Harry's AAA

SYNOPSIS: Plotless smut. Spike gets Angel to take him to his favorite store for his un-birthday. Then they open presents. *grin*

DISTRIBUTION: Anybody who houses my Slash, if you guys want it. Okay for list archives. Anybody else, just send gushing feedback, and it's yours. *grin*

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is a sort-of prequel to the in-progress response to Avarice's EN b-day challenge, which I started writing before that challenge appeared. So it's actually more of a companion piece. Sort-of. Oh, just read it! And be warned, it turned out to be a weensy bit more angsty than I was expecting. *shrug*

Saber, who had me up at 3 a.m. laughing my face off while reading "Never Send a Psychotic to Do a Lunatic's Job". My housemates hate you. ;)

You absolutely cannot beat Harry's AAA Adult Entertainment for Earthbound facsimiles of Heaven. At least, for a bloke.

wonder if he was sitting about in his undoubtedly shitty apartment one night in his grimy boxers, clutching a 40 oz. of Red Bear and gazing adoringly at his gluttonously big porn collection, and said, "You know? Guys in LA really don't have enough places to go and indulge their baser natures. I think I'll build a convenience store for the unreservedly lecherous." 'Course... he probably didn't say 'unreservedly'.

See, what Harry's created here at the corner of West Broad and Titherington is a damn temple of everything carnal. Every possible way to get your knackers off, all under one roof.

started stocking "Mostly Dead Humans -- Suck 'em Dry For Five Dollars", I'd say screw Mopey-Boy, move in here, and never see the stars again.

multitude of flavors, colors, textures, and degrees of warped. So whenever I can steal his credit card without him noticing, I pop over and buy a present for me... I mean, him... and get fresh ideas for games and such.

that fucker Angelus lured me into his damn fancy house, smooth-talked me into letting him bugger me into the mattress, and then killed me. The night he turned me into his little bitch.

I started my "Angel-Sponsored-Trip-To-Harry's" Campaign by getting him to promise to take me out. Fairly simple task... just played the trusty old guilt card. Said considering he murdered me in cold blood and turned me into a monster and all, the least he could do was take me out for my un-birthday.

Naturally, he scowled and brooded and apologized like he always does -- which I could give a shit about-- and then did the important thing, that I

like being an immortal demon, chip or no, and being where I am's a Hell of a lot better than being worm food in a pauper's cemetery in Whitechapel,

what he's thinking -- I'm gonna drag him on a Spike-Adventure, like to the mall or a club. Somewhere loud and crowded that'll make him feel like a big, dumb, socially retarded lummox with a continent-sized headache and an incessant itch to end my existence... which, now that I think about it, describes him to a tee anyway.

So I get him into the car, and we drive according to my directions. When we pull up outside the ratty building Harry's is housed in, Angel sits there for a long time, just staring up at the sign. By the look on his face,

dumbfounded, and has to take a moment to let the ulcer-inducing reality set in to his thick skull; or Two, he's repressing an Angelus impulse. Probably to poke big holes in my torso or remove one or more of my limbs with his

I dance through with a grin, and I swear I hear a choir of Angels singing as I enter. Angels who sing a whole Hell of a lot better than the big lump of brooding suicidal depression behind me. He's slouching harder than usual, like he's trying to disappear before he sees anybody he knows.

Paradise, my bloody un-birthday, and my Plonker Sire's got a Gold Card in his pocket just itching for me to give it a good pounding.

"Fat and ugly. We got the new Sandy Sands video in yesterday. Tres juicy, my brother. Girl on girl action like you wouldn't believe in this one!"

chicks, guys with enormous dicks, guys with enormous dicks on guys who look like chicks, cheerleaders on cheerleaders (a personal favorite)... Hell, he's got everything except vampire porn in here. And yes, there is such a thing... and a market for it. But... I get plenty of demon raunch at the old Hyperion, so I don't mind that particular omission so much.

I pick up a new flick with an colossally endowed, brooding bugger with dark hair and Cro-Magnon forehead spanking his monster wank on the cover.

Swear to God, he ducks behind the shelves and scoots away like he doesn't even know me. I laugh and crouch down, hunting him like I'm about to make him dinner... which, in a way, I will, later. When I catch up with him, he's upright again, staring at a shelf in front of him. I peek around the Hot Lube endcap--grabbing a bottle of Spicy Cinnamon as I do--and check out what he's staring so hard at.

Angel pulls something off the rack and turns to look at me, now wearing this nasty smirk that brings to mind long, lazy nights of branding irons, whips, chains, blood and screaming.

"Boy... I know more about this stuff than you've even *dreamed* of. Now go away while I pick out a suitable present for you."

means I'm gonna get my ass creamed -- probably literally. Second, he's not the least bit shy or embarrassed anymore. Ain't it poetic that it's S&M

"Oh yeah? Hey! Happy birthday, buddy!" He throws one of those giveaway flavored condoms into the pile, then looks at Angel, "I take it you're the Sugar Daddy."

Angel clutches his big bag-o-kink with one hand, and reaches for his wallet with the other, grumbling something only I can make out about "I'll show you Sugar Daddy, when we get home," and asking himself why didn't he just drain me dry and dump me in the alley like he usually did, "damn Irish Whiskey," and slaps the old Visa on the counter.

damn Superfriends are still hard at work. Booby-Girl's all hunched over her little computer that looks like a danish, and Squealy's reading some dusty old dictionary-sized beast of a book like it's the latest Grisham best seller.

They both look up, startled for a moment, but then give me matching, 'Oh, yay, it's Spike' looks. Bet they wouldn't look at me like that if I played

"What? Why?" Cordelia yelps, but you better believe she's up outta the chair and getting her sweater on as she yelps it.

He squeezes my neck harder, a clear, 'shut up, boy' signal. He's being even rougher than usual, which gets me to wondering what he's got in that damn bag.

"Spike and I would like to spend some time alone, and I think that you two deserve a nice evening. Take some money from the drawer. Do something fun. On me."

Wesley gives us a knowing little grin. Wonder what flavor his edible undies are today. "That's very generous, Angel. Thank you."

That would be my cue to gross her out before Angel gets a chance to excuse them as, "Groceries." I yank out "Hard and Horny, the Movie, Part XI" and flash it at her. "Harry's Triple A. Ever been?" I direct the last at

"OH MY GOD YOU GUYS ARE SO *SICK*!" Cordelia cries, "I can't BELIEVE I not only work for a *vampire*, but a gay PERVERT vampire!" She stomps out, muttering "only in LA" as she does.

Wussley comes around the counter, pulling on his coat. "Well. Happy, er... un-birthday, Spike. Enjoy your evening," he says, and follows her.

Now... if you're a vampire, getting blindfolded's like having somebody turn the world up to 20 -- already sharp sounds get skull-ringing loud, and you can smell a paper cut on a guy two blocks off. Needless to say, this particular honing of my hunter's senses is enough to make me come right on the spot. "Oversensitive" don't even begin to cover it.

But sensory deprivation has its downside, too. I'm highly damn visual, and not being able to see what the fuck's going on as I listen to him shuffling around the room makes me want to rip his Jose Eber head off. I hear rustling and clicking, rattling and paper tearing, and GODDAMN IT I CAN'T FIGURE OUT WHAT THE HELL IT ALL MEANS!

and his Ivory clean scent come wandering back over and stand in front of me, taking some time to kiss me, all soft-like... tracing my lips with his cool tongue before slipping it inside and tangling his big hands in my hair.

takes his sweet time to make sure he caresses or nibbles every square inch of skin that he bares, from shoulders to toes (which he sucks -- GAH!). Damn it, Angel's nothing if he ain't the best damn lover walking the Earth, and I've had a few. My cock's fit to burst by the time he's done stripping me, but that's the one zone left he hasn't thoroughly devoured with either his hands or mouth. Or both.

