Doing My Duty, 01/02Rating:
6000 - this partCharacters/Pairings:
Harry/Spike – Harry Potter/Buffy The Vampire Slayer crossoverSummary:
Harry meets a vampire in a pub. Being an Auror, it’s his public duty to keep an eye on the vamp, and keep him under control.Warnings:
BDSM – bondage, orgasm denial, light bloodplay, spanking, light somnophilia. Umm... fluff?Disclaimer:
The boys belong to JKR, even though I’m often nicer to them than she is.Author’s Notes:
Written for thematic_hp’s D/s and BDSM round, prompt 12: Harry meets Spike in a bar in England, he's an anomaly and Harry spots straight away that the vampire needs to feel like he belongs. The Wizard takes the reins and Spike falls easily under the young man's control. (loving consensual BDSM.)
This also corresponds to the AWDT prompt “Because I said so.”
The King’s Head was Harry’s favourite pub because it was ordinary. It seemed to have collected all the trappings of a traditional pub and compacted them, until just walking into the place brought a rush of familiarity, whether you’d been there before or not. There was a selection of beer and lager but not much wine; there was a dartboard and a faded, fuzzy carpet with an indecipherable pattern; there were three men who huddled at the bar after work, every day without fail. Harry sometimes wondered if they were being paid to add to the King’s Head’s ambiance. There was a sign outside the pub that proudly declared: SERVING LONDON SINCE 1867. Harry would be willing to bet it hadn’t changed since.
It might seem odd to choose such a place to start off his nights out – not the nights he spent laughing with Ron and dancing with Hermione, but the nights when he indulged his craving for a pretty boy who’d obey him and let him take care of everything, stare up at him with enormous trusting eyes, let him fuck and suck and spank until the boy was exhausted and sweaty and covered in come. Harry’s craving for familiarity had once been the stuff of legend. But since he’d allowed it to lead him into a relationship with Ginny, a pretty girl he barely knew, Harry had let go of that. At the age of twenty-three, he was pursuing happiness instead.
Yet still, he came here. It was quiet, and no one bothered him. He could get himself into the headspace: dominant and disciplinarian. Besides, Harry’s other favoured pubs were all near the Ministry, where he headed for a pint after work. He didn’t relish the thought of meeting another Auror on one of these nights: those more skilled at Legilimecy would surely see the whimpering, arching, moaning boys squirming in his mind.
He entered and waved a hello to Les, the bartender. Les nodded to him and raised the glass he’d been giving a cursory rub. “The usual?”
Harry came over to the bar. “Yeah, great.” Harry wore his usual understated club gear for nights out with his friends and nights at more... specific clubs both: black jeans, tight T-shirts. But with his mates he’d get Guinness; these nights, it was always whiskey. Harry wondered where he’d picked up the idea that whiskey was for dissolute sophisticates. Lucius Malfoy drank whiskey, didn’t he?
He stood at the bar and sipped his Glenfiddich, listening to the silence. This was an Auror meditation technique but it could be used for other purposes than detecting... danger...
His eyes narrowed.
There was something here that hadn’t been there before. The awareness jangled at his senses like one out-of-tune instrument in an orchestra. An anomaly; something out of place and unexplained. And if it was sending his Auror’s alarm bells ringing so loudly, it was dangerous too.
He picked up his whiskey and sipped it, holding it in front of his face as his eyes scanned the pub. No... just the regulars, and a sweaty man who looked in need of a sit down... there! In the corner.
A man, tucked away in a corner booth. Now he was neither familiar, nor ordinary. The shadows he was swathed in couldn’t hide the white, bleached hair, or the air of menace. They didn’t conceal the cut-glass cheekbones and plush lips, either. Harry raked his eyes over the man, taking in his pretty face and the black leather duster that screamed ‘attitude’. Harry imagined fucking the attitude right out of him until he was grateful for the chance to take Harry’s cock between those pouty lips –
Harry blinked, and stopped staring. There was something odd about the man, quite aside from his apparent desire to hide his pretty self in a dark corner; Harry’s Auror instincts for danger, not his Dom instincts for someone pretty and pliant, had set him looking that way. He wasn’t doing anything threatening, though; just staring blankly into his glass of whiskey.
