Title: Doin’ The Pouncing
Rating: PG-13/Light R
Parts: 1/1 (Oneshot)
Warnings: Language, Implied Sex.
Summary: He gives himself three days. More than enough time.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, and I make no profit from this story.
He’d begun the whole process a week before, planning it carefully. Since that Wednesday, he’d thought of nothing but.
The most important part, of course, was ruining a shirt. He’d had to go out and find some Krihguls to slime it beyond repair, so that throwing it away would be excusable. But that was the easy part, really. The subtle details were harder. Oh, he had no trouble moving his blood to the fridge’s vegetable drawer and his mug to the highest shelf in the cabinet, but it was certainly questionable to see him up and walking around in daylight hours. He played it off as nightmares, pretending to be ashamed of their power over him. It was a role he loved—the tough, angry vamp, with the fragile mess of a soul on the inside. He loved it because it was who he should’ve been.
But it wasn’t. He wasn’t that fragile.
Insanity is not something that weakens your heart. Quite the opposite. Anyone who’s gone a little crazy knows that just as well as he does.
He gave himself three days.
More than enough time.
“You?” He’d set down his beer in shock that cold Wednesday night, taken aback by the very notion. “You bagged that raging-bitch slayer? Christ Almighty, and you lived?”
“Hey, I didn’t bag anybody that night, man. She bagged me.” On his eighth and feeling carefree, Harris was attempting to line up a fairly difficult shot, made twice as impossible by the fact that he was seeing two of everything, including the balls. He leaned over the table, cue in hand, just… staring. “Pretty much hopped on board and took a ride. I didn’t even know what was happening until she was on my dick.”
“Happens a lot, does it?” He asked carefully, his head cocking to an angle as he examined the picture he made… Bent over that table, ass in the air, the slope of his back saying ‘Take me, Take me, Take me…’
“It’s how I get laid. Hold still while they launch themselves at me. Somehow, it works.”
He took a shot, the head of his cue scratching hard into the green, and cursed himself bloody.
Somehow… Spike smirked, leaning on his cue and letting his gaze follow his backside until he remembered that they were playing pool.
On the next Wednesday, he made his first move, which wasn’t a move at all.
It was six-fifteen, and Xander had made his toast and coffee. He was careful not to touch him as he passed him by, the little eat-in nook making this quite a bit harder than it looked. The boy barely looked up from his toast to mutter, “You’re up late.” He ignored that, opening the fridge and bending over to retrieve his blood.
He held that position for a minute longer than usual.
It wasn’t a particularly long time, but it was longer than it usually took him to grab a bag of blood, and that made Xander turn and look. Because he would. Most humans would. It’s the natural thing to do when things deviate from the routine.
So he turned and looked. And Spike rifled through the drawer, as though he was looking for a specific blood type. He kept his ass firmly in the air, allowing him to examine it from the best angle possible. Of course, Xander didn’t know he was looking at his ass. He thought he was just looking at him.
After that minute—which was a minute, no more, no less—he came up with a bag of B-Neg, and went to the cabinet above the microwave where he stretched to reach the mug, showing off the muscles in his shoulders, the angles of his waist, the curve of his neck. Xander took a bite of his toast and did not look up.
He ripped the bag open and poured the blood into his mug, setting it in the microwave to heat. Then he popped two slices of toast into the toaster and leaned against the counter. It was three whole wasted minutes before everything was done.
He began dipping his toast in blood.
“S’not bad, comparatively.”
Xander looked away again. He sipped his blood and pretended not to look at him.
When he was done, he let the mug clatter to the counter and left it there, knowing it would leave a ring of warm blood behind.
Five minutes later, Xander rose from his seat and wiped it away, muttering to himself as he washed the mug thoroughly, and set it on the counter to dry. Spike laid down on the couch and pretended not to notice.
“Anya, man. No games, no nothin’. Just came to my door with condoms. Demanded orgasms.”
“S’that right?” Spike drawled slowly, still eyeing Xander’s ass, even as he lined up his shot. It was an easy shot—which was good, because that ass was more distracting than his babble. He’d heard the story before. It was classic fodder for their usual back-and-forth. But he let Xander talk, enjoying the steady flow of information sans-filter.
“Yeah. She… definitely knows how to handle it. A guy like me. Mister No-Move.” He laughed, sounding drunk and bitter. “No moves to move.”
“Ye don’t make moves?”
