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ms_bear for the Night They Never Met Ficathon. I have officialy sworn off ficathons. Just when I think that there can't possibly be a pairing that surprises and confounds me (I opted out of all the pairings I didn't think I could write when I signed up) somebody comes up with something impossible. What did I get, you ask? Spike/Jessie. Of all the people who never met. Dude.
I think my brain is broken.
This hasn't been beta'd and it won't get posted anywhere else besides here, this one time. Please withold the mockery and laughter. I offer extreme apologies toms_bear. Impressions is the third attempt. Dude.
Title: Impressions
Author:seraphcelene
Fandom: BtVS
Rating: NC-17
A/N: A/U set in the wishverse. I just barely missed the 1000 word mark, fuck all.
Impressions
i. Spike, watching
That night at the Bronze, the night they met, Spike watched Jessie through the crowd, watched him watch girls - living and dead - writhe on the dance floor, in each other’s arms. The scent of sex, blood and thicker things pooled in the back of his throat. Spike watched the hunger spread across Jessie’s face in a rise of bones and flesh, and then the flash of teeth.
Jessie weaved where he stood, swayed to the music and the thick-throated croon of the girl on stage. When he moved closer, Spike could smell it, a sour, cloying scent like too many gardenias.
Spike snorted and took a drag off his cigarette. “Orpheus,” he muttered and rolled his eyes.
Jessie smiled. His eyes glittered, shiny and yellow and then he walked right up to Spike and kissed him full on the mouth. Spike startled and inhaled the scent of dead and sweet. Just behind that, behind the softness, there is another scent, something older and more corrupt.
Even now, when they kiss it is there, acidity on the back of Spike’s throat. A sharp scent like the flavor of aged wine sliding into vinegar. Something that he can’t place but that tastes of eternity and power.
ii. Texture
This is the shape of the world, now. Life on a Hellmouth is all-night partying, drugs and blood that really does flow like a river.
Dru left and Angelus, Angel, has a soul. Jessie is a lonely treat of a boy who kisses like a girl, all shy tongue and petal soft lips. A predator dressed in the sly-shy skin of an innocent. Spike ignores the flash of Technicolor hidden in Jessie’s eyes. He is function without meaning; a convenient fuck with dark hair and dark eyes.
They fuck in darkened corners, on tables, against the baptismal font in the Sacred Heart. They fuck like falling in love, like snow, like reggae music and speed metal.
Purple is the color of the bruises spread, like evidence, across the sharp angle of Spike’s cheekbones. It is also the color of Jessie’s sweater, a dark, gothic color that reminds him of Drusilla and the stain of her lipstick on bed sheets.
Yellow is the color beneath the purple, splashes that almost disappear into the paleness of his skin. Hours-old streaks of love and hurt that highlight the raw cry of adoration gracing his face and ribs.
Red is ever present and they slide upon it, feed upon it. Jessie brought a friend to play once, and the girl, with her red hair and redder lips, was very creative. Spike was reminded, violently, of Drusilla. When she cut him, he bled as if his heart still beat.
iii. Jessie in Love
Spike arches hard when he comes, hands buried in your hair, and you are in love with the leanness of Spike’s body and the curve of his back. The acid burn of cigarette smoke that clings to him, always, to his hair and to his skin.
You lick the length of his cock, tongue stroking from base to tip like an all day sucker. It passes in and out of your mouth, short strokes, long strokes, wet strokes, dry strokes. He is cold and you are reminded of Big Sticks when you were twelve and how they weren’t quite the same as when you were ten. How watching Willow eat one was more fun than eating one yourself. And then you were fourteen and you saw Cordelia for the first time and suddenly you got it. The difference in ten and twelve and fourteen. It flashed in your head, shot straight to your cock. You got hard and for years, it seemed, you stayed hard.
Meeting Spike was like that, like seeing Cordelia for the first time in a sleeveless mini-dress, all bronzed skin and miles of hair. They walked the same, long, lean walk. Shoulders back, strides that ate up the world ahead of them. Sex walking.
That first night, that night at the Bronze, the way that Spike moved towards you made your throat tighten, made your heart want to beat. Watching him take a drag on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing out, made your cock twitch and your belly tremble. You stood there, Orpheus bleeding the room into nightmare shadows and psychedelic colors, and stroked your stomach. Hands moving restlessly, up and down, beneath your sweater and across your ribs, because you’re still human enough not to just whip your penis out right there in the middle of the Bronze and jack-off. Could imagine what Willow would do with the information if she ever found out. She is creative, that girl, and you wince at the thought. You no longer envy the Big Stick.
So you took Spike home. Walked up and kissed him full on the mouth. Felt him lean into you, hard and instinctive, and when you pulled away you watched his eyebrows soar. You smiled the way you’ve seen Willow smile, head tilted downwards and the slightest curve of the lips. Innocence that has everything to do with sex. Pursed your mouth and then laughed when he stepped in close and kissed you back.
Spike kisses with his entire mouth. Jaws working, tongue, teeth, lips all at once, eating you from the mouth down.
He tasted familiar. Something surprising down deep, a trace of sweetness that tickled your throat and reminded you suddenly of Darla. It was the faintest flavor, an echo. You could have imagined it.
He never objects to the wall or the chains. He doesn’t object to the whips or Willow when she wants to come and play.
“Reminds me of Dru,” he always says and hisses at the press of a cross on his inner thigh. You watch him and the bruises blooming across his body.