Harry looked back over the bar, aware the man would surely notice his staring if he didn’t. He checked the mirror behind the bar for –Ah.
A vampire, then. He didn’t seem particularly dangerous, and certainly not actively on the hunt. Harry had supported Hermione at the Ministry since the beginning: she believed wizards shouldn’t be hostile unless the vampires were first. So he wasn’t going to arrest the vampire, or hurt him. But his Auror’s duty surely dictated that he check the vamp. Aside from anything else, it was entirely possible that the vampire, like Harry himself, was merely stopping off here before heading to a club for the night’s hunting.
He asked Les quietly for two glasses and the whiskey bottle, then headed over to the corner. Time for some covert information-gathering. He’d flirt with the vampire and see if he tried to take a bite out of Harry.
Harry smirked at his own self-justification. This particular instance of doing his duty would be no hardship at all.
The vampire looked up, and Harry was taken aback by the intense blue of his eyes. He blinked for a moment, as if staring into a bright light; then he sat down without being asked and handed the vamp the other whiskey.
The vampire gave him a frank look. “Not really my type, sonny-boy.” Harry saw with some amusement that this didn’t stop him from taking the whiskey and knocking back half of it.
“I’m Harry,” he said, voice quiet and low. “And actually, I was thinking you’d be the boy.”
“What?” The vampire looked startled, eyes going wide in his pale face.
“I suppose you could be the ‘sonny-boy’,” Harry continued, “but personally I’ve never been a fan of daddy kink.”
The vampire was still staring. He obviously hadn’t expected Harry to keep trying, let alone with such a blatant come-on. “What?” he said again, sounding incredulous.
Harry grinned at him, showing his teeth. “I thought vampires had superior hearing?”
The vampire nearly choked at that. Harry liked his look of shock, and deliberately kept him off his guard. “You’ll have to do better, you know. I like my partners to hear what I say and obey me instantly.”
He glared, blue eyes flaring the yellow of a feral cat’s. He stood up, saying, “shove off, wanker. I’m not in the mood. I just wanted a quiet drink and some soggy nostalgia, not some pervert trying to make me his bitch.”
He started to leave the booth. Harry wasn’t letting that happen: he grabbed the blond’s wrist, using the hold he usually used on prisoners right before he slammed them onto a table and cuffed them. The vampire glared down at Harry’s grip on his pale wrist. His gelled white hair and leather coat lent him a hard edge; his blazing blue eyes were full of his supernatural strength and fury. He was magnificent.
He was also frightening: but Harry wasn’t an ex-Gryffindor for nothing. “My name’s Harry,” he said calmly. “I came here for a quiet drink too; we can always just talk. What’s your name?”
The vampire glared at him for another long second, his lips going tight as he thrust out his chin defiantly. Harry felt him tense a little more under his hand, as if he was going to rip his wrist from Harry’s hand and quite probably smack Harry one – then he suddenly seemed to go limp, the light in his eyes fading slightly as his shoulders slumped. The vampire sat down, and reached for the whiskey again.
“So what is your name?”
Harry grinned. “Let me guess, you’re one of those vampires who dropped your human name when you were turned. Who were you originally?”
Spike looked at him with blank, angry eyes; looking into them was like seeing fire behind reflective glass. Harry held up his hands. “OK. You’re Spike. It’s more interesting than my name, anyway.”
“You don’t recognise it?” Spike said, raising an eyebrow. “I guess the Watcher’s Academy ain’t what it used to be.”
“I’m not a Watcher,” Harry said, making a face. He’d managed thus far to avoid that particular lot of old duffers, because they didn’t like working with the Aurors. (Harry often thought sourly that this was because the Aurors actually did something.) “I’m a wizard.”
“Huh.” Spike’s lip curled a little. “I don’t like magic.”
“Why not? Because we have power you don’t?”
“No!” Spike glared, then subsided, muttering to himself about “bleedin’ arrogant bastards...”