“I usually don’t have time. I always start off okay, but then I start babbling, and before I figure out how to turn off my mouth, they’ve either walked away or thrown me onto the nearest flat surface. ‘Thrown’ being the operative word.” He cringed, as though remembering something unpleasant.
Spike took his shot, no longer paying any attention to the game. He sunk the six anyway.
On Thursday, he amped it up a little—his success with Wednesday spurring him on.
It was six-nineteen, and Xander had made his toast and coffee. He moved into the kitchen, brushing past his chair, his hand sliding over the back of it, which made Xander jolt toward the table, uncomfortable, and ask “What?” in that accusatory tone of his. He ignored that, opening the fridge and bending over to retrieve his blood.
He held that position for exactly as long as he did yesterday.
Xander looked. Then turned away again, quickly, because his thoughts had slid from ‘What’s taking him so long?’ to ‘Damn, that’s a fine ass’, to ‘You’re really not supposed to stare at undead asses, even when they’re not so evil’. His eyes stayed on his toast, even as he asked “Looking for a particular vintage?”
“A-Pos.” He replied curtly, and after that minute—which was a minute, no more, no less—he came up with a bag of such, and went to the cabinet above the microwave where he stretched to reach the mug, showing off the muscles in his shoulders, the angles of his waist, the curve of his neck. Xander looked, his eyes flicking from his ass to his shoulders and back to his toast, which lay cold and unappetizing on his napkin.
He ripped the bag open and poured the blood into his mug, setting it in the microwave to heat. Then he popped two slices of toast into the toaster and leaned against the counter. It was three whole agonizing minutes before everything was done.
He began dipping his toast in blood.
“Is that really necessary? Really?”
“Vamp’s gotta eat too.”
“I may never eat toast again.”
“C’n I have yours, then?”
Glaring a little, the boy brought a slice to his lips and bit into it, clearly savoring the possession of it far more than the taste. He quirked his lips carefully, just a little, meeting that glare head-on and waiting for it to fade into Xander’s usual easy grin before looking away again.
When he was done, he let the mug clatter to the counter and left it there, knowing it would leave a ring of lukewarm blood behind. He went to the sink this time and washed his hands of crumbs, waiting for Xander to get up.
Three minutes later, he did, wiping away the ring of blood and holding the mug out to Spike. “Can you please clean up after your own nastiness?”
Raising his eyebrows at the question, he reached out to that outstretched hand, overreaching accidentally-on-purpose and letting his fingers brush down his wrist. The boy’s pulse jumped like he’d just shocked him.
“Why?” He asked, mocking him a little. “Got a proper bug boy here to do it for me, don’t I?”
“Cute , Spike.” He muttered, his voice a little thin with something that sounded like irritation, but definitely wasn’t. Shoving the mug into his hand, Harris backed away a little too quick, giving him a look that was mostly confusion, before dumping his toast and heading toward the bathroom for his shower.
Smirking a little, the vampire washed his mug, and placed it back on the top shelf of the cabinet.
“It’s kinna… I dunno…”
“Emasculating?” Spike tried, his hand resting on Xander’s shoulder, steering the boy down the street and trying to keep him from falling over his own shadow.
“That’s the word!” The boy pointed at him, sounding absolutely delighted by the addition to his vocabulary. “Like—Like—I mean, they could at least gimme the chance to make a move before they pounce on me. Half the time, I don’t even know if I’m interested when it happens. In fact, most of the time I’m not. But hey, what kinna guy says no to sex?”
“True…” He said it slowly, looking Xander over, his lips curling into a wicked little smirk.
They reached the door of the complex and Xander fumbled for his keys, only getting them inside after dropping them twice. Then they began their slow, treacherous climb up the stairs, wrapped around each other, mostly to keep the boy on his feet. Breathing in deeply at the end of their ascent, he took in the smell of wood and sweat and soap, and tried to keep his arousal at bay. It was not an easy task.
They finally reached his door and tumbled inside, Xander limp in his arms, still mumbling under his breath about the women in his life. But when he dropped the boy onto his bed, helping his feet up and taking off his shoes, he said something that made Spike freeze.
“M’so tired… of girls.”
Wha…? He dropped his shoes to the floor, leaning over the bed and watching him roll over onto his side, his face shoving into the pillow so that he had to rely on his vamp hearing to hear the rest.
