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Gestation is a curious thing and it is amazing to me that it took me this long to be comfortable with the finished product. It’s been tweaked in some pretty minor ways. I changed the POV in the first section from third person to second person and book ended the middle section. Initially I was going to go first person, second person, third person, but I’m really not comfortable writing in first person. Anyway, suddenly I am at peace with this particular demon and I offer you officially completed fic. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think because this one, this one still feels a little odd even though it feels done.
Title: Three Ways to Burn a Hole in the Carpet
Author: seraphcelene
Rating: NC-17
A/N: A/U Wishverse fic. Written for the Night They Never Met ficathon. The request was for Spike/Jesse. Formerly posted under the working title Impressions. 1,140 words
Feedback: Is like air, in other words, yes please.
Disclaimer: Buffy, the Vampire Slayer and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and sundry others. I’m just taking them out for a little exercise.
Summary: Strike a match, take a drag, and suddenly the house is burning down.
i. Spike, watching
That night at the Bronze, the night you met, you watched Jesse through the crowd, watched him watch girls - living and dead - writhe on the dance floor. The air was thick with the scent of sex, blood and sweat. It pooled in the back of your throat, settled low in your belly.
Jesse weaved where he stood, swayed to the music and the thick-throated croon of the girl on stage. Hunger spread across his face in a rise of bones and flesh, and then the flash of teeth. You moved closer and suddenly you could smell it, the sweet, cloying scent of too many gardenias.
You snorted and took a drag off your cigarette, squinted through the smoke. “Orpheus,” you muttered and rolled your eyes.
Through the dark and the collide of bodies on the dance floor, you knew the moment that Jesse saw you. You could feel it, a frisson of heat boiling across your skin.
Jesse smiled a wolf’s smile -- yellow glittering eyes and obscenely delicate fangs -- and then he walked right up to you and kissed you full on the mouth. You startled and inhaled the scent of dead and sweet. Just behind that, behind the decayed softness, there was another scent, something older and more corrupt. Jesse tasted of the past and cold eternity. Sharpness like the flavor of aged wine sliding into vinegar, a familiar acidity on the back of your tongue.
You fucked him in the alley behind The Bronze, the two of you hunched and straining over a stacked of abandoned crates. The rats and a lonely green-eyed corpse were the only witnesses.
ii. Texture
This is the shape of the world, now. Life on a Hellmouth is all night partying, drugs and blood that really do flow like a river.
Dru left and Angelus, Angel, has a soul. Jesse 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 Jesse’s eyes. He is function without meaning, a convenient fuck with dark hair and dark eyes.
There are shades of them, Drusilla and Angel, there, in him. In Jesse with his hair and eyes and the way that he tilts his head. How when he isn’t in full-face he looks like Darla at her most alluring, sweet and young and helpless. Spike loves that about him, loves the thin, angelic veneer. It is a way for Spike to have without getting his heart broken.
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.
“Dru,” Spike whispers against the corner of Jesse’s mouth. “Angel,” he cries into Jesse’s shoulder, body jerking and shuddering. “Darla,” he wails, straining against the cool wetness of Jesse’s mouth around his cock.
Purple is the color of the bruises spread, like evidence, across the sharp angle of Spike’s cheekbones. It is also the color of Jesse’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. Jesse 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. Jesse in Love
Spike arches hard when he comes, hands buried in your hair, and you are in love with the leanness of his body and the curve of his back. You are high on 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 when you work the head and massage his balls, and long, wet strokes that bruise the back of your throat.
Spike 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. You remember that watching Willow eat one was more fun than eating one yourself. And then you were fourteen and you saw Cordelia for the first time. Suddenly you got it, the difference between 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 walk the same long, lean walk -- shoulders thrown back, strides that eat up the world. 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. Your hands moved restlessly 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. You 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.
You walked up and kissed Spike 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 on your lips. A smile full of coy innocence. Innocence that has everything to do with sex. You pursed your mouth and then laughed when he stepped in close and kissed you back. That night you took him home.
Spike kisses with his entire mouth. Jaws working, tongue, teeth, lips all at once, eating you from the mouth down.
He tastes familiar. Something surprising down deep, a trace of sweetness that tickles your throat and reminds you, suddenly, of Darla. It is the faintest flavor, an echo. You could have imagined it.
He never objects to the wall or the chains. He doesn’t mind the whips or Willow when she wants to join you.
“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.
end.
