Incubus

Wesley can't believe he's here. He'd pinch himself, but his dreams have a way of fooling him into believing they're real with that trick.

So instead, he looks at Spike, drinks him in with his eyes the way he wants to do with his mouth. For it is Spike then, not William sprawled out wanton and naked on a ridiculously expensive mattress that lies on the floor, sheets and comforter scattered across what remains of the carpet around the monster that takes up most of the floor of this tiny bedroom. His piercings glitter like shards, declaring in their quietly wicked way that Spike isn't in a mood to take tonight, but to be taken.

In the flickering orange of the few candles' light, Wesley sees it for what it is: an offering.

A beginning.

Spike rakes a hand down over his chest in that move Wesley's seen with his mind so many times, but with his eyes only once, on stage in a rain of fluttering bills, but this time, it's for him, and him only, and the hand doesn't stop at the waist, but slides lower to cup balls drawn tight and cinched with a black leather cock ring, itself adorned with spikes.

He looks prickly.

Fierce.

Wesley's breath hitches as Spike's legs spread, his head dropping back in a pose both universal and ancient.

Submissive.

And all for Wesley. For a terrifying instant, he's afraid he might come in his trousers like a fifteen year-old, and clenches his fists at his sides, breathing deep.

"If you're gonna just stare, mate, you should slip me a twenty."

"If you're going to tease," Wesley rasps out, wondering where on earth he's found words, "I won't have anything left to slip you." And the admission should be humiliating, but somehow, it's not when Spike lifts his head and smiles, truly smiles beneath eyes dark with lust.

"C'mere." He rises smoothly to his knees in a move he must have done a hundred, a thousand times before on stage that's so much more erotic, so much more out of place in this pathetic bedroom. He prowls to the end of the mattress, kneeling there on his heels, dancer's thighs spread to frame the intimidating flesh and metal cock that leaves Wesley salivating and longing to count each one of those piercings with his tongue.

Frenum ladder, the voice in his mind whispers, Prince Albert, hafadas. Guiche, sparkling dangerously with deep red jewels in its beads.

Which he never would have thought of, never would have understood if not for an enlightening, if panting and sweaty, hour on the internet after going home from Spike's performance. Now, he can't get it or Spike out of his mind.

"I said," Spike says, and his voice has dropped a notch into a growl to match his predatory moves, "come here."

Then Wesley finds himself caught by the belt, Spike's fingers deftly undoing the buckle and sliding the leather from its loops, dropping it to the side of the mattress. Spike's close enough that Wesley can only see his eyes through the screen of his lashes, and the hungry look there quite takes his breath away. "Gonna be needing that later," Spike says, tongue curling down behind his teeth. "Don't like to have to ask twice."

"I'm sorry," Wesley blurts, the words coming faster than thought, more automatically, more easily, and distantly, he's aware of a phone ringing that shouldn't be as Spike leans forward, biting Wesley through the fabric of his trousers, working his tongue against the fabric until it's wet and sticking to overheated flesh beneath.

And Wesley wishes the phone would stop ringing, wishes Spike would touch him more, touch him bare, yank down the zip on his trousers, and swallow him whole.

"Gotta ask nice now," Spike says, every word brushing those full, tempting lips against Wesley's cock, hard and pounding.

"Please," Wesley breathes, reaching for Spike's hair, only to have his fingers slide through as Spike, the candles, the bed, the dream fade away around Wesley like mist that makes him want to weep.

Because he's still hard. Still damp, but with his own pre-come, not Spike's saliva, and the phone is ringing shrilly in his ear.

He snatches it up, the pleasure of the dream rapidly dissipating into a foul mood. "What?"

"Somebody didn't get some," the voice on the other end sing-songed.

Wesley falls back with a groan. "Holden. God. Have I told you lately that I've plans to murder you with an axe?"

"Ah. Someone didn't get some, and just woke up from a nice dream."

"Fuck you."

"That must have been some dream."

Wesley rolls over onto his stomach and hides his face in his arms. "What do you want?"

"The keys to the rare books room. Andrew went home with them again, and I can't reach him."

"God, how I hate you."

"How soon can you get here? Professor Giles is breathing fire down my neck, man."

Wesley sighs, feeling the last golden wisps of his dream drifting into utter intangibility, but he can't help looking at the card on his night stand. The card that says so little and so much about the man who gave it to him. "Half an hour, Holden. I've a phone call to make before I go."