“Why not, then?”
“Magic has consequences.” Spike’s jaw tightened and he reached for the bottle of whiskey. “I’ve seen too much of people forgettin’ that lately.”
Harry drank silently, leaving a space for him to speak. Spike sloshed yet more whiskey into his glass, then sighed. His eyes were still true-blue, but they were shadowed, now: veils hiding varied secrets within them. “There’s this girl.” He gave a small, rough laugh. “Always is, isn’t there? This one’s been usin’ magic, and forgetting the consequences. And there’s another girl, who’s payin’ em. And makin’ me pay an’ all...” He stared into his glass for a moment, then tipped his head back, exposing the long, pale link of his neck, and poured the amber liquid down his throat. He slammed it back onto the table. “Told her I was her willin’ slave. Turns out you don’t wanna say that, even to a hero-type.”
Harry frowned. “She hurt you?”
“Oh yeah.” Spike’s rough-edged voice was full of complicated, conflicting emotion: like colours swirled in a paintbox, until violet and cyan and blazing scarlet were left the ugly, damaged brown of an abused mongrel. “She hurt me. An’ she fucked me, and made it feel so good in so many bad ways.” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t fall in love with someone who needs to hurt you, but I keep doin’ it.”
Harry raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he wouldn’t need to go on to a club for his fuck of the night. “Maybe not. But some of the ones who hurt you will take care of you too.”
Spike gave a half-grin and muttered a word: Harry thought it was ‘angel-puss’ but he wasn’t sure. Better change the subject, anyhow. “Why’d you pick this place for your ‘soggy nostalgia’?”
“I’ve been here before.” Spike’s expansive gesture seemed to take in the whole world, and definitely showed he’d been drinking for a while. “This pub was one of the first places I went with Dru – that’s my sire. We tore this place apart, grabbed the customers and sank our fangs in, feasted on their gore – ” He stopped suddenly, and gave Harry an oddly guilty look for a vampire. “Uh, sorry.”
Harry shrugged. “I know what vampires do, Spike. I’m not a child, I’m an Auror.” As he said it he realised he’d given up even cursory attempts to covertly check the vampire for evil intentions: but his instincts were saying Spike didn’t have any. At Spike’s expression he held up his hands, showing the lack of a wand. “Hey, I’m not going to arrest you. Times have changed – kill-on-sight went out fifty years ago, and I support the current policy.”
“What’s that then?” Spike said with a deeply distrustful expression.
“Basically, ‘we don’t bug you if you don’t bite them’. Buy your blood instead of hunting and you’ll be left alone by the Ministry.”
Spike’s face twisted. “No fear of that, I promise you, Harry.”
Harry didn’t understand the derision and pain in his voice; like a good Englishman, he hastily steered the conversation away from difficult emotions. “You said you came here with your sire, when was that?” Harry poured some more whiskey into his glass.
“Just after she sired me – 1881, it would have been.”
Spike laughed, deep and genuine, while he watched Harry splutter. “You weren’t expecting someone this old, then?”
Harry slid closer, pressing his thigh against Spike’s, and managed to speak. “I don’t mind older men.”
That was the turning point. They kept talking: shop-talk about defeating evil, and male talk about football (Spike was ecstatic to be back with someone who didn’t call it ‘soccer’). More and more, though, came the flirt talk: deep voices going deeper, heads dipping close together, thighs pressing together as they laughed. Harry explained Quidditch, and Spike made the most of the opportunities to ask him about the balls and riding of broomsticks – always with an eyebrow raised and a press of his tongue to the back of his teeth.
Harry mentioned being a hero, and how tired he was of people expecting purity, how tied down it made him feel. Spike, after a hard swallow and another drink, told him about being chipped: that there were nasty electronics in his brain, shocking him if he tried to bite or hurt or even hit. Harry swallowed, remembering pain caused by sadistic bureaucrats, and surprised Spike with his sympathy.
