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A day late, but here it goes. My response to the Intoxication Challenge - Of Blood and Wine. I tried to stretch my boundaries and it didn't quite work. It's not totally miserable but I'm not exactly pleased with it. It's rather awkward and piecemeal. I also copped out on the ending. But it's done.
Here goes:
Buffy/Riley/Spike
NC-17
AU after Older and Farther Away
A Pivot for the Sun
Stretched spread eagle against the seeping cold of a marble slab, Riley admires the ins and outs of moonlight. Cold metal clamped tightly around his wrists as though he would leave if given the choice. Once that might have been true. Now, he's not so sure.
He wishes that he could say that they tricked him, forced him to submit and not that the first time it happened he was still high on the last vamp he let break the skin along the inside of his arm. Not still mindlessly mesmerized by the heavy beat of his heart.
He can remember the night they found him in a sort of nightmare trip - Buffy's face gliding past his, doubled and tripled, hazy and far too beautiful to be real. Her steel, far away eyes and the gentle brush of her hair against his fingers.
"You cut your hair," Riley whispered to her, his hallucination. Unable to hear what she said, the world dimmed to nothing more than the irregular sound of his beleaguered heart. Until he touched her and then the world re-focused and he knew that she was real.
Riley remembers the painful thump in his chest at the sight of her bending over him where he lay sprawled in the corner of the room - nothing more than a flophouse. He tried to sit up and his hand, pressed against the floor to steady the rocking world, came away black with dust.
"Buffy," Riley whispered, his voice thin. He could feel heat rising up over his chest and into his face. She looked sad and thin, more fragile, hazel eyes more tragic than he remembered. "Buffy," he smiled or thought he smiled. Tried to smile. Could imagine his lips curving up, going through the motions but he's not sure if he actually ever moved.
Riley thought that he could see Buffy’s eyes filling with tears or perhaps it was his own eyes - shining liquid glass that made her waver in front of him. He touched her cheek and this time the stretch and pull of his mouth bending into a seldom-used crease made his face ache.
He thought that she might have said his name.
"White." Riley tuned in, suddenly, finally noticing the figure hovering behind Buffy. Spike's cruel smile made Riley's heart beat faster, the predator's gaze making him stiffen. Hostile Seventeen, Riley vaguely recalled. Rival. He thought, perhaps, he should be angry. At the very least, embarrassed. But he wasn't.
The lethargy in Riley's veins refused to comply with the sluggish commands his brain sent along his ill-used spinal column and all Riley felt was a growing hunger for the euphoria of demon fangs pressed into the veins at his throat.
Spike's eyes slid slightly closed, his languid, feral smile sharpening.
Riley turned back to Buffy, leaned in and kissed her. A soft, sipping test and when she didn't pull away he dusted soothing, light kisses along the wet curve of her cheek. A brief press of his lips at her temple, on her forehead and then catching her lips and uneven sigh with the sweep of his tongue. All the while watching Spike staring down at them.
Riley curved one arm around Buffy, tugging her close, the other he offered up, two small holes decorating the inside of his wrist, and watched Spike's eyes widen, his face change as he swooped down. He closed his eyes at the pulling, burning sensation as Spike slid his fangs into the half-healed wounds. Riley squeezed his eyes closed against the invasion and thrust his tongue into Buffy's mouth, forcing her head back.
It was awkward in the beginning. Spike smirked above them, demandingly superior - an ice-cold porcelain god. Buffy was tentative at first, unsure, but mesmerized and Riley wanted her. (Him) All of her. (Them) And she came. To bed with him. With them. With Spike smiling against the smooth curve of Riley's back before fitting his fangs into the seeping holes marring the sweep of his shoulder and biting down.
Balanced on his lap, one hand on bare skin, the other smeared with blood, Riley felt Buffy jerk and tighten around him. He made love to her, his thumb pressed against her clit, with Spike's cool shadow chilling his back. Riley breathed deeply, shuddering desperately at the tearing in his shoulder and the pressure in his gut. His head fell back, the world spinning as he began to lose himself to the light behind his eyelids. The pressure built, his hips moved faster, his breath, thready and shallow, slowed further still mimicking his weary heartbeat.
When he came to, Buffy was spilt across him, Spike jerking off over them.
Now they curve together easily. Spooned. One. Two. Three. Like Russian dolls. Riley mostly pretends to ignores the feeling of cool flesh cuddled against his back until skin breaks and blood spills, then he loses himself in burning, dragging loss.
Spike's tongue snaking between Riley's thighs is a heady sensation like tequila and too much laughter pooling low in his belly - languid restlessness that itches and claws under his too-tight skin. He writhes against the sensation, tickling need that steals his breath. Then cool, wet suction before the acid bite of a blade followed by fangs sinking into the soft flesh above his hipbone.
