. Spike feels a prick of soul. He can’t make Connor
suffer like this…not fair – has to stop. Tell your hands to cut that out. Tell
your thumb to keep away from there – but fuck Junior’s hard – hard for him.
Spike always found hunger, lust for him irresistible – this kid wants someone
to show him, teach him, wants someone to take all this stuff away.
Spike takes a deep
breath. It helps and he relishes the sensation as his underused lungs, bereft
of oxygen, more familiar with smoke, draw the sensations through his body,
filling his skin from the inside, burning, scary, so much feeling. Almost as if
he senses the vibrating nerve endings, Connor drops slightly in his arms and
lets out a weary moan as Spike unbuttons his jeans, each pop of a button
bringing catastrophe closer, then Spike always liked dancing with fire, didn’t
he? He never knew when to stop; he slaughtered mindlessly, fucked with abandon,
threw himself into whole nests of vicious, territorial vamps, and he always survived,
emerged smiling, bloody-lipped and aching-limbed. Even burning, dying, he came
up smelling of roses. The kid’s wearing boxers – anal like his dad. Spike suppresses
a chuckle, knowing it would piss the petulant little sod off, and he doesn’t
want a fight on his hands that he might not win, does he? Here, for the moment,
at least, he’s the one in control. Junior’s well and truly lost, head rocking
backwards and forwards as if this will speed Spike up, make him release that,
oh, extremely hard cock a little
sooner. And there’s the vamp in him, he likes Spike’s teeth against his throat,
likes the master vampire claiming him. He isn’t frightened.
***
This is it – this is
what Connor realises his mind has been tormenting him with for longer than he
realises – this creature. So calm the way he takes Connor’s cock through the
fabric – so practiced, is this what it felt like for Stevo? Was Connor this
good when he pulled at the soap scented…at last…
sighs against Spike’s mouth as the vampire pushes him hard against the wall.
With his jeans midway down his thighs, Connor watches spellbound as shadows
play across Spike’s features making him appear unbearably beautiful, distant
yet involved as he whispers in Connors ear…
“You want this? Want
me to stop?” Spike’s question must be rhetorical because Connor’s cock is so
obviously doing the talking now, blabbering its need. “Press into me,” Spike continues,
apparently as much amused by Connor’s inability to form sentences as he is
aroused by it. “I like that look… “The vampire holds the weeping cock tight and
grips Connor around the waist helping the novice to move his hips and find a rhythm.
Connor’s glad he learns fast, as he fucks the fist harder, each movement
punctuated by a short, desperate inhalation. His eyes search Spike who’s enjoying the show,
his chin up, knife-edged features twitching with amusement. Connor tries so
hard not to think what he must look like, sound like as he pants and gasps unevenly. He hangs on with the part of his mind that
still works, curling his hands tight, willing himself not to come.
“Big fucking vamp
killer,” Spike whispers with more than a hint of censure in his voice.
A surge of resentment that
he doesn’t attempt to fight results in Connor’s right arm swinging up and back,
and before he realises what he’s done, Spike’s flying backwards and sprawled on
the ground ten feet away. The same hand
that had held the human’s cock a moment ago is now feeling his jaw, the same
forehead that rolled against the side of Connor’s head as he whispered into his
ear now bumpy as the demon, taken by surprise emerges to protect its vessel.
***
Totally in control
now, Connor pulls his jeans back into a semblance of probity, and he has the
stake in his hand, trying to ignore the discomfort in his cock as it’s crushed
back unceremoniously into its shroud of cotton and denim. Spike seems in no hurry
to stand, despite his apparent rage, yellow eyes scanning Connor’s body – why
isn’t he attacking? No – he won’t be prey –not to this scum.
“You taste like shit.
You taste like death, like…” Connor advances, nostrils twitching as he tries to
work it out.
***
“Grade A Swine.” Spike
smiles, and the moment of warmth works quick.
He feels his features loosen, rearrange and switch back. Felt good –
loved this feeling as the demon is yanked back by the soul like a dog on a
short chain.
Connor’s arms drop to
his sides. “What?” shakes his head
slowly. Yep, Spike enjoyed being an enigma.
“Pig’s blood.” Spike
waits for a reaction. Junior’s face is a picture; he can see the questions,
disbelief swirling through his eyes “You kill pigs?”
“Not exactly,” Spike
takes Connor’s outstretched hand and pulls himself up, face to face with the
Destroyer. Wasn’t that what Angel had called him? He hadn’t said much else about
his son. Spike knew there had been conflict, and looking at this swaggering,
scornful young man it didn’t surprise him; Angelus never could take dissent –
no matter how much he loved you. Love. What did that bastard know about love?
They crouch on the
stoop side by side –thighs not quite touching, separated by the stake which Connor
has deliberately laid there. Spike’s still hard – doesn’t know whether the
human feels the same, but he can sense the tension between them, the sublimated
embarrassment which to his surprise, he shares. Connor watches him smoke.
“Am I a demon?” he asks
Spike softly.
***
He’s fighting the
tears – doesn’t know if he can handle the answer. To be one of them – an abomination.
“No. You aren’t.”
They watch the
cigarette burn away a few inches from Spike’s toes and as their heads turn,
their eyes lock. “Great boots.” Spike nods, “I like boots.”
“They’re old. Can’t
remember where I got them.”
Connor extends his
leg, one of the laces has come unfurled again, usually he doesn’t bother but he
needs to do something with his hands. Goddamn fingers won’t do what he wants
them to. Spike’s hand reaches to cup his, tracing the troughs between his
knuckles, wending their way towards his wrist.
“But I have a
connection with them, don’t I?” Connor continues staring at the eyelets as he
struggles to push the frayed laces home.
“You could say that…”
“Am I like a ‘vampire
killer’, a superhero?” Spike leans over the stake, edging closer.
“You’d need a costume
for that…” his lips nearer. Connor waits, hopes, but already he’s learned the
rules. This vampire likes the hunt. Likes to lure the innocent prey to him with
his eyes, a cobra waiting to strike, his tongue a vicious blade opening
victims, laying their defences bare so he can take them. Connor has barriers,
he can fight this. The vampire’s fingers hold, motionless at Connor’s wrist,
long, frayed laces falling from a shaky grip, Connor crumples and sends his
invitation, the slightest shift of his arm so Spike’s index finger can slip
under the cotton and as Spike tugs at the fabric pulling Connor’s hand towards
his groin, Connor clamps his lips to the blood thirsty mouth and draws his
tongue into him.
“I want to know.”
Their tongues roll clumsily against each other, slipping in their eagerness to
devour the other. “Tell me.” Connor
gasps finally.
***
Focused on the needed,
clumsy pressure on his cock – fit to burst, Spike ignores the questions. He
knows that once he starts, he won’t be able to take anything back. Sire, needs
to protect his sire. He lifts his hips towards Connor, can’t get comfortable,
needs to get closer. He swings a leg elegantly over Connor’s thigh so that he’s
sitting across the human’s legs. Junior’s face is a picture: desire,
incredulity, fear – an irresistible cocktail to the demon.
“Spike!”
“Do you ever stop talking?”
“Tell me…”
“Okay. Long bloody
story, I warn you. Let’s go someplace we can talk.”