Spike talked about being a vampire: when he mentioned his grandsire, who was a “big bugger” and a “bloody sadist”, Harry raised his eyebrows and was delighted to see the vampire flush. “Shuttup,” he muttered. “Nothin’ wrong with likin’ a bit of kink now and then, and Angelus, he was the best. Could make you cry and scream and love every minute of it.”
Harry leaned in. “Angelus was the best, eh? Think I’ll have to change your mind about that.”
They talked about old girlfriends. Harry mentioned Ginny, saying they were still friends, and that they couldn’t ever have worked as a couple. Ginny had wanted him so desperately and he’d fallen into the relationship when he’d wanted to forget using dark magic: it wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t going to lead to happiness for himself. Spike gave a rough-edged laugh. “I understand that. You’ve no idea.”
Spike told him about falling in love with the current Slayer, and laughed at Harry’s surprise. The laugh sounded painful: mirth ripped through with barbed wire. “Yeah. She’ll never want me... not for more than a fuck. We were fucking before I left, and every bloody time she’d run out on me. The second we were finished, she’d...” He made a tired gesture, and Harry noticed his bitten nails. “Off into the night. I came back coz she blew up me crypt. I’m homeless.” He stared into his glass. “Never used to bother me. Ran around with Dru, never wanted to be tied to one place... but I had Dru, then. Had family...”
Harry felt his heart twinge. He reached out and stroked his fingertips gently along Spike’s jawline, turning the narrow face to his. Spike’s eyes were wide; then they went narrow and intent as Harry leaned in and kissed him.
The kiss was slow, both men careful at first; then Harry pressed his tongue to the seam of Spike’s lips and the vampire’s mouth opened sweetly for him. Spike tasted of whiskey. Harry carded his fingers into the hair just above Spike’s nape, tipping his head back to kiss him more deeply. Their tongues slid together; Harry bit at Spike’s lip, and laughed softly into his cool mouth when he groaned.
They drank and kissed some more, slow, drugging kisses; by midnight, Harry’s whole world seemed to be tinted with the slow-burn of amber. Spike was talking again, saying something Harry heard only vaguely: maybe the vampire was much drunker than he was, because “I bet you could bring the house down. We could do it together... you might not be a Slayer but you do have your wand
...” didn’t make any sense. And now he’d dissolved into giggles, leaning into Harry, his bright head coming down into the hollow between Harry’s shoulder and his neck. Harry felt a shiver as Spike pressed closer.
When Spike said he’d heard the cathedral bells at one o’ clock, Harry spoke with a sense of easy, pleased inevitability: like a dislocated shoulder snapping back into place.
“It’s past my bedtime. I should really go home... Want to come and put me to bed?”
They stumbled from the pub together, and the cool air hit them in a shock. Spike shivered a little. “Not used to this, after bein’ in Sunnydale...”
Harry pulled him in, slipping one arm round his waist, a hand at his lower back to keep him close. “I’ll keep you warm,” he breathed against Spike’s cool mouth, and Apparated.
Spike stumbled as they landed and Harry kept him upright, their bodies pressed together from chests to knees. He raised his pale face and they stared at each other, breaths passing over each other’s lips, inches from each other. Then Harry leaned down to kiss him again.
Spike’s kisses were intoxicating: so passionate, full of strength and emotion, yet he was sweetly submissive and controllable if Harry kissed him right, letting Harry move as he liked and take what he wanted. They kept kissing, Spike’s strong arms around Harry. Harry flicked his tongue over Spike’s palate and felt his groan; he slid his arms down, hands firmly over Spike’s lower back, and pulled the smaller man tight against him. The position forced Spike to lean up, stretching anxiously to reach Harry’s lips; Harry ran a finger down the long, stretched neck, and heard him moan.
Spike pulled back and started tugging at Harry’s t-shirt, searching for skin. Harry pulled it off, then pushed Spike’s duster off his shoulders, leaving him standing in his tight t-shirt and jeans. Spike made a small sound and looked up at him with vulnerable eyes.
That look sent fire through Harry’s veins. The next few minutes passed in a heated blur of cool skin and fast breathing, pale limbs and lush mouth: taking Spike to the bedroom, pushing him inside, clothes being shed, stripping Spike’s jeans off him and finding he went commando, rubbing and touching again, Spike’s tongue trailing over his collarbone.
