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Like the Bolt Busted Loose from the Lever
736 words
R
this is beginning to feel like the long winded blues of the never
this is beginning to feel like it's curling up slowly and finding a throat to choke
- TV On The Radio
You should watch sometime.
It’s an invitation that she’s not sure what to do with. So she does. She takes it; she stands in the shadows and she watches them, the hard shift, the gold eyes and the fangs, the blood flashing almost purple in the neon light. The way Mike arches and his mouth drops open in a silent moan. He looks like he’s coming, she realizes. Like it’s so completely a blend of pleasure and pain that he can’t offer up any resistance. Even if he wanted to.
You should watch sometime. And she folds one arm across her middle, as if she’s trying to protect herself from the hot hum just under the surface of her skin, and she thinks No, I really shouldn’t.
She’s in the shadows of the alley; she isn’t even sure they know she’s there. Spike must, he must be able to smell her, hear her--but maybe Mike doesn’t know. She’s not sure she likes that idea, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t look away.
Spike pulls back slightly, his lips painted red and peeling back from his teeth. Mike’s throat is still oozing gently. His eyes are half closed as he smudges his fingers through his own blood, lifts them to his mouth and starts to lick them clean. Feeding on himself. She wants to be horrified, because horror makes the most sense here, but she’s not sure that that’s what the clench low in her belly is.
Then Mike’s eyes meet hers across the yards between them, hot and sharp, and he gives her a bloody smile, and it’s like an electric shock shooting straight into her cunt. She closes her eyes because it’s too much, she doesn’t want to have to be fighting back moans of her own, but when she feels heat close to her and a familiar scent in her space, she opens her eyes and then she is fighting back a moan. And not entirely successfully.
“Did you enjoy that?” Spike’s pressing in, face shifted back. He’s got a hand braced against the wall by her head, trapping her gently. His lips are still red, his fingers too, and just behind him she can see Mike slumped against the wall like a junkie who’s just shot his veins full of something amazing.
“I.” She drags in a breath. Fuck me, she thinks, can’t say it, wants to say it, wants Spike to shove her against the wall, drag her pants down around her thighs and take her right fucking here and make Mike watch it happen because it isn’t fair, what he made her do. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” Those fingers against her lips. She can smell the blood. Mike’s blood. It’s still warm. ”Have a taste.”
Her lips part. Tip of a finger, slipping past her teeth and onto her tongue. She’s sucking at it before she can stop herself, tasting sweet copper. Behind Spike she hears Mike breathe, “Jesus Christ, Andrea,” and God but this is so gloriously wrong.
She’s not sure when fingers become his tongue but with no transition at all he’s kissing her, a bloody kiss that she presses back into, suddenly hungry and totally unashamed of it. She frames his face with her hands and bites at his lip, and Mike’s breath shouldn’t be as loud as it is in her ears with as far away as he must still be. Under the blood Spike tastes like bourbon and smells like leather and she’s open to it, sucking it all in, moaning loud and wetter than she can remember being. Grinding herself against the press of Spike’s thigh between her legs. Jesus Christ, Andrea.
When she comes, her head’s turned and Spike’s teeth are against her throat, not shifted but still sharp. She’s gasping, fixing Mike’s gaze with her own; he’s got a hand between his legs, gripping himself through his jeans, lower lip caught between his teeth. She sees that as the shudders take her and then she lets her eyes close, riding it out. It feels like revenge. You watch. You fucking watch now.
It’s over too fast, like a whipcrack, leaving her stinging and somehow unsatisfied. She opens her eyes again. Spike is sucking gently at her earlobe, hands on her waist. She’s still pinned. Mike is grinning at her again.
You should watch sometime.
She shouldn’t. Ever.
She knows she will.
736 words
R
this is beginning to feel like the long winded blues of the never
this is beginning to feel like it's curling up slowly and finding a throat to choke
- TV On The Radio
You should watch sometime.
It’s an invitation that she’s not sure what to do with. So she does. She takes it; she stands in the shadows and she watches them, the hard shift, the gold eyes and the fangs, the blood flashing almost purple in the neon light. The way Mike arches and his mouth drops open in a silent moan. He looks like he’s coming, she realizes. Like it’s so completely a blend of pleasure and pain that he can’t offer up any resistance. Even if he wanted to.
You should watch sometime. And she folds one arm across her middle, as if she’s trying to protect herself from the hot hum just under the surface of her skin, and she thinks No, I really shouldn’t.
She’s in the shadows of the alley; she isn’t even sure they know she’s there. Spike must, he must be able to smell her, hear her--but maybe Mike doesn’t know. She’s not sure she likes that idea, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t look away.
Spike pulls back slightly, his lips painted red and peeling back from his teeth. Mike’s throat is still oozing gently. His eyes are half closed as he smudges his fingers through his own blood, lifts them to his mouth and starts to lick them clean. Feeding on himself. She wants to be horrified, because horror makes the most sense here, but she’s not sure that that’s what the clench low in her belly is.
Then Mike’s eyes meet hers across the yards between them, hot and sharp, and he gives her a bloody smile, and it’s like an electric shock shooting straight into her cunt. She closes her eyes because it’s too much, she doesn’t want to have to be fighting back moans of her own, but when she feels heat close to her and a familiar scent in her space, she opens her eyes and then she is fighting back a moan. And not entirely successfully.
“Did you enjoy that?” Spike’s pressing in, face shifted back. He’s got a hand braced against the wall by her head, trapping her gently. His lips are still red, his fingers too, and just behind him she can see Mike slumped against the wall like a junkie who’s just shot his veins full of something amazing.
“I.” She drags in a breath. Fuck me, she thinks, can’t say it, wants to say it, wants Spike to shove her against the wall, drag her pants down around her thighs and take her right fucking here and make Mike watch it happen because it isn’t fair, what he made her do. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” Those fingers against her lips. She can smell the blood. Mike’s blood. It’s still warm. ”Have a taste.”
Her lips part. Tip of a finger, slipping past her teeth and onto her tongue. She’s sucking at it before she can stop herself, tasting sweet copper. Behind Spike she hears Mike breathe, “Jesus Christ, Andrea,” and God but this is so gloriously wrong.
She’s not sure when fingers become his tongue but with no transition at all he’s kissing her, a bloody kiss that she presses back into, suddenly hungry and totally unashamed of it. She frames his face with her hands and bites at his lip, and Mike’s breath shouldn’t be as loud as it is in her ears with as far away as he must still be. Under the blood Spike tastes like bourbon and smells like leather and she’s open to it, sucking it all in, moaning loud and wetter than she can remember being. Grinding herself against the press of Spike’s thigh between her legs. Jesus Christ, Andrea.
When she comes, her head’s turned and Spike’s teeth are against her throat, not shifted but still sharp. She’s gasping, fixing Mike’s gaze with her own; he’s got a hand between his legs, gripping himself through his jeans, lower lip caught between his teeth. She sees that as the shudders take her and then she lets her eyes close, riding it out. It feels like revenge. You watch. You fucking watch now.
It’s over too fast, like a whipcrack, leaving her stinging and somehow unsatisfied. She opens her eyes again. Spike is sucking gently at her earlobe, hands on her waist. She’s still pinned. Mike is grinning at her again.
You should watch sometime.
She shouldn’t. Ever.
She knows she will.