resemblance

 

 

Connor’s hand lingers at Spike’s waistband, guided there – the vamp seems to want this …But then Connor baulks. Why is the vampire pushing him away?  Has Spike changed his mind? Connor trembles, reassured by the cool fingers wrapping around his own. Blue eyes fix on him for a moment before he is drawn close again. Despite the relief, Connor forces himself not to press too eagerly against the denim clad bulge. He’s painfully aware of his own erection pulsing against Spike’s thigh, their fingers interlaced like vines, Spike’s boots toe to toe with his own, their tongues warring for dominance he can’t forget - so fucking dangerous, the vampire could sink his teeth into his throat, drain him before he could even hitch the next breath. Has to keep his guard up but his mind is on overload, fragmenting with wonder at this simple truth - Spike’s hard for him. Wants him - Why him?

 

“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.”

 

 

 

Reflections 8

 

Index

Fiction

Gallery

Links

Site feedback

Story Feedback