Harry pulled back, gasping, and his head cleared for a moment. Spike was pale, muscled, gorgeous in the moonlight; Harry pressed him to the bed and they went down together, mouths crashing together once more.
Harry lay over Spike, one hand at the back of his head, holding him close, while the other moved immediately to his arse, groping rudely at it, clenching and squeezing the ripe flesh. Spike was squirming madly in his grip, moaning into his mouth; his wriggles were starting to make Harry’s eyes cross. He bit down on Spike’s neck to stifle a groan, and the resulting hip-jerk nearly tipped him off.
Suddenly Spike gave a deep groan and moved, flipping Harry onto his back and rolling on top. He started grinding down in earnest, naked cock rubbing against Harry’s and sending flashes of sensation through him. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he muttered in Harry’s ear. “Can’t wait to fuck you, nothing like doin’ a human, all warm and...”
Harry frowned. He might not have picked up one of his usual twinks in their glitter and white leather, but he was in the mood to be both on top and in control.
He rolled them back over, dumping Spike on his back beneath him. Spike frowned, surprised; Harry leaned down and distracted him with all possible efficiency by capturing the soft lobe of his ear in blunt teeth and biting down. Spike gave a small cry, like a mewling kitten, and clutched at his arms. Harry kept going – licking over Spike’s ear, then moving down his jawline, leaving small, stinging bites strung along the soft skin of his jawline. He kept moving, hot mouth moving over the vampire’s pale skin down his neck. When he reached the base of his neck, Harry bit down.
Predictably, Spike moaned helplessly at this manoevre and went limp, lying still but for the nails digging into Harry’s biceps and the slow, slick movement of his hips. Harry smirked and kept his mouth there as he reached blindly for his bedside table; he glanced over quickly and opened the top drawer. From there he grabbed the lube. And the handcuffs.
He nibbled at the white scar on Spike’s neck, the mark of the vampire’s kiss. For a brief moment the vampire turned to putty – and a moment was all Harry needed. In a swift, violent movement he’d repeated a thousand times over at work, Harry rolled Spike onto his front, grabbed his wrists and cuffed them, the chain between the cuffs tying him securely to the bed of the bed.
He pulled back to enjoy the sight. Spike had gone utterly tense, his muscles flexing; he was naked and cuffed and vulnerable to anything Harry wanted to do, his pale rump exposed in the moonlight. Harry grinned, and began trailing a teasing finger down Spike’s spine.
But just then, Spike’s moment of tension broke: he burst into movement, straining and tugging at the cuffs, making the length of wood at the head of Harry’s bed creak. Harry had never seen anything like the panicked jerks: guilt welled up, and he began stroking quickly over Spike’s shoulders and flanks, trying to calm him.
“Hey, hey,” he said, bewildered. “Don’t panic. I’m not going to do anything bad to you. In fact,” he continued lightly, trying to ease the situation, “my pride will be hurt if you don’t enjoy what comes next.”
Spike turned his head to look round at him; the shadows and moonlight made it difficult to see clearly, but Harry caught the fright in his blue eyes. He swallowed, wishing he’d asked first, and kept stroking. “Relax, Spike. I’ll let you go if you want, but I’m really not going to hurt you. Would you trust me?”
Something flared in his eyes. “I... yeah. Yeah. I’ll trust you.” Harry could hear that his fear wasn’t really gone, but he sounded resolute and Harry knew he could make the fear go away. So he nodded, and stroked a warm hand down Spike’s back. It seemed almost menacing, darker against the gleaming white skin.
He whispered, “just relax.”
Then he moved behind Spike, curled hands over his hipbones, urging him up onto his knees and elbows. Spike could hold himself up easily that way, but his arse was raised like an offering, high and round and gorgeous. Harry spread Spike’s cheeks, and at the sight of that tight rose, his mouth watered.