“So tired… ‘f girls. Of bein’ the girl when I’m with girls. Aren’t I supposed t’ be the one makin’ moves? Just once, I wanna be with somebody… And be the guy who’s doin’ the pouncing. I wanna be th’ one to say, you know, ‘I want you’. Without fuckin’ it up.”
He left him there then, fearing that the boy would say something else like that, and he’d be forced to pounce him then and there. No, no. This… This needed planning. This needed very, very careful planning.
On Friday, he went in full-force, knowing Xander no longer even stood a chance.
It was six-twelve, and Xander had made his toast and coffee. He strolled into the kitchen, shirtless, his hand sliding lightly over the boy’s shoulder making him turn around and look. His mouth opens to ask ‘What?’, but no words come out. It just stays that way for a minute before slowly closing again.
“Observant, aren’t you?” He asked, his tone light and full of mirth. Opening the fridge, he leaned over to grab his blood, pushing his ass into the air.
He held that position for thirty seconds, shifting his hips about fifteen seconds in.
When he shifted, so did his jeans.
Xander looked. No, stared. He stared for every second of his little show, unable to look away and not bothering to hide it. His toast hit the table with a clatter only he could hear—vamp hearing and all—and by the time he straightened, pulling those jeans up a little to cover the tip of his cleft, he could smell the boy’s need.
After he’d retrieved his blood, he went over to the cabinet to reach for his mug, showing off the muscles in his shoulders, the angles of his waist, the curve of his neck. His jeans dipped again, and Xander’s eyes were all over him, taking him in top to bottom, so intensely that he actually turned his head, quirking an eyebrow at the stare. With that, the boy turned away, trying very hard to fight back a blush.
He ripped the bag open and poured the blood into his mug, setting it in the microwave to heat. Then he popped two slices of toast into the toaster and leaned against the counter. It was three whole priceless minutes before everything was done, and today he used the time wisely, staring at the boy, drinking him in, waiting for him to look up. Which he invariably did.
He began dipping his toast in blood, letting Xander watch as a small dribble of red smattered his chest.
“Pig.” He said it low, breathless, his eyes dragging from the red on his lips to the drips on his chest.
“Good thing I’m shirtless.”
“Yeah. Good thing.”
“Want somethin’, Harris?”
The whelp said nothing, his eyes staying exactly where they were for a full minute before dragging themselves away again. He smirked, leaning against the counter, jeans still slung low on his hips, showing off the edges of his pelvic bones. Harris was turning pink.
When he was done, he let the mug clatter to the counter and left it there, knowing it would leave a ring of lukewarm blood behind. And stayed exactly where he was.
Not even a minute later, Xander got up and took his napkin to the counter, leaning in close to him, letting their shoulders brush as he wiped away the blood and offered him the mug. “We’ve had this discussion.”
Boy’s heart was racing like a humming bird’s, and he smelled of heat and arousal that would’ve taken his breath away, if he needed it. But he stepped into it, breathing it in, his eyes falling half-lidded as he tilted his body toward him, leaving his head and hands where they were. “So why have it again?”
Silent, Harris let his eyes fall to the contours of his chest, the lines of muscle he’d been displaying the whole time. As though he’d just now noticed how close they were.
“Want somethin’, Harris?” He said it again, the words slipping low and soft from his mouth. His eyes fell to Xander’s lips. They held there as that pink, tempting tongue dragged over them, wetting them, making them so kissable that it’s a wonder he held out for the answer.
And Harris did it, mesmerized, dragging his napkin from the counter to his chest, wiping the blood away. Achingly slow.
His dark, deep brown eyes slid back up to his, and he whispered, voice trembling a little. “I want you.”
Lips curling in a wicked, wicked smirk, Spike took the mug from his hands and tossed it into the sink.
Rough, work-worn hands gripped his shoulders, dragging him in for a kiss that sears him to the bone. Their tongues immediately clashed, the way they always do in words, but now they’re dragging hard against each other, collaborating as Harris pressed closer, dropping his napkin to the floor. Fuck, those lips were soft. Wet with spit, melding and meshing easily against his own, so easily that it’s impossible not to see how the rest of their bodies work together. Spike’s hands dropped to his waist, his knees spreading wide to invite him in. And Xander moved, pressing his thigh against the bulge in his jeans, his hands dropping to their button and yanking it from its hole.
The jeans hit the floor. Spike’s ass hit the countertop.
- Current Mood: anxious
- Current Music:Regina Spektor- "Hotel Song"