Riley stretches away from the pain, balanced on head and heels before falling. He drowns for a moment in a metallic wave of pleasure at the back of his throat, flashes of color behind his eyes. It narrows, shrinking concentric circles, into Buffy's small, warm hand moving smoothly over the head of Riley's cock. Short tugs and long strokes that make his hips rise and twitch.
Riley seldom looks at them - Buffy kneeling between his legs and Spike. He can't bring himself to meet their eyes although sometimes he can't seem to help it. Sex and blood tangle in his head like too much wine and he rides his pleasure blindly, the world masked by the icy blue of moon glow. Low light lets him ignore, mostly, the alabaster shadow sprawled at his hip and focus on the warm, living glow of Buffy at his side.
He touches her when he can. Straining to catch the spill of gold around her shoulders or squeeze her fingers while ignoring Spike licking upwards from his knees. Buffy unlocks one iron manacle, allowing Riley to reach out and find the curve of her hip, smooth, and the silky patch of hair between her thighs.
Love for me, he thinks, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.
"I love you," Buffy hums. A lie her lips can whisper in moonlit rooms. And Riley can believe. A thought to grasp as Spike ghosts over his body. Spike inhaling him, loving him, consuming him.
Buffy shifts, sliding her knees further apart. Light-headed from the sensation of Spike at his hip and Buffy at his cock, Riley dies small deaths. The slick feel of Buffy at his fingertips makes the world spin until he falls apart in her hands.
Their hands.
The drag of Spike in his head, at his veins. Drugged and spinning, arching beneath Buffy, straining. Dying. Lost. Sometimes, Spike cupped around Riley's back. Seeking. Pressing. Feeding. Spike pushing steadily into him and it's another way to be eaten alive.
"Buffy," Riley cries insistently before his mind spirals away completely.
Every night blood flows and Riley is compelled by the elemental importance of needing and being needed.
In the hazy, languid daylight hours he floats. Lying drowsy in Buffy's bed, Riley slides and stumbles through days at a time, concerned only with the approaching night. He lays curled around Buffy, hugging her naked body close to his and half listens to her stories of paradise.
He murmurs against her hair, platitudes that never quite make it into words.
All, he would like to believe, for the lie of love in her eyes.
Two more challenges to go and I'm thinking about signing up for the new Lyric Wheel. Later, peeps.
Here goes:
Buffy/Riley/Spike
NC-17
AU after Older and Farther Away
Stretched spread eagle against the seeping cold of a marble slab, Riley admires the ins and outs of moonlight. Cold metal clamped tightly around his wrists as though he would leave if given the choice. Once that might have been true. Now, he's not so sure.
He wishes that he could say that they tricked him, forced him to submit and not that the first time it happened he was still high on the last vamp he let break the skin along the inside of his arm. Not still mindlessly mesmerized by the heavy beat of his heart.
He can remember the night they found him in a sort of nightmare trip - Buffy's face gliding past his, doubled and tripled, hazy and far too beautiful to be real. Her steel, far away eyes and the gentle brush of her hair against his fingers.
"You cut your hair," Riley whispered to her, his hallucination. Unable to hear what she said, the world dimmed to nothing more than the irregular sound of his beleaguered heart. Until he touched her and then the world re-focused and he knew that she was real.
Riley remembers the painful thump in his chest at the sight of her bending over him where he lay sprawled in the corner of the room - nothing more than a flophouse. He tried to sit up and his hand, pressed against the floor to steady the rocking world, came away black with dust.
"Buffy," Riley whispered, his voice thin. He could feel heat rising up over his chest and into his face. She looked sad and thin, more fragile, hazel eyes more tragic than he remembered. "Buffy," he smiled or thought he smiled. Tried to smile. Could imagine his lips curving up, going through the motions but he's not sure if he actually ever moved.
Riley thought that he could see Buffy’s eyes filling with tears or perhaps it was his own eyes - shining liquid glass that made her waver in front of him. He touched her cheek and this time the stretch and pull of his mouth bending into a seldom-used crease made his face ache.
He thought that she might have said his name.
"White." Riley tuned in, suddenly, finally noticing the figure hovering behind Buffy. Spike's cruel smile made Riley's heart beat faster, the predator's gaze making him stiffen. Hostile Seventeen, Riley vaguely recalled. Rival. He thought, perhaps, he should be angry. At the very least, embarrassed. But he wasn't.
The lethargy in Riley's veins refused to comply with the sluggish commands his brain sent along his ill-used spinal column and all Riley felt was a growing hunger for the euphoria of demon fangs pressed into the veins at his throat.
Spike's eyes slid slightly closed, his languid, feral smile sharpening.
Riley turned back to Buffy, leaned in and kissed her. A soft, sipping test and when she didn't pull away he dusted soothing, light kisses along the wet curve of her cheek. A brief press of his lips at her temple, on her forehead and then catching her lips and uneven sigh with the sweep of his tongue. All the while watching Spike staring down at them.