That was one way to get this off to a reassuring start; and it helped that Harry absolutely loved doing this. He’d come out planning to indulge himself: and when he reached out and licked lightly over Spike’s hole, tasting musk, and heard Spike’s high-pitched moan, he thought mission accomplished
He lapped at Spike’s hole, long, slow strokes; he pressed against it, never quite penetrating. Spike began to press back, begging without words for more, more
; but it wasn’t until he said it that Harry relented.
“Come on, Harry, do it! Fuck me, come o – oh...” Harry thrust his tongue inside Spike: no soft licking now, no making him ready for the fuck to come. No, now he just tongue-fucked Spike, feeling the vampire press back against the feeling, buttocks pressing up against his spreading hands, accepting his touch and longing for more.
Finally he pulled back, leaving Spike’s hole soaked and winking open. He prepared him perfunctorily, knowing the rimming had helped and wanting him tight. Then he thrust
, violent yet blissful, and fuck
this was good. Spike was cool inside, and he’d never felt anything like it. He was tight, too, and Harry split him around his cock, kneeling over him and dominating him completely.
Spike moved back against him, his rhythm perfect as he fucked back against Harry’s cock; the movements were swift, but almost dream-like: a long-forgotten habit. Harry moved with him, fluidly. It was like they’d been fucking forever, easy and hard and hot and brilliant. Harry relaxed against Spike, letting his strong back take the weight so he could run one hand over Spike’s chest. He plucked at his nipples, pulling and tugging harshly, loving the way Spike gasped and moved faster at the pain. He scratched his nails down Spike’s stomach, no doubt leaving red marks scoured over the pale skin. He ran his fingers over the tops of Spike’s arms and felt the muscles shaking with strain.
Next he shifted a little, so he could reach; he moved his wet mouth over Spike’s neck and clamped down, biting harshly and possessively like an animal in heat: Spike yowled
and started fucking back desperately, like he couldn’t possibly stop, and the feeling was amazing, Spike so desperate for him. Harry fucked him harder now, riding him with no consideration or gentleness, just fucking him for all he was worth; then he moved his hand down to Spike’s dripping, drooling erection and wanked him, as harshly as he dared. They moved together, a swirling maelstrom of thrusts and moans, of instinct and of roaring possessiveness; Spike came, breaking apart with a helpless cry, spurting over Harry’s fingers and unable to stop. At the feeling, Spike clenching around him and coming for him and forgetting there had ever been anyone else but him, Harry bit and thrust and came
A few days later Spike could be found in an alley, holding a threadbare armchair and returning to the flat he was squatting in. It hadn’t been all that hard setting himself up: London rent might be through the roof but the city had as many dangerous buildings that the council was unwilling to take responsibility for as anywhere else.
It was odd, though. Being back here felt strange, like wearing old clothes: maybe they still fit you, but they didn’t suit you any more. He hadn’t lived here since he was alive, aside from those few months immediately after he was turned. The whole place was different, it smelled different and looked different, gas-lamps lighting his way through the fog replaced with streetlights and endless shiny displays. That just made the moments of familiarity even more jarring.
It felt like being William, being back here. That had been part of why he’d come back: homeless and Slayer-less, there’d been nothing for him in Sunnydale, and Buffy calling him ‘William’ had brought an instant longing for home surging up his throat, making it tight. But – as per bloody usual – he hadn’t thought his plan through. So now he was here in Merrie Olde England and everything made him feel weak – reminded him of ‘sweet William’. Reminded him that he’d never really changed all that much. “What we were informs all we become”
, as Darla used to say.
He was sick of it. Always kneeling at the feet of those he loved, offering his heart, serving them and trying to look after them, doing everything he could: and all it got him was a heart not just broken, but utterly crushed.
He slammed into his grotty ground-floor flat, kicking the door back: it already had a large scuff-mark at the bottom from his Doc Martens. He swaggered through the little hall into his sitting room – and stopped.
“How the hell did you get in?”
Harry looked at him flatly. “I’m an Auror. Finding a vampire really isn’t that difficult for me.”
Spike scowled and shoved past him, dumping the armchair onto the thin carpet. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t aware we had much more than a one-night-stand, so – ”
“I won’t stop you being here, Spike.”
