All Spike wanted was a pack of smokes. But he was out. His nightly routine of scoring some quid off scampering mortals had gone bust after he'd run into the demon bird. Or ex-demon rather. Not that he was complaining, mind you. She was good company to keep if he was forced to keep company with a human, let alone one of Buffy's minions. But now he was stuck at this sorry excuse for a party and Anya had gone off to make the whelp jealous. Not even four beers had pushed him to mildly amused.
He really wanted a cigarette. Anything. Even one little drag off a poofy minty-fresh menthol. His arse was sore from sitting in the chair for over an hour and he was bored out of his skull. The beer was cheap, what you'd expect from the likes of young boys who just revel in the fact that they can purchase beer and pay no mind to the quality of it. But it was free, so Spike wasn't about to prance up to the soldiers and insult them and their pathetic ale. He still fancied having a self to pity, after all. He sighed and stood, giving his duster a quick shake before heading off to find some passed out git with a couple of fags he could nick.
Spike gave little notice to the festivities that he passed, although things seemed to be heating up. Literally. The air of the room had thickened and held the partygoers, moving them like puppets. It was gradual though and Spike shrugged it off. This was the Hellmouth after all, maybe things were looking up and there would be an apocalypse with rivers of blood or some such fairytale ending. A demon can dream, can't he?
He was still a bit wary, being in the commando's home base, so he kept watch out of the corner of his eye as he strode down the corridor. It was too clean and polished, the hall was, and Spike could detect the faint hum of machinery behind the walls. For a moment he entertained the fantasy of taking an axe and chopping his way through the bloody insulation. Find one of those doctors and force them to make him what he was again. But he didn't think idle threats or scary words would be very convincing, so he let the idea fizzle through his chipped brain.
A few more turns and he found the back entrance. To his dismay, it was empty. No drunken smokers, not even a few sober ones. But it felt good to be out of the house. Even the warm breeze seemed cool compared to the inside of the fraternity. Spike took a seat on one of the wooden steps and slugged down the rest of his beer.
The backyard was pretty secluded, facing a patch of trees. Not surprising that the government chose such a conveniently positioned location. Maybe they even built it here, this way. He chuckled bitterly at the absurdity of the situation. They were right below him. The wankers who had ruined his unlife. Just going about their usual business when they should be a pile of dry corpses with missing limbs by now. God, how they would pay once he found a cure. The rage grew from his gut, into his throat and he laughed, almost maniacally. He couldn't do a damned thing. Without even realizing it, he chucked the bottle at the ground and watched it shatter into tiny brown fragments.
"Whoa there buddy. You alright?"
Spike turned at the sudden interruption and raised a brow at the young man who stood in the doorway. He was clean cut, and well-muscled from the looks of his fitted striped shirt. Almost reminded Spike of the Slayer's shag toy, Rolley or something. Except this boy didn't look like a drowned puppy. Definitely a soldier.
"Sorry, must've slipped," muttered Spike, turning away.
"Don't worry about it. Matches the living room. Things are getting a little carried away in there, huh?" he asked, taking a seat next to Spike. "Had to get out myself. I'm Graham by the way."
Remembering his own reason for escaping the party, Spike gave the soldier a light smirk. "You wouldn't happen to have a smoke, would you mate?"
Graham shook his head. "Those things will kill ya."
"Yeah, if you're lucky," Spike sighed, dejected that his search was turning fruitless.
"Maybe you've had a little too much to drink," said Graham, an amused smile tugging on his lips.
Too much to drink? He was out of cash, blood and beers at the crypt. He wished that his problem was too much to drink. If only.
Graham studied the dispirited expression on his face. "I think Mason might have a couple to lend out," he offered. "He won't be lighting up anytime soon." That amused smile again. "There was a fire incident this morning."
At this, Spike perked up. "Really? Where can I find this Mason bloke?"
"Well he's not here tonight. He's at another party. In the woods. But uh--," Graham glanced back at the house. "I know where he keeps his pack."