Riley curved one arm around Buffy, tugging her close, the other he offered up, two small holes decorating the inside of his wrist, and watched Spike's eyes widen, his face change as he swooped down. He closed his eyes at the pulling, burning sensation as Spike slid his fangs into the half-healed wounds. Riley squeezed his eyes closed against the invasion and thrust his tongue into Buffy's mouth, forcing her head back.
It was awkward in the beginning. Spike smirked above them, demandingly superior - an ice-cold porcelain god. Buffy was tentative at first, unsure, but mesmerized and Riley wanted her. (Him) All of her. (Them) And she came. To bed with him. With them. With Spike smiling against the smooth curve of Riley's back before fitting his fangs into the seeping holes marring the sweep of his shoulder and biting down.
Balanced on his lap, one hand on bare skin, the other smeared with blood, Riley felt Buffy jerk and tighten around him. He made love to her, his thumb pressed against her clit, with Spike's cool shadow chilling his back. Riley breathed deeply, shuddering desperately at the tearing in his shoulder and the pressure in his gut. His head fell back, the world spinning as he began to lose himself to the light behind his eyelids. The pressure built, his hips moved faster, his breath, thready and shallow, slowed further still mimicking his weary heartbeat.
When he came to, Buffy was spilt across him, Spike jerking off over them.
Now they curve together easily. Spooned. One. Two. Three. Like Russian dolls. Riley mostly pretends to ignores the feeling of cool flesh cuddled against his back until skin breaks and blood spills, then he loses himself in burning, dragging loss.
Spike's tongue snaking between Riley's thighs is a heady sensation like tequila and too much laughter pooling low in his belly - languid restlessness that itches and claws under his too-tight skin. He writhes against the sensation, tickling need that steals his breath. Then cool, wet suction before the acid bite of a blade followed by fangs sinking into the soft flesh above his hipbone.
Riley stretches away from the pain, balanced on head and heels before falling. He drowns for a moment in a metallic wave of pleasure at the back of his throat, flashes of color behind his eyes. It narrows, shrinking concentric circles, into Buffy's small, warm hand moving smoothly over the head of Riley's cock. Short tugs and long strokes that make his hips rise and twitch.
Riley seldom looks at them - Buffy kneeling between his legs and Spike. He can't bring himself to meet their eyes although sometimes he can't seem to help it. Sex and blood tangle in his head like too much wine and he rides his pleasure blindly, the world masked by the icy blue of moon glow. Low light lets him ignore, mostly, the alabaster shadow sprawled at his hip and focus on the warm, living glow of Buffy at his side.
He touches her when he can. Straining to catch the spill of gold around her shoulders or squeeze her fingers while ignoring Spike licking upwards from his knees. Buffy unlocks one iron manacle, allowing Riley to reach out and find the curve of her hip, smooth, and the silky patch of hair between her thighs.
Love for me, he thinks, squeezing his eyes tightly closed.
"I love you," Buffy hums. A lie her lips can whisper in moonlit rooms. And Riley can believe. A thought to grasp as Spike ghosts over his body. Spike inhaling him, loving him, consuming him.
Buffy shifts, sliding her knees further apart. Light-headed from the sensation of Spike at his hip and Buffy at his cock, Riley dies small deaths. The slick feel of Buffy at his fingertips makes the world spin until he falls apart in her hands.
Their hands.
The drag of Spike in his head, at his veins. Drugged and spinning, arching beneath Buffy, straining. Dying. Lost. Sometimes, Spike cupped around Riley's back. Seeking. Pressing. Feeding. Spike pushing steadily into him and it's another way to be eaten alive.
"Buffy," Riley cries insistently before his mind spirals away completely.
Every night blood flows and Riley is compelled by the elemental importance of needing and being needed.
In the hazy, languid daylight hours he floats. Lying drowsy in Buffy's bed, Riley slides and stumbles through days at a time, concerned only with the approaching night. He lays curled around Buffy, hugging her naked body close to his and half listens to her stories of paradise.
He murmurs against her hair, platitudes that never quite make it into words.
All, he would like to believe, for the lie of love in her eyes.
Two more challenges to go and I'm thinking about signing up for the new Lyric Wheel. Later, peeps.
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no subject
Date: 2004-02-09 04:33 am (UTC)From:I do have a few pesky questions ... what does it mean when Spike says "White" ? Also, how much room does Riley have to move in the manacles? Before Buffy unlocks one, he curves his arm around her ... "Riley curved one arm around Buffy, tugging her close ..." but he can't reach her hip until she unlocks it ... "Buffy unlocks one iron manacle, allowing Riley to reach out and find the curve of her hip ..."
I agree with