He bleeds so easily for you. So beautifully. All of that pale, pale skin and the crimson black spill of blood.
ms_bear for the Night They Never Met Ficathon. I have officialy sworn off ficathons. Just when I think that there can't possibly be a pairing that surprises and confounds me (I opted out of all the pairings I didn't think I could write when I signed up) somebody comes up with something impossible. What did I get, you ask? Spike/Jessie. Of all the people who never met. Dude.I think my brain is broken.
This hasn't been beta'd and it won't get posted anywhere else besides here, this one time. Please withold the mockery and laughter. I offer extreme apologies to
ms_bear. Impressions is the third attempt. Dude.Title: Impressions
Author:
seraphceleneFandom: BtVS
Rating: NC-17
A/N: A/U set in the wishverse. I just barely missed the 1000 word mark, fuck all.
i. Spike, watching
That night at the Bronze, the night they met, Spike watched Jessie through the crowd, watched him watch girls - living and dead - writhe on the dance floor, in each other’s arms. The scent of sex, blood and thicker things pooled in the back of his throat. Spike watched the hunger spread across Jessie’s face in a rise of bones and flesh, and then the flash of teeth.
Jessie weaved where he stood, swayed to the music and the thick-throated croon of the girl on stage. When he moved closer, Spike could smell it, a sour, cloying scent like too many gardenias.
Spike snorted and took a drag off his cigarette. “Orpheus,” he muttered and rolled his eyes.
Jessie smiled. His eyes glittered, shiny and yellow and then he walked right up to Spike and kissed him full on the mouth. Spike startled and inhaled the scent of dead and sweet. Just behind that, behind the softness, there is another scent, something older and more corrupt.
Even now, when they kiss it is there, acidity on the back of Spike’s throat. A sharp scent like the flavor of aged wine sliding into vinegar. Something that he can’t place but that tastes of eternity and power.
ii. Texture
This is the shape of the world, now. Life on a Hellmouth is all-night partying, drugs and blood that really does flow like a river.
Dru left and Angelus, Angel, has a soul. Jessie is a lonely treat of a boy who kisses like a girl, all shy tongue and petal soft lips. A predator dressed in the sly-shy skin of an innocent. Spike ignores the flash of Technicolor hidden in Jessie’s eyes. He is function without meaning; a convenient fuck with dark hair and dark eyes.
They fuck in darkened corners, on tables, against the baptismal font in the Sacred Heart. They fuck like falling in love, like snow, like reggae music and speed metal.
Purple is the color of the bruises spread, like evidence, across the sharp angle of Spike’s cheekbones. It is also the color of Jessie’s sweater, a dark, gothic color that reminds him of Drusilla and the stain of her lipstick on bed sheets.
Yellow is the color beneath the purple, splashes that almost disappear into the paleness of his skin. Hours-old streaks of love and hurt that highlight the raw cry of adoration gracing his face and ribs.
Red is ever present and they slide upon it, feed upon it. Jessie brought a friend to play once, and the girl, with her red hair and redder lips, was very creative. Spike was reminded, violently, of Drusilla. When she cut him, he bled as if his heart still beat.
iii. Jessie in Love
Spike arches hard when he comes, hands buried in your hair, and you are in love with the leanness of Spike’s body and the curve of his back. The acid burn of cigarette smoke that clings to him, always, to his hair and to his skin.
You lick the length of his cock, tongue stroking from base to tip like an all day sucker. It passes in and out of your mouth, short strokes, long strokes, wet strokes, dry strokes. He is cold and you are reminded of Big Sticks when you were twelve and how they weren’t quite the same as when you were ten. How watching Willow eat one was more fun than eating one yourself. And then you were fourteen and you saw Cordelia for the first time and suddenly you got it. The difference in ten and twelve and fourteen. It flashed in your head, shot straight to your cock. You got hard and for years, it seemed, you stayed hard.
Meeting Spike was like that, like seeing Cordelia for the first time in a sleeveless mini-dress, all bronzed skin and miles of hair. They walked the same, long, lean walk. Shoulders back, strides that ate up the world ahead of them. Sex walking.
That first night, that night at the Bronze, the way that Spike moved towards you made your throat tighten, made your heart want to beat. Watching him take a drag on his cigarette, cheeks hollowing out, made your cock twitch and your belly tremble. You stood there, Orpheus bleeding the room into nightmare shadows and psychedelic colors, and stroked your stomach. Hands moving restlessly, up and down, beneath your sweater and across your ribs, because you’re still human enough not to just whip your penis out right there in the middle of the Bronze and jack-off. Could imagine what Willow would do with the information if she ever found out. She is creative, that girl, and you wince at the thought. You no longer envy the Big Stick.
So you took Spike home. Walked up and kissed him full on the mouth. Felt him lean into you, hard and instinctive, and when you pulled away you watched his eyebrows soar. You smiled the way you’ve seen Willow smile, head tilted downwards and the slightest curve of the lips. Innocence that has everything to do with sex. Pursed your mouth and then laughed when he stepped in close and kissed you back.
Spike kisses with his entire mouth. Jaws working, tongue, teeth, lips all at once, eating you from the mouth down.
He tasted familiar. Something surprising down deep, a trace of sweetness that tickled your throat and reminded you suddenly of Darla. It was the faintest flavor, an echo. You could have imagined it.
He never objects to the wall or the chains. He doesn’t object to the whips or Willow when she wants to come and play.
“Reminds me of Dru,” he always says and hisses at the press of a cross on his inner thigh. You watch him and the bruises blooming across his body.
He bleeds so easily for you. So beautifully. All of that pale, pale skin and the crimson black spill of blood.
no subject
Date: 2005-08-22 02:48 am (UTC)From: