sevendeadlyfun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-09-02 01:09 am
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-09-02 01:09 am
Entry tags:
Splinters 3/?
Pairing: Xander/Faith, Spike
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's the stuff you don't see that counts. Three people, a Hellmouth, and what happens when you can't hold it together. And when you can...
The house is always a little too warm for the living. Xander lies back on clean sheets, the softly worn cotton absorbing the beads of water from his shower. He always needs a shower after patrolling. Vamp dust aside, the stink of too many bodies pressed too close together offends even his nose.
The light shuffling of feet draws his attention. The draw swings open without a creak, and he beckons the silhouette closer. Propped up on one arm, he watches without words. The words will happen soon enough, and he doesn’t like to rush them anymore. He isn’t sure where his babble went. It’s entirely possible that when the Sunnydale Hellmouth collapsed, it took his words with it. He knows something got lost back there, and it’s a convenient enough excuse.
Every time this happens, and that’s fairly often, he’s struck by something new about the body creeping towards him. This time it’s the sway of hips that mesmerizes him. Like a strange Morse code, they flash out messages of their own accord.
The mattress dips, and he slides over to make room. Skin whispers against fabric until he can feel it butting up his, silky smooth against the coarse hair that dapples his body. The smaller body fits snugly against his larger one, planes and angles colliding with something entirely different.
“Good night,” he asks lightly, fingers tracing a now familiar path.
“Yeah,” Faith answers, pensively. “Dusted a few vamps.”
He nods and places a kiss on the back of her neck. This isn’t love, but he’s got a few scruples left. The last bits of gallantry demand he treat his lovers with something resembling consideration and tenderness.
“What’s up with Spike,” she asks abruptly, arching into his touch.
Xander rolls a pebbled nipple under his palm as he considers the question. He’s wondered the same thing, or a variant of it, for more years than he can remember. Evil, chipped or souled, there’s always something up with Spike. The something might change, but the sheer existence doesn’t.
“He’s Spike,” Xander finally replies. “You’re a Slayer.”
“So you think,” she pants as his hand slides down her belly,” he doesn’t trust me?”
Fingers nudge through slippery curls, curling around a soft nub. He’s thrusting forward now, the friction a welcome relief on his engorged cock. Faith’s hips circle, pushing his fingers downward. Another thing that never changes and he’s okay with it now. No preliminaries for this girl, just a nice hard pounding.
He appreciates her honesty now, in a way he couldn’t before. It might sting, but at least it’s real. She’ll never lie to him, or force him to lie to her. This is physical; bodies banging together in search of a few seconds of mindless bliss. There’s nothing here that might connect them in ways they can’t handle.
Xander pushes into her, fingers pushing forward. The soft heat swallows him, her hips urging him on. Riding the swell of her ass, he angles his fingers upward to catch and drag. She’s moaning now, face turned away. He buries his face in her hair, closing his eyes and letting his body take over.
The clench and pull of her orgasm gives him permission to seek his own. He clutches her hips roughly; need overriding any lingering pretense of gentleness. When he comes, he bites his lip to keep from sighing. It’s always good, what they do together. But it never gives either of them any real release.
“Spike doesn’t trust you,” Xander finally rasps out, eyes still closed.
He can hear her shift slightly, and knows she’s getting up to go. He remembers how terrible he felt, after their first time in Sunnydale, when she wouldn’t let him hold her. Now he’s grateful she leaves so willingly. He’s not up to pretense these days.
“He doesn’t trust me,” she whispers. “Hell, I don’t trust me.”
She’s gone, creeping out as noiselessly as she crept in. Xander reaches out and snags a tissue, wiping himself up. No noise, no evidence, no way this is his life.
Yeah, he thinks bleakly. No way.
He doesn’t have joyless almost sex with a woman he doesn’t love. He doesn’t search the eyes of a souled vampire for something to keep him going every day. He doesn’t think that maybe he’s dying by inches. No way.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Summary: It's the stuff you don't see that counts. Three people, a Hellmouth, and what happens when you can't hold it together. And when you can...
The house is always a little too warm for the living. Xander lies back on clean sheets, the softly worn cotton absorbing the beads of water from his shower. He always needs a shower after patrolling. Vamp dust aside, the stink of too many bodies pressed too close together offends even his nose.
The light shuffling of feet draws his attention. The draw swings open without a creak, and he beckons the silhouette closer. Propped up on one arm, he watches without words. The words will happen soon enough, and he doesn’t like to rush them anymore. He isn’t sure where his babble went. It’s entirely possible that when the Sunnydale Hellmouth collapsed, it took his words with it. He knows something got lost back there, and it’s a convenient enough excuse.
Every time this happens, and that’s fairly often, he’s struck by something new about the body creeping towards him. This time it’s the sway of hips that mesmerizes him. Like a strange Morse code, they flash out messages of their own accord.
The mattress dips, and he slides over to make room. Skin whispers against fabric until he can feel it butting up his, silky smooth against the coarse hair that dapples his body. The smaller body fits snugly against his larger one, planes and angles colliding with something entirely different.
“Good night,” he asks lightly, fingers tracing a now familiar path.
“Yeah,” Faith answers, pensively. “Dusted a few vamps.”
He nods and places a kiss on the back of her neck. This isn’t love, but he’s got a few scruples left. The last bits of gallantry demand he treat his lovers with something resembling consideration and tenderness.
“What’s up with Spike,” she asks abruptly, arching into his touch.
Xander rolls a pebbled nipple under his palm as he considers the question. He’s wondered the same thing, or a variant of it, for more years than he can remember. Evil, chipped or souled, there’s always something up with Spike. The something might change, but the sheer existence doesn’t.
“He’s Spike,” Xander finally replies. “You’re a Slayer.”
“So you think,” she pants as his hand slides down her belly,” he doesn’t trust me?”
Fingers nudge through slippery curls, curling around a soft nub. He’s thrusting forward now, the friction a welcome relief on his engorged cock. Faith’s hips circle, pushing his fingers downward. Another thing that never changes and he’s okay with it now. No preliminaries for this girl, just a nice hard pounding.
He appreciates her honesty now, in a way he couldn’t before. It might sting, but at least it’s real. She’ll never lie to him, or force him to lie to her. This is physical; bodies banging together in search of a few seconds of mindless bliss. There’s nothing here that might connect them in ways they can’t handle.
Xander pushes into her, fingers pushing forward. The soft heat swallows him, her hips urging him on. Riding the swell of her ass, he angles his fingers upward to catch and drag. She’s moaning now, face turned away. He buries his face in her hair, closing his eyes and letting his body take over.
The clench and pull of her orgasm gives him permission to seek his own. He clutches her hips roughly; need overriding any lingering pretense of gentleness. When he comes, he bites his lip to keep from sighing. It’s always good, what they do together. But it never gives either of them any real release.
“Spike doesn’t trust you,” Xander finally rasps out, eyes still closed.
He can hear her shift slightly, and knows she’s getting up to go. He remembers how terrible he felt, after their first time in Sunnydale, when she wouldn’t let him hold her. Now he’s grateful she leaves so willingly. He’s not up to pretense these days.
“He doesn’t trust me,” she whispers. “Hell, I don’t trust me.”
She’s gone, creeping out as noiselessly as she crept in. Xander reaches out and snags a tissue, wiping himself up. No noise, no evidence, no way this is his life.
Yeah, he thinks bleakly. No way.
He doesn’t have joyless almost sex with a woman he doesn’t love. He doesn’t search the eyes of a souled vampire for something to keep him going every day. He doesn’t think that maybe he’s dying by inches. No way