sevendeadlyfun (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-09-02 03:32 pm
sevendeadlyfun) wrote2007-09-02 03:32 pm
Entry tags:
Splinters 4/?
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...
A/N:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tamingthemuse prompt #59: desolate
She heads back to her own room, mind still cloudy with thoughts she can’t identify. Stopping outside Spike’s door, her finger reaches out to come within a hairsbreadth of touching the door. He knows, no way he doesn’t. Vamp senses being what they are, he’s probably known since the first night. So why he keeps quiet is a mystery.
She stands there, body vibrating as she strains against her own desire to touch the door. Is it the soul, Faith wonders, that makes him so silent and still? Or is that a side effect of death? There’s no clear answer here, because she hardly knows him. Even when she was taking a skin ride in a borrowed body, she didn’t see him. Touched him, teased him, and if his basement confession was anything to go by, nearly blew his mind. But, see him? She couldn’t be bothered.
She’s bothered now.
Spike sits in his bed, silently urging the Slayer to move on. Nothing to see here, shows over. There’s a certain desolate luxury in this scene, the penitent longing to mortify his flesh and resisting. He hears them, smells them, and those soft sighs and whispers of flesh stir him.
When this all started, he touched himself all the time. A fingertip across his jaw, or hands braced on his knees, so he could reassure himself he was here, solid, real. Now he makes it a point not to touch anything if he can help it. Being real makes it worse, heightens the pain beyond anything he can bear.
But, nights like these drive him to seek out the pain. He wants to slither and slide his way into being real, having the solidity of warm flesh tether him to this world. And resisting that pull makes him ache. So he sits in the dark and drinks, trying to forget the desire to love and be loved, to touch and be touched.
Slayer’s still out there, heart thumping. He can almost hear her thinking, vacillating. He’s not God and he can’t grant her absolution for her sins. He’s not a priest, no matter how many of Angelus’ holy games he joined in, and there’s no penance on offer here. No forgiveness and no succor in his body. He’s done that, and feeling isn’t a adequate substitute, no matter what the children think.
Maybe it’s because she’s a Slayer, but Faith can’t resist the dark. She never feels safe in sunlight, never quite able to relax. She can’t even feel ashamed of what happens in Xander’s room because it happens in the dark. The dark is safe, and in this lightless cocoon, she feels invulnerable.
She hopes that Xander gets something from their furtive touching. He gets off, but she knows that getting off isn’t what he needs. Knows it because he told her, before the end, that she’d made him feel dirty the night she raped him. No other word for their first time except rape and she can’t make it right.
She doesn’t think what they do changes that, but maybe it does. He doesn’t picture her, doesn’t touch her in any way that matters, when they’re curled up together. That doesn’t bother her. He’s not on her mind, either.
She finally tears herself away from Spike’s door, snatching her shaky finger back. Her hands skim down her body, brushing over sensitive nipples and down over her belly. Just as she reaches the damp flesh of her cunt, the door flies open.
He’s down on his knees in front of another Slayer, and he’s cursing himself even as he dives into her. He hates her, hates himself, hates Xander, hates Cleveland. His tongue snakes between her lips to lap at the dripping flesh between her thighs. She fists a hand in his hair, hips bucking and shaking, tattooing out a rhythm he unwillingly follows.
When a stronger, firmer hand touches his cheek, he finally pulls back. Stares blankly upwards, shame roiling the desire in his gut. When lips meet his, sucking away the traces of sweetness until all that’s left is him, Spike lets go. He’s melting and burning, a strange purification that leaves him lighter somehow.
“I told you,” Xander murmurs, “I wanted to be invited.”
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...
A/N:
tamingthemuse prompt #59: desolateShe heads back to her own room, mind still cloudy with thoughts she can’t identify. Stopping outside Spike’s door, her finger reaches out to come within a hairsbreadth of touching the door. He knows, no way he doesn’t. Vamp senses being what they are, he’s probably known since the first night. So why he keeps quiet is a mystery.
She stands there, body vibrating as she strains against her own desire to touch the door. Is it the soul, Faith wonders, that makes him so silent and still? Or is that a side effect of death? There’s no clear answer here, because she hardly knows him. Even when she was taking a skin ride in a borrowed body, she didn’t see him. Touched him, teased him, and if his basement confession was anything to go by, nearly blew his mind. But, see him? She couldn’t be bothered.
She’s bothered now.
Spike sits in his bed, silently urging the Slayer to move on. Nothing to see here, shows over. There’s a certain desolate luxury in this scene, the penitent longing to mortify his flesh and resisting. He hears them, smells them, and those soft sighs and whispers of flesh stir him.
When this all started, he touched himself all the time. A fingertip across his jaw, or hands braced on his knees, so he could reassure himself he was here, solid, real. Now he makes it a point not to touch anything if he can help it. Being real makes it worse, heightens the pain beyond anything he can bear.
But, nights like these drive him to seek out the pain. He wants to slither and slide his way into being real, having the solidity of warm flesh tether him to this world. And resisting that pull makes him ache. So he sits in the dark and drinks, trying to forget the desire to love and be loved, to touch and be touched.
Slayer’s still out there, heart thumping. He can almost hear her thinking, vacillating. He’s not God and he can’t grant her absolution for her sins. He’s not a priest, no matter how many of Angelus’ holy games he joined in, and there’s no penance on offer here. No forgiveness and no succor in his body. He’s done that, and feeling isn’t a adequate substitute, no matter what the children think.
Maybe it’s because she’s a Slayer, but Faith can’t resist the dark. She never feels safe in sunlight, never quite able to relax. She can’t even feel ashamed of what happens in Xander’s room because it happens in the dark. The dark is safe, and in this lightless cocoon, she feels invulnerable.
She hopes that Xander gets something from their furtive touching. He gets off, but she knows that getting off isn’t what he needs. Knows it because he told her, before the end, that she’d made him feel dirty the night she raped him. No other word for their first time except rape and she can’t make it right.
She doesn’t think what they do changes that, but maybe it does. He doesn’t picture her, doesn’t touch her in any way that matters, when they’re curled up together. That doesn’t bother her. He’s not on her mind, either.
She finally tears herself away from Spike’s door, snatching her shaky finger back. Her hands skim down her body, brushing over sensitive nipples and down over her belly. Just as she reaches the damp flesh of her cunt, the door flies open.
He’s down on his knees in front of another Slayer, and he’s cursing himself even as he dives into her. He hates her, hates himself, hates Xander, hates Cleveland. His tongue snakes between her lips to lap at the dripping flesh between her thighs. She fists a hand in his hair, hips bucking and shaking, tattooing out a rhythm he unwillingly follows.
When a stronger, firmer hand touches his cheek, he finally pulls back. Stares blankly upwards, shame roiling the desire in his gut. When lips meet his, sucking away the traces of sweetness until all that’s left is him, Spike lets go. He’s melting and burning, a strange purification that leaves him lighter somehow.
“I told you,” Xander murmurs, “I wanted to be invited.”