Did I mention Angel's also a maestro cock tease? Got me all whimperin' and beggin' like a biddy baby, he does. Then he takes me by the arm and leads me across the room over to what I assume's the bed, and stands me still again.

"Don't move until I tell you," he commands, his voice only half-human and sort of grumbly. Tells me he's enjoying this as much as I am...which is a whole damn lot.

Power was the name of the game for Angelus, and he made it damn clear every bloody opportunity he got to demonstrate -- he had it all, and I had shit.

smorgasbord, chained up good and tight, and giving his boy permission to use him as he sees fit, all with a cheerful smile.

Something WRONG? Fucker turns the world upside down, and wants to know if something's WRONG? Fuck yes! And... Fuck no. This little scene is totally confusing, which is why I'm standing here pissing myself (not literally) instead of jumping all over his ass.

Well, FUCK ME! Goddamn martyr bastard! This is supposed to be a damn celebration, not a public flogging for his crimes!

upset! I *want* to beat the Hell out of him, most days. And yeah, maybe he does deserve it. But him... *offering* himself up for a licking? Defeats

this supposed to be? Bloody PENANCE? Fuck you, Saint Angel! You're not using my damn un-birthday to ease your damn guilt, you bastard!"

Sometimes I wonder who's really the brains in this outfit. Popular opinion says it's him, what... because he reads all the damn time and can quote poetry? Big effin' whoop. Popular opinion obviously never spent a whole lot of time with him, 'cause the fucker's got the common sense of a big pile of rocks.

All of sudden, standing there, looking down at him and his hang-dog look, I get this rush of something going through me. It's not anger so much anymore... definitely not violence. Not even lust, I don't think, even

And now he wants me to *punish* him for it. You're damn right, it pisses me off, because it reminds me that if he had it to do over again (and had his poncy damn soul), I wouldn't be standing here right now. It reminds me that he regrets I exist.

Something I'm a lot more interested in knowing. Tells me that Angel cares about me, no matter how much he bitches and whines about my behavior, my attitude, my mouth, my hygiene, my drinking, my housecleaning skills (or lack thereof), and pretty much everything else. It tells me that he cares about me enough to set his own damn precious pride aside and give me a chance to express to him how I *really* feel about his gift of eternal life.

doesn't know how to ask... or maybe doesn't know he wants to know. Which reminds me that his Sire fucked up his head as bad as he did mine.

Maybe he'd beat the shit out of Darla if he was standing where I am, and it was her chained to the bed. But I ain't him. And I don't regret a damn

William the Damn Bloody is a demon of Action. He didn't ask with words, so I'm sure as Hell not gonna answer him that way.

I kneel down on the bed beside him, and let my eyes wander from his chained feet, up over his perfectly sculptured legs, to his still semi-hard cock (apparently, me pitching a fit isn't enough to overcome his lust for getting chained up), over that six-pack stomach, the bulging pecs, Mack truck shoulders, corded neck, and finally coming to rest on that gawd-awfully magnificent fucking angel's face. His eyes are all watery and soulful (when aren't they? I mean... when we're not ruttin' like dogs, that is...), full of all kinds of therapy-ratin' stuff... hurt and love, confusion and lust.

"Not much in the mood for whips and such, mate..." I tell him, reaching for the blindfold from where I dropped it on the floor.

a bloody idiot, too, when Wussley's brewing tea or something, and the kettle starts to steam, and I get an instant damn hard-on from the noise callin' to mind the one Angelus just made.

The skin in the hollows of his hipbones is cool and soft like silk stretched over bone, and tastes sort of salty sweet as I lick him like a damn flesh lollipop. Every inch of him is hard as bloody stone, especially his cock.

as a damn arrow, huge and perfectly proportioned from head to root, foreskin a flawless, ruddy deep peach color, and I swear, he must spend an hour scrubbing the damn thing every day, because when I slide that baby down my throat, he tastes so spring fucking fresh, it's like the bloody monster's brand new.

shagging as long as we have without trussing the bugger up! As I suck him deep and slow, givin' him my trademark long tongue trails on the underside, he groans and arches his hips up into my mouth. His body's so damn tight, I think he's prob'ly gonna explode in a minute, and he's twitching all over, fighting against the chains, he wants to touch me so bad. Angel likes to tangle his fingers up in my hair when I blow him... pretty much fucking my face raw, and the fact that *I'm* in bloody control -- control *he* gave me, thank you very much -- is driving him right up the damn wall.

I take my time, now. Never quite increase the pace or pressure of the blow enough to send him over, and he starts giving off his little 'shit, I'm

one finger, and you know... I could conduct a damn symphony with his body and the damn sex noises he makes. A soft squeeze gets me an "Ahhhh... yessss!" A little rolling of the nuts ellicits an "Mmmmmm... ohhhhh...' and shortening the strokes of my mouth to hard little sucks over his bulging head rates a, "Jesus, Spike!"

My favorite part, of course, is the crescendo. When Angel comes, he either screams at the top of his lungs like somebody's torturing him, howls like an enraged animal, or lets out a string of curse words mixed up with some variation of my name... a stream of climatic filth fit to make the gruffest old sailor blush.

Now, I'm not usually much known for my patience. And frankly, getting my Sire into this sort of frenzied state has my damn grunties in an ache and twitch all their own. I need to get things speedin' along, here. I lean

I squeeze some of the Hot Lube out on my hands and rub them together until they're good and hot, then slowly slip a finger between his tight cheeks, sliding the single digit up and down until his crack is warm and slick.

one sexy, sexy bastard, and him not getting any but his right hand for how many damn years? Fucker's lucky he didn't pop, libido like his.

nutters by the little whimpering noises he makes... and his cock's doing a pretty damn fancy dance, jerking like it is. Bet Angel's Johnson would be begging me too, right now, if it had a voice.

positive reinforcement by sliding that finger all the way in, making sure to get his prostrate as I stroke in and out a couple of times.

You know, a cock ring would be handy right about now. Too bad neither of us thought to grab one. I don't see how he's gonna last much longer.

damn funny, considering I got him trussed up like a prize pig, blindfolded, and he couldn't even master his own dick right this particular second.

GOOD GODS his mouth is fucking amazing! He seals his lips tight around my girth, and does little tongue lashes all around, lapping off the grape goop as I thrust into his face.

superhero nonsense. And the Catholic thing prob'ly doesn't help. Three or four good Hoover Maneuvers, and I'm seeing stars.

myself between his spread legs. Reach for the Hot Lube again and slick my dingle up nice... he's not getting any more prep than that. If he ain't

hand gripped on one of his hips for purchase, and with the other, take hold of his straining wank, jerking him fast and firm in my still-lubed grip.

because I'd damn well bet that this little scene looks as fucking amazing as it feels. My indomitable Master all helpless and wailing like a damn

banshee while me, the "submissive" Childe bangs hard into his arse, jerking him off, and him now whimpering and crying out and chanting my name like I'm gonna bestow him with gifts or something.

Ah, fuck me, he's so good. So... ohchrist good. I get down on my hands and knees (God bless the misposish!), and claim his mouth as I hammer him, his cock now pressed tight between our stomachs.

Angel pulls away from my mouth, and his face contorts like he's in absolute agony... bites clear through his lip, and... jesusgods, he's so fucking beautiful! I slam into him, and his big, sumptuous body goes totally taut, bowing and arching up off the mattress, and he starts screaming, ramming his hips up into me, and sod-all, that's game, set and match for old Will, kids.

I slap my hand over his mouth before he can go any further and I'm forced to puke. "That's enough. I shag you into bliss and keep you from turnin' into a psycho loony, and you like that. Got it."