Nekid_Spike Challenge
Well I got Oz, boots, Los Vegas and Spanking. Oz is tricky, but it finally came together, just in time,
Title: Lost in Vegas
Author: Oriana
Pairing: Spike/Oz
Rating: PG 17
Disclaimer: Just keeping those royalties flowing
Everyone else in the bar has given him a wide berth, but this one slides into the seat next to him as if expected.
“Been awhile,” Spike says, and slides the bottle down the bar.
“Had a gig near here. You?” A slender hand pours a shot and pushes the bottle back.
“Doin’ an errand for Angel. Fucking hate Vegas.” Spike returns.
“With you there, man.” The halogen down lights pick out details: sun bleached highlights in hennaed waves, a blue gemstone threaded onto a leather strap, tied around a wrist that still looks so fragile. Green cargos and red band shirt. That air of quiet self-containment he’d always envied.
“Thought you were dead?”
Spike can’t recall the number of times he’s been asked that, but Oz is the only one who doesn’t make it sound like an accusation.
“Yeah, was. Seems it don’t stick like it used to. Thought you were in Tibet?”
“Nepal. Was. Came back. Thought I had my shit together.” Oz glances sideways at him. “Been back?” he asks. And he doesn’t mean Nepal.
“To Sunn… No. Don’t want to relive that again.” Not when he can do it in glorious Technicolour every night for free.
“Yeah. Can understand that.”
They drink another round in silence. Then:
“Didn’t thank you. You know, for not dusting me when yer had the chance.” Their eyes had locked across the warehouse floor, and Spike just knew in that second he was dead (again). But Oz hadn’t fired: while Doyle and Cordelia dragged his sire’s bleeding body into the van.
“When? Oh, that. Well, I owed you one.” No one had asked why he hadn’t taken the shot when he’d had the chance. He wouldn’t have been able to explain if they had.
“Ta mate, bet you’re the only one who thought that, though.” Spike raises his glass in salute.
“Probably right,” the red head counters, and taps Spike’s glass with his own.
“Still got that itch?” Spike asks, after a while. His foot taps along to an unheard beat.
“Now and then. Now, especially.” Oz plays with the glass, turning it around and around on the bar counter with gracile, talented fingers. Droplets of amber catch and slide like golden tears.
“Plenty of people in Vegas will see to that. Good ones too,” Spike points out gently.
“Know that. But I heard you were in town.”
“Got a room here. Nice one. On Angel’s expense account. Come on.” He slides off the bar stool, throws a pile of bills onto the counter and swirls away; all black leather, silver curls and curdled pain. Oz slots in besides him like a lost puzzle piece.
They ride the elevator in silence: Spike against the elevator wall, contemplating his non-reflection, idly kicking at the wall with the toe of one boot. Oz, hands in pants pockets, a picture of Zen calm in muzak hell, leans opposite him. They ignore each other the way strangers never do.
They reach the room and Spike swipes the key card, remembering his manners enough to let Oz in first.
“Another drink?” Not that either of them need more alcohol. And they’ve never needed it for this.
Oz prowls the room, and there is that crinkle in Spike’s awareness that tells him the wolf is much closer now, checking out unfamiliar territory.
“Nah, I’m fine.” Oz finally comes to rest behind the sofa, hands on the soft leather, only the gentle circling of one thumb betraying his tension.
Spike watches him from across the room, remembering that first meeting: Willy’s bar. Spike was a little more than drunk, and they were both a lot more than lost and despite the myths, there is no real enmity between werewolf and vampire. The request was straightforward and direct and (God knows) Spike understands what it’s like to need that kind of release.
“How do you want this?” Because this has never been his to control. He just facilitates: a word he’s learnt in LA.
“Just straight up. I’m past the games.” The thumb is still circling.
“Fine.” Spike pulls one of the straight-backed chairs away from the dining table and places it carefully in the centre of the room. “Want t’ tell me what this time is for?”
“There was a girl,” Oz leaves the sofa and comes to stand beside Spike. Waits while the vampire slides out of the duster and tosses it back onto the sofa. “She had red hair.”
“Ah,” says Spike, and settles into the chair. He reaches out and latches on to Oz’s cargos. The werewolf comes along, unresisting; lodging between Spike’s spread knees. “And?” he prompts, as his fingers work the buttons and zipper undone.
“I didn’t mean to frighten her.” The pain coils in his voice so tightly that Spike can almost feel Oz’s insides wrenching in counterpoint. One finger spins the leather thong round and round, launching the small gem into a frantic orbit.
“I know you didn’t, luv. We never do.” The pants slide down and bunch over the worn sneakers. The boy smells of green tea, and lemons; there’s the dark streak of pot, and the corrosive bite of pain: he’s trembling, half-controlled shivers breaking the surface and diving down again in spasmodic mini quakes of need.
Spike slides his hands up under the worn t-shirt and gently grips Oz’s hips, circling his thumbs over the prominent hipbones, whispering, calming: as if Oz was some sort of skittish animal. Which he was, when you thought about it.
