Ashes to Ashes, 18/30
Dec. 18th, 2009 11:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sevendeadlyfunPairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. After Buffy dies, grief and a kind of madness take Spike and Xander places they aren't sure they can bear to go.
A/N: Written for prompt #16-fetish-on my![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
psych_30 table. This doesn't fit the strict medical definition of fetish, being more of a paraphilia. But, it fits the accepted consensus for fetish and close is good enough for kinks and canon balls. Thanks to all of you who haven't given up on this one just yet!
Previous chapters can be found in reverse order in my tags or start from the beginning.
It happens so effortlessly. In some cosmic, comic way, it’s probably the easiest thing Xander Harris has ever done. Spike watches in fascination as Xander’s feet fly out from under him again. Xander sails over the rows of headstones, the dull thud of his landing lost under the bass roars of an enraged demon.
Spike tilts his head slightly, a sly smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. He’s going to enjoy this. Thank Christ, the fight won’t last long enough to ruin the fun. Bloody Hell, Xander had almost taken the roaring pile down. Easy pickings.
It’s not always so easy. Too many nights, the fight goes on too long. As Spike moves to dispatch the demon, he remembers how many times he’s been cheated out of a good time in the past month. The thought puts an extra strength behind his swings and the demon crumples abruptly, dropping at his feet. A quick sword across the neck and Spike watches as the thing dissolves, melting with a slight hiss.
Right, Spike thinks, fairly galloping across the cemetery. Let the games begin.
The smell of blood comes first. It hangs in the air, the slight tang hitting the back of his throat. He inhales the scent, damn near drunk. He braces himself against the quick flash of desire, the punch in the gut that hollows him, demands satisfaction. Too much, too soon and Xander will bolt. That's happened once. Stimulating in its own way, but not so much that Spike wants to risk what's coming.
He can hear the wince, a quick intake of breath followed by a guttural curse. The sounds of pain and distress crackle along his skin, voluptuous and arousing. He stands over Xander, looking down at him with narrow eyes. Spike stares, soaking in the details.
There’s a trickle of blood running down the side of Xander’s face, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone and staining the collar of his shirt. Following the blood up to the source with his eyes, Spike sees the deep scratch on Xander’s forehead. The wound is swelling, creating a large bump over Harris’s right eye. His hair is matted from blood and dirt, with bits of grass sticking out. Xander looks a little angry, a little resigned, and a little ashamed. Spike’s hand slithers down his belly, lightly brushing the erection straining against his fly.
This is why he comes out every night. Xander’s pain, his humiliation, sparks him, sets his whole body alight. He reaches out to touch the now swollen wound, barely keeping up the pretense of “inspecting” it, and tightens his belly against the hiss of pain the leaks from between Xander’s clenched lips.
“Hurts,” Xander says.
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, stroking softly around the swelling. “Seems like.”
He lifts Xander roughly off the cold, damp ground, taking the sharp groan as a reward. The ache in his cock is pooling, spreading through his body in tune to the little jolts of pain that set Xander’s pulse racing. The flinches and twitches of Xander’s bruised skin set up a sympathetic vibration inside Spike; his body feels raw, sensitive.
“Stop d-digging your fingers in,” Xander complains, a slight stutter in his voice as Spike pushes just a little more on his ribs, still aching from an earlier fight.
“So,” Spike asks, almost casually, “want me to get your carcass back to the little woman?”
Xander never says yes, never lets Spike take him all the way home. Spike isn’t sure what might happen if Xander ever does say yes. But that gamble, that one day he might say yes, might let Spike take him, hurt him, until he cries and Spike comes, streaking white ribbons across black and blue bruises, appeals to Spike. Transfixes him.
“Nah,” Xander says quietly. “I can make it on my own.”
Spike releases him, enjoying the shudder and slight stumble as Xander tries to find his balance unsupported. Harris is a gambler, too. Pride, dignity, self-respect…there’s nothing Xander hasn’t put on the table at one time or another. Nothing he hasn’t lost at one time or another.
Spike watches him limp away, fingers idly flicking his fly open. He’s not going to make it back to the crypt tonight. The first stroke of his fingers against the moist sensitive tip of his cock and Spike hisses. He’s aching, eager now after a night of sliding around the edges of Xander’s pain and fear. A few quick pulls and he’s coming, silently, desperately, thick drops splattering on to the cold cemetery dirt.
Chapter 19
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. After Buffy dies, grief and a kind of madness take Spike and Xander places they aren't sure they can bear to go.
A/N: Written for prompt #16-fetish-on my
psych_30 table. This doesn't fit the strict medical definition of fetish, being more of a paraphilia. But, it fits the accepted consensus for fetish and close is good enough for kinks and canon balls. Thanks to all of you who haven't given up on this one just yet!Previous chapters can be found in reverse order in my tags or start from the beginning.