Spike stared. “Yeah, well, good for you, you tosser,” he spluttered. “Since when could you – ”
“The Aurors will be keeping an eye on you,” Harry said sternly, speaking like he hadn’t even heard him. “It’s not my idea, it’s just what happens. We make sure the resident vampires don’t feed off humans. I won’t stop you staying here – ” his lips curled into a wicked grin – “I think it’s going to be very enjoyable for me to have you around. But don’t get cocky. It’s not that long since we were ordered to kill your kind on sight, and people don’t care about vampires’ rights.”Fucking hell. They’re all the sodding same. Stupid heroes, people I loved in London... why can’t I be strong for once? Not weak and omega and letting them hurt me, letting them break my heart over and over until the chips of it break off?
He didn’t say any of this. He just growled, and felt his gameface come.
He strode over to Harry with fast movements, too fast for any normal human to react. He pushed him against the wall, face-first; for once he’d be strong and on top, not a weak mewling childe. Spike pulled at Harry’s shirt, exposing his neck and shoulder, bit at him, only just managing to push down the demon face in time. He was aware that the chip would zap him if he kept this up, but he couldn’t make himself stop: he was careening along on a crazy edge, like before he was chipped when the whole world was red, and he’d missed it.
“You’re lucky I’m feeling tolerant,” Harry said roughly, into the wall. “You’re not going to be able to keep doing this – your chip will stop you.”
“Not if you like the pain,” Spike leered. “Come on then. When are you going to take it?”
He felt the muscles of Harry’s shoulders flex beneath his cheek. “Oh, I’ll be taking it right now.”
He spun in one swift movement and shoved Spike face-first against the wall, rougher than Spike has been. He pressed close; Spike felt enclosed, entirely surrounded by the heat of the taller man. Harry started grinding against his arse, running his hands all over Spike’s chest as if he’d a right to, tweaking a nipple teasingly as his erection rubbed up Spike’s cleft. He couldn’t hold back a moan, and Harry chuckled softly in his ear.
“Get off! Stop it, you bastard, stop it now!”
Harry laughed again and Spike growled with boiling resentment. Then Harry pulled away, leaving him free. “All right. If you don’t like that, we’ll do something else. What should it be?” He tapped a finger against his lips in a parody of consideration, and Spike felt a rush of heat at how in control he looked, standing tall and unafraid in the dirty room. Spike thought he wouldn’t even be afraid if Spike could
bite him, and that made all the difference. He gasped.
Harry looked at him. Spike felt exposed, penetrated; he was suddenly sure that Harry could see every part of him, could see how Harry’s strength and lack of fear, his kindness and domination, made Spike forget every clever move to get his way, everything he’d ever learnt but how to fall to his knees.
And maybe Harry could read minds, because the next thing he said was, “I know! Suck my cock, Spike.”
The burning resentment came back. “Fuck that.”
“Spike,” he said, voice warning. “Do it.”
Spike sneered at him. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Spike gave a disbelieving laugh at the arrogance. “Shove off, wanker.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed, and his voice deepened, until the few inches he had on Spike seemed like feet, like he was some shadowy statue of a god. “Spike, are you disobeying me?”
Spike rolled his eyes. “Fuck off.”
Harry’s voice, lips and fists all tightened. “I see. Well, in that case, Spike, you can
fuck me. But only,” he held up a reproving finger when Spike tried to talk, “after I’ve fucked you.”
Spike laughed a little. Harry thought that’d stop him? “No problem. Come on!”
He led the way to his bedroom, stripping as he went. Harry followed him; as they reached the bed, he tried to kiss Spike. Spike allowed it for a few seconds – nothing like a hot tongue – then pulled away. “Come on! Hard, fast fuck, all right? Then we can get to the good bit.”
“Being fucked by me isn’t the good bit?” There was more a pout in Harry’s voice than was entirely becoming for a hero, even as he slicked his cock with Spike’s lube.
Spike rolled his eyes, sitting against the headboard, legs akimbo. “You know damn well that being fucked by you is amazing. But I want a go.”