He pulls the waistband of the blue satin boxers down slowly to reveal the rigid cock. Like the rest of Oz, it is beautiful: fragile and strong in the same instant. Ivory silk over titanium, blushed dark rose with want. Spike bends his head to sweep his tongue across the leaking slit and Oz moans. His fingers abandon the spinning bracelet to burrow and crunch their way through Spike’s gelled curls.
Slowly, Spike slides blue satin down until it puddles over the crumpled cargos.
“C’mere, luv. I’ll make it better, promise.” There is the smallest whimper as Spike positions Oz over his knees, and the vampire pats him gently until the latest quake subsides.
There is always this small ritual. Where Spike runs his hands slowly over each firm cheek; slides his fingers down between splayed legs and back over the twitching pucker. And then one last pat: the other hand firmly placed in the small of his back to steady and comfort.
The blow is hard, delivered with all his strength, and the welt goes from red to rising bruise almost instantly. There is a half scream and Oz’s body snaps into an agonised bow.
Spike doesn’t wait. The next one is on the opposite cheek and just as fierce. The scream is louder now, and Spike is grateful that Angel’s money buys discretion.
He continues, without respite, until the milk white skin is deep red and purple. The blows land with clinical precision: over each buttock, down the back of each thigh. Oz’s screams have morphed in strangled sobs.
Spike knows the boy is close, and increases the speed of the blows, upping the intensity, until with a scream Oz comes, hard, soaking Spike’s jeans and painting his doc’s with translucent pearly spatters.
For a long while there is only Oz’s hiccupping crying. Spike rubs his hand over his back, comforting, until he knows Oz is ready. With a sigh, Oz levers himself off Spike’s lap; stands quietly as the vampire puts his clothes to rights.
For the first time this evening Oz allows himself to look at Spike. He remains seated, one hand idly rubbing at the wet patch and staring at the drying splotches on his boots as if they were tea leaves in a cup. He knows Spike is hard, but understands that any offer of sex will be refused: politely.
“Really appreciate this Spike. You know that, yeah?” he says softly
“Yeah, I know. Glad to help.”
Oz turns to go. His hand is on the door when he speaks again.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“What,” Spike’s head jerks up and around to face him. “Do what?”
“I see a flash of red hair, or smell lavender, or hear a laugh like hers and I spin out. You see him every day. And say nothing. It’s goner kill you, man. One day. For real.”
The door closes with a soft click and Spike sits there staring at nothing while the words tumble around inside him.
Then, with a sigh, he places his hands on his thighs and stands. And thinks, maybe it’s time to ring Angel.
Title: Lost in Vegas
Author: Oriana
Pairing: Spike/Oz
Rating: PG 17
Disclaimer: Just keeping those royalties flowing
Everyone else in the bar has given him a wide berth, but this one slides into the seat next to him as if expected.
“Been awhile,” Spike says, and slides the bottle down the bar.
“Had a gig near here. You?” A slender hand pours a shot and pushes the bottle back.
“Doin’ an errand for Angel. Fucking hate Vegas.” Spike returns.
“With you there, man.” The halogen down lights pick out details: sun bleached highlights in hennaed waves, a blue gemstone threaded onto a leather strap, tied around a wrist that still looks so fragile. Green cargos and red band shirt. That air of quiet self-containment he’d always envied.
“Thought you were dead?”
Spike can’t recall the number of times he’s been asked that, but Oz is the only one who doesn’t make it sound like an accusation.
“Yeah, was. Seems it don’t stick like it used to. Thought you were in Tibet?”
“Nepal. Was. Came back. Thought I had my shit together.” Oz glances sideways at him. “Been back?” he asks. And he doesn’t mean Nepal.
“To Sunn… No. Don’t want to relive that again.” Not when he can do it in glorious Technicolour every night for free.
“Yeah. Can understand that.”
They drink another round in silence. Then:
“Didn’t thank you. You know, for not dusting me when yer had the chance.” Their eyes had locked across the warehouse floor, and Spike just knew in that second he was dead (again). But Oz hadn’t fired: while Doyle and Cordelia dragged his sire’s bleeding body into the van.
“When? Oh, that. Well, I owed you one.” No one had asked why he hadn’t taken the shot when he’d had the chance. He wouldn’t have been able to explain if they had.
“Ta mate, bet you’re the only one who thought that, though.” Spike raises his glass in salute.
“Probably right,” the red head counters, and taps Spike’s glass with his own.
“Still got that itch?” Spike asks, after a while. His foot taps along to an unheard beat.
“Now and then. Now, especially.” Oz plays with the glass, turning it around and around on the bar counter with gracile, talented fingers. Droplets of amber catch and slide like golden tears.
“Plenty of people in Vegas will see to that. Good ones too,” Spike points out gently.
“Know that. But I heard you were in town.”
“Got a room here. Nice one. On Angel’s expense account. Come on.” He slides off the bar stool, throws a pile of bills onto the counter and swirls away; all black leather, silver curls and curdled pain. Oz slots in besides him like a lost puzzle piece.
