Don't Look Drabble
It wasn’t anything new. Spike had been fucking men since the middle of the Cleveland Administration. Most times it wasn’t all that different, suck, blow, bite, shag, ahhh, owww, they all blended together. Some nights Spike would top, others he would bottom, he wasn’t terribly picky about the way he gave it or took it as long as he got off and walked away with all of his limbs attached.
So how was it that he was now tied to a chair in a dank basement, having his dick sucked by a barely legal teen thinking that it may very well be a sign of the apocalypse?
Certainly there had to have been beer involved, possibly even drugs. No vampire, not even a partially impaired, often suicidal vampire would allow such a thing to happen of his own accord. Definitely not, Spike assured himself. This boy knew a witch, several demons, former and otherwise. There must have been magic involved. Drunken magic that can only be found at the bottom of a bong.
This was in no way happening because he wanted it too. Spike was not turned on by the feel of nylon rope against his wrists. The binding pinch around his ankles was not the reason his dick jumped up and down like a trapeze artist coming in for a landing. The pressure of the rope against his nipples was not making him writhe against the chair in a desperate attempt to engage friction between cotton and flesh.
And he wasn’t at all about to come into the mouth of a warm human who had dropped to his knees with a glint in his eyes and a bored sigh spilling from his lips an hour earlier. The boy’s declaration of boredom and curiosity had not led to Spike telling him to amuse himself how he saw fit seeing as Spike was the guest and he the host.
It was just a fuck, same as a thousand others Spike had encountered in his very long life, and not at all the beginning of something that could last as long as this boy managed to stay alive on the hellmouth. Not at all.