Spike, set 1: #56, Touch
I really need to catch up on these- one a night, maybe, now that things are less crazy around here. I can manage that.
Don't like how this changed mid-flow.
Pairing: S/wes, S/Angel, S/Fred
Rating: PG-13?
Prompt: Touch
Ever since that box of flash arrived in the mail, Spike’s taken to touching himself in public.
It’s not a conscious thing, really. Just a creature’s instinctual need for comfort after such a period of emotional starvation and physical isolation, an automatic reassurance that he was really there even while everyone still seems to be looking straight through him. And if his arms automatically wrap around himself when he’s at rest, clutching the oversized duster to his too-thin shoulders like a child hunched against a cold wind- well, no one seems to notice.
But when he absently slides his hand under the hem of his shirt to stroke the fine hairs on his stomach, sometimes Wes’s breath hitches just a little.
When he’s casually rubbing slow circles on his chest through thin cotton during a long meeting, Fred’s cheeks seem a little rosier than usual.
And maybe Angel’s eyes darken in a certain way when they’re drawn to Spike’s hands, massaging an old scar on his neck- two faded punctures.
Spike walks out of the meeting room looking unusually perturbed. At Harmony’s raised eyebrow, his frown deepens with open confusion, and he leans over the receptionist’s desk. “Christ, I thought that the Great Poofter was the only one who’d taken his vows of celibacy. I’ve never smelled so many bleedin’ pheromones!” He snorts as he expertly swipes the mug of blood intended for Angel’s mid-evening snack from her with the ease of long practice, his other hand still unconsciously rubbing at the inseam of his thigh. “And what’s so exciting about quarterly financial reports, anyways?”
Don't like how this changed mid-flow.
Pairing: S/wes, S/Angel, S/Fred
Rating: PG-13?
Prompt: Touch
Ever since that box of flash arrived in the mail, Spike’s taken to touching himself in public.
It’s not a conscious thing, really. Just a creature’s instinctual need for comfort after such a period of emotional starvation and physical isolation, an automatic reassurance that he was really there even while everyone still seems to be looking straight through him. And if his arms automatically wrap around himself when he’s at rest, clutching the oversized duster to his too-thin shoulders like a child hunched against a cold wind- well, no one seems to notice.
But when he absently slides his hand under the hem of his shirt to stroke the fine hairs on his stomach, sometimes Wes’s breath hitches just a little.
When he’s casually rubbing slow circles on his chest through thin cotton during a long meeting, Fred’s cheeks seem a little rosier than usual.
And maybe Angel’s eyes darken in a certain way when they’re drawn to Spike’s hands, massaging an old scar on his neck- two faded punctures.
Spike walks out of the meeting room looking unusually perturbed. At Harmony’s raised eyebrow, his frown deepens with open confusion, and he leans over the receptionist’s desk. “Christ, I thought that the Great Poofter was the only one who’d taken his vows of celibacy. I’ve never smelled so many bleedin’ pheromones!” He snorts as he expertly swipes the mug of blood intended for Angel’s mid-evening snack from her with the ease of long practice, his other hand still unconsciously rubbing at the inseam of his thigh. “And what’s so exciting about quarterly financial reports, anyways?”