They ride the elevator in silence: Spike against the elevator wall, contemplating his non-reflection, idly kicking at the wall with the toe of one boot. Oz, hands in pants pockets, a picture of Zen calm in muzak hell, leans opposite him. They ignore each other the way strangers never do.
They reach the room and Spike swipes the key card, remembering his manners enough to let Oz in first.
“Another drink?” Not that either of them need more alcohol. And they’ve never needed it for this.
Oz prowls the room, and there is that crinkle in Spike’s awareness that tells him the wolf is much closer now, checking out unfamiliar territory.
“Nah, I’m fine.” Oz finally comes to rest behind the sofa, hands on the soft leather, only the gentle circling of one thumb betraying his tension.
Spike watches him from across the room, remembering that first meeting: Willy’s bar. Spike was a little more than drunk, and they were both a lot more than lost and despite the myths, there is no real enmity between werewolf and vampire. The request was straightforward and direct and (God knows) Spike understands what it’s like to need that kind of release.
“How do you want this?” Because this has never been his to control. He just facilitates: a word he’s learnt in LA.
“Just straight up. I’m past the games.” The thumb is still circling.
“Fine.” Spike pulls one of the straight-backed chairs away from the dining table and places it carefully in the centre of the room. “Want t’ tell me what this time is for?”
“There was a girl,” Oz leaves the sofa and comes to stand beside Spike. Waits while the vampire slides out of the duster and tosses it back onto the sofa. “She had red hair.”
“Ah,” says Spike, and settles into the chair. He reaches out and latches on to Oz’s cargos. The werewolf comes along, unresisting; lodging between Spike’s spread knees. “And?” he prompts, as his fingers work the buttons and zipper undone.
“I didn’t mean to frighten her.” The pain coils in his voice so tightly that Spike can almost feel Oz’s insides wrenching in counterpoint. One finger spins the leather thong round and round, launching the small gem into a frantic orbit.
“I know you didn’t, luv. We never do.” The pants slide down and bunch over the worn sneakers. The boy smells of green tea, and lemons; there’s the dark streak of pot, and the corrosive bite of pain: he’s trembling, half-controlled shivers breaking the surface and diving down again in spasmodic mini quakes of need.
Spike slides his hands up under the worn t-shirt and gently grips Oz’s hips, circling his thumbs over the prominent hipbones, whispering, calming: as if Oz was some sort of skittish animal. Which he was, when you thought about it.
He pulls the waistband of the blue satin boxers down slowly to reveal the rigid cock. Like the rest of Oz, it is beautiful: fragile and strong in the same instant. Ivory silk over titanium, blushed dark rose with want. Spike bends his head to sweep his tongue across the leaking slit and Oz moans. His fingers abandon the spinning bracelet to burrow and crunch their way through Spike’s gelled curls.
Slowly, Spike slides blue satin down until it puddles over the crumpled cargos.
“C’mere, luv. I’ll make it better, promise.” There is the smallest whimper as Spike positions Oz over his knees, and the vampire pats him gently until the latest quake subsides.
There is always this small ritual. Where Spike runs his hands slowly over each firm cheek; slides his fingers down between splayed legs and back over the twitching pucker. And then one last pat: the other hand firmly placed in the small of his back to steady and comfort.
The blow is hard, delivered with all his strength, and the welt goes from red to rising bruise almost instantly. There is a half scream and Oz’s body snaps into an agonised bow.
Spike doesn’t wait. The next one is on the opposite cheek and just as fierce. The scream is louder now, and Spike is grateful that Angel’s money buys discretion.
He continues, without respite, until the milk white skin is deep red and purple. The blows land with clinical precision: over each buttock, down the back of each thigh. Oz’s screams have morphed in strangled sobs.
Spike knows the boy is close, and increases the speed of the blows, upping the intensity, until with a scream Oz comes, hard, soaking Spike’s jeans and painting his doc’s with translucent pearly spatters.
For a long while there is only Oz’s hiccupping crying. Spike rubs his hand over his back, comforting, until he knows Oz is ready. With a sigh, Oz levers himself off Spike’s lap; stands quietly as the vampire puts his clothes to rights.
For the first time this evening Oz allows himself to look at Spike. He remains seated, one hand idly rubbing at the wet patch and staring at the drying splotches on his boots as if they were tea leaves in a cup. He knows Spike is hard, but understands that any offer of sex will be refused: politely.
“Really appreciate this Spike. You know that, yeah?” he says softly
“Yeah, I know. Glad to help.”
Oz turns to go. His hand is on the door when he speaks again.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“What,” Spike’s head jerks up and around to face him. “Do what?”
“I see a flash of red hair, or smell lavender, or hear a laugh like hers and I spin out. You see him every day. And say nothing. It’s goner kill you, man. One day. For real.”
The door closes with a soft click and Spike sits there staring at nothing while the words tumble around inside him.
Then, with a sigh, he places his hands on his thighs and stands. And thinks, maybe it’s time to ring Angel.