It was hotter inside than Spike remembered it to be, to the point where it should have been uncomfortable. It couldn't have been the alcohol, but he felt oddly sedated. Like a swarm of bees in mid-July, vibrating the heated summer night of his brain. Made him remember the time he'd left a mug of blood in the librarian's microwave too long. Thickened it, made the blood sticky as it slowly slid down his throat. That's what the room felt like. Hot and slow in oozing movements.
Halfway up the stairs, Graham stopped. "What the·"
Spike followed the boy's gaze around the room and realized that the party was more like an orgy. Everyone was on overdrive. That's why he couldn't shake the memory of the microwaved blood. The whole room was like one big steaming blood-filled mug. Kids making out, touching walls, getting their jollies anyway they could. Made their blood pump fresh with lust and boil over with anticipation. All of Spike's senses were clouding together as scent transformed to taste, and the collected odor of sweat became a flavor in his mouth.
He had to get of there. "About those smokes, mate--"
A sudden scream rang from upstairs, startling both vampire and soldier. But they seemed the only ones to pay any mind to the persistent cry, as it echoed from the bathroom. It sounded like a person on the verge of mania. Graham bolted up the remaining steps and sprinted towards the source of the disturbance. Spike sighed in exasperation and followed.
As he passed one of the bedroom doors to his right, he heard a soft moan. The heat emanating from that spot was brutal. Enough to make a vampire sweat. But those moans·almost familiar. Buffy? It had to have been the hotness in his brain that sent a tingling through his chest and made him want to open the door. Instinctively, or by its own command, he felt his hand reaching for the knob. Inches from the brass handle, he paused. It was as if he were holding his fingers above a stove. Quickly, he pulled away.
Spike shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Cigarettes. That's what he wanted. Needed. Not a warm body up against his, squirming and pliant. A nice nicotine fix was all. What the bloody hell was going on in this place? He tore his attention from the blistering hall and headed into the bathroom. No sight of who had screamed. The bathroom was empty, except for Graham who was staring at the mirror.
"Uh, knock knock," said Spike, impatiently. He just wanted to get the cigarettes and get the hell out. Part of him was ready to forget this damned place all together and start legging it right then and there. But the heat was a wall around him. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Lucky for him, the latter wasn't an issue.
"He was here," Graham said. His tone somewhat robotic.
"Who?" Spike could feel himself moving towards Graham. It was discerning, the way he just stared into the damn mirror like it was the face of God Almighty.
The door slammed shut of its own volition. Spike spun around and reached out, but it felt cemented in place. Now normally these things wouldn't have bothered Spike, avid fan of chaos and hijinks that he was. But he didn't fancy being on the receiving end of supernatural pranks. He tried desperately to tug the door free, but it remained in tact, despite his efforts.
He stopped when he felt Graham's grasp on his hips. It was a firm hold that slipped forwards, over the coarse denim, and pulled Spike into the young man's erection. Spike had to get out. Because it was too hot to think straight and he was hungry as all hell and, rot it all, this felt right. That this man of a boy would be grinding himself into Spike's ass.
Graham's hands moved down, cupping Spike through his jeans. And it was as if there wasn't the weight of a zipper blocking Graham's eager palm. The air. The breath. The fingers. The room. It was all on fire. It had to be. Where else could all this heat be coming from? Graham pushed him up against the door, causing Spike's cheek to press flat against the wood. And it was suddenly alright for Spike to be possessed by something more or less powerful than himself. To let a mortal man repeatedly push him into the door while roughly groping him. The humid atmosphere seemed to gather in Spike's throat and when he swallowed, the feeling sizzled all the way down his spine. Collecting at his groin.
"Do it," Spike whispered.
Graham let Spike turn to face him. There was only a second of looking at one another. Sizing up each other's lustful, masculine features. And after that second passed, their mouths were connected. Almost biting, practically devouring each other's lips. Passing grunts and groans through their tough kiss. Graham's tongue was like an exotic spice in Spike's mouth. A delicious wet flame sliding between his teeth.
There was a rough tangle as they fell to the floor with Spike breaking the fall. Graham's hands were at the wings of Spike's fly again. Graham was unzipping, spreading the fabric; all the while leaving slow kisses to dry on his pale neck. The soft fluttering movement of Graham's lips sharply differed from his frantic fingers. Spike's hips jolted upwards as the warm air flooded his now exposed flesh.
There was a break in movement. An eye of their storm. Graham stared down at Spike, just as he had stared at the mirror.
"Do you forgive the sin?" said Graham, low but monotone still. His hands were in a teasing limbo inches away from Spike's hardness. Close enough that Spike could feel the proximity but not close enough at all. Because even if Graham's hands were all over him, it still wouldn't be close enough.
Spike bucked up again in a pleading gesture. "You better commit the bloody sin soon," he growled through his teeth.
Graham hesitated purposely before finally giving Spike the satisfaction of a nipping kiss. Followed by a longer one. And another longer still. Only then did Spike feel the burning hands grip his cock. Strong hands, deserved of a monster fighting boy. A makeshift demon hunter who really belonged to a world that hadn't a clue about hunting demons. Or fucking them.
But Spike wasn't complaining. He was whimpering as Graham stroked him and kissed him. And the soldier was systematic too, God bless military training. Palm encircled over Spike's engorged member, Graham let his firm grip trail upwards. Flesh catching on flesh, creating a glorious friction. And then reaching the top, he let his thumb brush over the tip, pulling a gasp from Spike. After Graham's hand gently retreated back to the base, he would start the blissful routine over again. Pull up. Brush. Flutter down.
Between the forces of heat and hand, time seemed a momentary worry. Something Spike wished he could stop so that Graham could forever give him the best hand job he'd ever had the pleasure of receiving. But a minute later, Spike was overjoyed that time held fast to its relentless course through space because Graham released himself from the vampire's mouth and began a fiery saliva trail down the vampire's neck. Ripping open Spike's shirt, he continued down the hairless chest. Stopping only to gather a nipple into his mouth and again to dip a kiss into the crevice of his bellybutton.
Until, slowly but surely, Graham parted his lips and took Spike's fullness into his mouth. Spike cried out, coherence lost in the parch exchange of sensation to sound. He was trapped between a hot-bodied man and the thermal bed of tiles which he gripped for support. And the heat kept coming like rolls of thunder. Spike clawed the floor, hips jerking up in wanton request. Graham's tongue gave a generous reply, moving over Spike's cock like water spilling over rocks.
Not like anyone. His past lovers couldn't compare to the powerful mouth of a man. There was Drusilla who was small and bony and birdlike in every way. And then Harmony, soft inside and out. Women made a mess of everything and couldn't understand what it was like to have a toy soldier playing with their cock. He could feel Graham's square jaw loosen around his shaft as the boy sucked down. Lips sliding towards the base and then back up.
Too much. Spike groaned and bucked up once more before he came. The tension in his gut rose up and broke as he rode the orgasm to its entirety.
Graham was choking. "Ice cold," he coughed, hand to his chest. The soldier pushed himself up and staggered to the sink. Spike lay recovering as Graham turned the left faucet full force and scooped the water into his mouth as it poured into the cup of his palm.
Enough sense hit Spike to buckle his pants. Which he did, but when he got to his feet he realized his error. Graham's face was stoney as he gazed at his lone reflection. Spike froze.
"Spawn of the devil," murmured Graham.
"Oh and I'm sure the lord Christ smiled upon your sainthood as you sucked off Satan's spawn," snorted Spike, fighting the oppressive heat enough to defend himself. Graham didn't stir, but kept his glare on the mirror. Spike's brow knitted into a confused wrinkle as he realized that Graham wasn't even speaking to him.
The door swung open and the blanket of heat loosened around them. Spike decided to hightail it rather than further assess the bizarre situation. He took the stairs two at a time, in haste. But when he reached the bottom, his mouth was too dry and his legs too heavy and he saw a beer sitting next to the chair he had occupied earlier in the evening. Soldier boy wasn't in any position to rat him out. Amidst the rambunctious hormone-driven anarchy surrounding him, he collapsed back into the chair.
Now, more than ever, did he need it, and he still hadn't got himself a cigarette.
Spike. Aroused. Cigarettes.