Title: Three Ways to Burn a Hole in the Carpet
Author: seraphcelene
Rating: NC-17
A/N: A/U Wishverse fic. Written for the Night They Never Met ficathon. The request was for Spike/Jesse. Formerly posted under the working title Impressions. 1,140 words
Feedback: Is like air, in other words, yes please.
Disclaimer: Buffy, the Vampire Slayer and all related characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and sundry others. I’m just taking them out for a little exercise.
Summary: Strike a match, take a drag, and suddenly the house is burning down.
i. Spike, watching
That night at the Bronze, the night you met, you watched Jesse through the crowd, watched him watch girls - living and dead - writhe on the dance floor. The air was thick with the scent of sex, blood and sweat. It pooled in the back of your throat, settled low in your belly.
Jesse weaved where he stood, swayed to the music and the thick-throated croon of the girl on stage. Hunger spread across his face in a rise of bones and flesh, and then the flash of teeth. You moved closer and suddenly you could smell it, the sweet, cloying scent of too many gardenias.
You snorted and took a drag off your cigarette, squinted through the smoke. “Orpheus,” you muttered and rolled your eyes.
Through the dark and the collide of bodies on the dance floor, you knew the moment that Jesse saw you. You could feel it, a frisson of heat boiling across your skin.
Jesse smiled a wolf’s smile -- yellow glittering eyes and obscenely delicate fangs -- and then he walked right up to you and kissed you full on the mouth. You startled and inhaled the scent of dead and sweet. Just behind that, behind the decayed softness, there was another scent, something older and more corrupt. Jesse tasted of the past and cold eternity. Sharpness like the flavor of aged wine sliding into vinegar, a familiar acidity on the back of your tongue.
You fucked him in the alley behind The Bronze, the two of you hunched and straining over a stacked of abandoned crates. The rats and a lonely green-eyed corpse were the only witnesses.
ii. Texture
This is the shape of the world, now. Life on a Hellmouth is all night partying, drugs and blood that really do flow like a river.
Dru left and Angelus, Angel, has a soul. Jesse 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 Jesse’s eyes. He is function without meaning, a convenient fuck with dark hair and dark eyes.
There are shades of them, Drusilla and Angel, there, in him. In Jesse with his hair and eyes and the way that he tilts his head. How when he isn’t in full-face he looks like Darla at her most alluring, sweet and young and helpless. Spike loves that about him, loves the thin, angelic veneer. It is a way for Spike to have without getting his heart broken.
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.
“Dru,” Spike whispers against the corner of Jesse’s mouth. “Angel,” he cries into Jesse’s shoulder, body jerking and shuddering. “Darla,” he wails, straining against the cool wetness of Jesse’s mouth around his cock.
Purple is the color of the bruises spread, like evidence, across the sharp angle of Spike’s cheekbones. It is also the color of Jesse’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. Jesse 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. Jesse in Love
Spike arches hard when he comes, hands buried in your hair, and you are in love with the leanness of his body and the curve of his back. You are high on 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 when you work the head and massage his balls, and long, wet strokes that bruise the back of your throat.
Spike 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. You remember that watching Willow eat one was more fun than eating one yourself. And then you were fourteen and you saw Cordelia for the first time. Suddenly you got it, the difference between 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 walk the same long, lean walk -- shoulders thrown back, strides that eat up the world. 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. Your hands moved restlessly 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. You 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.
You walked up and kissed Spike 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 on your lips. A smile full of coy innocence. Innocence that has everything to do with sex. You pursed your mouth and then laughed when he stepped in close and kissed you back. That night you took him home.
Spike kisses with his entire mouth. Jaws working, tongue, teeth, lips all at once, eating you from the mouth down.
He tastes familiar. Something surprising down deep, a trace of sweetness that tickles your throat and reminds you, suddenly, of Darla. It is the faintest flavor, an echo. You could have imagined it.
He never objects to the wall or the chains. He doesn’t mind the whips or Willow when she wants to join you.
“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.
end.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-06 05:26 am (UTC)From:(Overall, I'd say the story leaves me wanting more of it, though I can't really explain why in any useful fashion.)
"Spike 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. You remember that watching Willow eat one was more fun than eating one yourself. And then you were fourteen and you saw Cordelia for the first time. Suddenly you got it, the difference between 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. "
There's so much that I like about this paragraph, which rings so true to the little we saw of Jesse in canon.
no subject
Date: 2007-01-08 04:53 pm (UTC)From:And I do agree that it's maybe a little on the abbreviated/abrupt side. Maybe because of the formatting? It's like snapshots of the same moment but there isn't a traditional sense of plot or story arc; there's no real progression. Maybe that's what it is.