It happens so effortlessly. In some cosmic, comic way, it’s probably the easiest thing Xander Harris has ever done. Spike watches in fascination as Xander’s feet fly out from under him again. Xander sails over the rows of headstones, the dull thud of his landing lost under the bass roars of an enraged demon.
Spike tilts his head slightly, a sly smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. He’s going to enjoy this. Thank Christ, the fight won’t last long enough to ruin the fun. Bloody Hell, Xander had almost taken the roaring pile down. Easy pickings.
It’s not always so easy. Too many nights, the fight goes on too long. As Spike moves to dispatch the demon, he remembers how many times he’s been cheated out of a good time in the past month. The thought puts an extra strength behind his swings and the demon crumples abruptly, dropping at his feet. A quick sword across the neck and Spike watches as the thing dissolves, melting with a slight hiss.
Right, Spike thinks, fairly galloping across the cemetery. Let the games begin.
The smell of blood comes first. It hangs in the air, the slight tang hitting the back of his throat. He inhales the scent, damn near drunk. He braces himself against the quick flash of desire, the punch in the gut that hollows him, demands satisfaction. Too much, too soon and Xander will bolt. That's happened once. Stimulating in its own way, but not so much that Spike wants to risk what's coming.
He can hear the wince, a quick intake of breath followed by a guttural curse. The sounds of pain and distress crackle along his skin, voluptuous and arousing. He stands over Xander, looking down at him with narrow eyes. Spike stares, soaking in the details.
There’s a trickle of blood running down the side of Xander’s face, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone and staining the collar of his shirt. Following the blood up to the source with his eyes, Spike sees the deep scratch on Xander’s forehead. The wound is swelling, creating a large bump over Harris’s right eye. His hair is matted from blood and dirt, with bits of grass sticking out. Xander looks a little angry, a little resigned, and a little ashamed. Spike’s hand slithers down his belly, lightly brushing the erection straining against his fly.
This is why he comes out every night. Xander’s pain, his humiliation, sparks him, sets his whole body alight. He reaches out to touch the now swollen wound, barely keeping up the pretense of “inspecting” it, and tightens his belly against the hiss of pain the leaks from between Xander’s clenched lips.
“Hurts,” Xander says.
“Yeah,” Spike agrees, stroking softly around the swelling. “Seems like.”
He lifts Xander roughly off the cold, damp ground, taking the sharp groan as a reward. The ache in his cock is pooling, spreading through his body in tune to the little jolts of pain that set Xander’s pulse racing. The flinches and twitches of Xander’s bruised skin set up a sympathetic vibration inside Spike; his body feels raw, sensitive.
“Stop d-digging your fingers in,” Xander complains, a slight stutter in his voice as Spike pushes just a little more on his ribs, still aching from an earlier fight.
“So,” Spike asks, almost casually, “want me to get your carcass back to the little woman?”
Xander never says yes, never lets Spike take him all the way home. Spike isn’t sure what might happen if Xander ever does say yes. But that gamble, that one day he might say yes, might let Spike take him, hurt him, until he cries and Spike comes, streaking white ribbons across black and blue bruises, appeals to Spike. Transfixes him.
“Nah,” Xander says quietly. “I can make it on my own.”
Spike releases him, enjoying the shudder and slight stumble as Xander tries to find his balance unsupported. Harris is a gambler, too. Pride, dignity, self-respect…there’s nothing Xander hasn’t put on the table at one time or another. Nothing he hasn’t lost at one time or another.
Spike watches him limp away, fingers idly flicking his fly open. He’s not going to make it back to the crypt tonight. The first stroke of his fingers against the moist sensitive tip of his cock and Spike hisses. He’s aching, eager now after a night of sliding around the edges of Xander’s pain and fear. A few quick pulls and he’s coming, silently, desperately, thick drops splattering on to the cold cemetery dirt.
Chapter 19
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
on 2009-12-18 11:18 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-21 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-18 11:46 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-21 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-19 04:05 am (UTC)Will you be able to update a bit more frequently?
Is it possible to have the print a bit darker as it's very hard for Ms Magoo here to read the gray on white?
Shakatany
no subject
on 2009-12-21 10:30 pm (UTC)When you go to a journal like (say-http://sevendeadlyfun.livejournal.com), just add this little bit of text to the end of the URL:
?style=mine
and you'll be able to view the journal in your journal's style. It's a quick and dirty way to fix any problems you might have with brightness or font or whatever. And I'll work on changing the CSS code.
I am glad you like this, though and thank you for continuing to read despite my slow updates.
no subject
on 2009-12-22 01:19 am (UTC)Shakatany
no subject
on 2009-12-19 10:11 am (UTC)no subject
on 2009-12-21 10:31 pm (UTC)Ah well. It's a kinky prompt and there's no way around it. Hope you're doing well and that the Prawn makes a prompt and undramatic appearance. HUGS!
Ashes to Ashes
on 2010-03-18 07:16 am (UTC)