Harry tossed him the lube. “I like bottoming every now and then.” He watched Spike prepare himself, eyes flaring at the sight of his fingers working in his own hole. His eyebrows creased when Spike tossed the lube away. “And I remember the last time well enough to know that
was not enough prep.”
“Don’t be such a nancy,” Spike retorted, sliding down the bed and pulling his legs up to exposed himself. “I’m a bloody vampire, remember? I get off on pain.”
Harry’s eyes lit up at the reminder and he practically leapt on top of Spike. Next second he was pushing inside, and Spike cried out through clenched teeth. Fuck, it was like he was being split in two, like his insides were being arranged to accommodate that fucking enormous thing... Maybe he’d miscalculated on the whole ‘I get off on pain’ thing.
But Harry’s cock felt blazingly hot in his centre, and the burn was immense, and Harry kept fucking him and lying beneath him was blissful, and fuck
he’d hit the spot, and God even now his cock felt huge... Spike started to wank himself, only to feel his hand slapped away sharply. He opened his mouth to yell and found the sound swallowed by one of Harry’s drugging kisses.
Finally Harry pulled away. He reached for his cock again, only to have his hands once again slapped away. “What the fuck, wizard?”
“You disobeyed me, Spike. You defied me. That means you get punished.” Harry’s grin was velvet over a knife. “Tonight, you’re not going to come.”
“You heard me,” Harry said, and punctuated it with a merciless thrust. “You’re mine now, Spike; your body is mine, and so is your pleasure. You only get it at
my pleasure, and I’m not letting you come after the way you spoke to me.”
Spike stared at him in utter disbelief. “You – you can’t – ”
“You might come tomorrow – and if you do, I’ll make the waiting worth your while. But you’re not to get yourself off, Spike. If you do, I’ll have you in a cock cage like that
Spike shut his eyes, and gave in. “Fine.” He turned his face away, and endured, clenching his teeth every time Harry brushed over his prostate, trying not to come or even cry out. This reaction didn’t seem to faze Harry: on the contrary, he just seemed to fuck harder and faster on the knowledge that Spike was trying not to react, was praying for it to be over. He held Spike down and pleasured him mercilessly, deliberately bumping against his prostate as often as he could and kissing down his chest. Spike finally broke, giving a cry of strangled pleasure and desperate denial: at the sound, Harry came.
They lay together afterwards. Spike kept up a dignified silence, but quickly got bored and decided it probably looked like a sulk. Besides, talking might distract him from his aching, throbbing cock, that was still upright, drooling against his stomach, so hard it felt like a fifth limb.
“It’s not that I mind obeying you,” he said. “It’s just... I’m helpless all the time. Can’t bite, can’t feed... and people always hurt me when I’m helpless. I can’t be helpless here, too. I never have the power, and I always get royally fucked.”
Harry gave a small snort of laughter at the phrasing. “Well, I don’t see that changing.”
Spike rolled his eyes petulantly and Harry relented.
“I understand that,” he said. “I do. But I’m bound and determined to change your mind. I like my partners to be helpless with me, and I never hurt them.” He gave a small grin. “Well, not if they really
don’t want me to.”
“But you see why I didn’t suck you?”
Harry paused for a moment, looking at him. “Yes.”
Spike stared up at him for a moment, hardly daring to hope, and then –
“But you’re still not getting to come.”
Harry chuckled at Spike’s moan of disappointment. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” he said comfortably. “If you’re good, anyway.”
Then he rolled over, slinging an arm round Spike’s waist as he went, so they both ended up face-down on the pillow. Spike didn’t mind as much as he could have: Harry cuddling up behind him was deliciously warm, and he felt claimed with Harry lying half on top of him, a knee insinuated between his thighs.
But oh God
his cock hurt. It felt swollen and sore, the skin stretched tight over it like the skin of a drum, and if he could just... touch it...
it would be such sweet relief. Who the fuck cared if Harry found out?
Spike shut his eyes, and tried to think about the Master naked.
End of Part 1