Log in

No account? Create an account

Fandom's Bitch

- the workings of an easily distracted fangirl

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
BtVS Fic: How did it come to this? (Broken Promise) (NC-17, slash)
annie hall//forgot my mantra - me
whiskyinmind wrote in fandomsbitca
And now for something completely different, no idea where this came from it just... happened.

Title: How did it come to this? (Broken Promise)
Author: Shona, aka Mara
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Xander. With a twist.
Spoilers: early-mid S7.
Warnings: Second person (not everyone's cup of tea, I know); m/m slash; dub-con (in a way); character death; darkness. Vast acres of darkness. Seriously, this may be the darkest thing I've written (and that's saying a fair bit...).
Notes: I won't kid myself anymore by saying I don't write slash, because obviously I do, but I honestly do not know where this came from. It's a pairing I read, not one I write, I just… the idea hit and… here it is! Title comes from the Muse song "Time Is Running Out" & the Placebo song quoted below.

I'll wait my turn, to terrorize you
Watch you burn, I'll wait my turn
A promise is a promise

~ Broken Promise by Placebo (feat. Michael Stipe)

You watch as he moves through the crowd, trying to fit in, trying to be normal. But you know him. He'll never fit in, never be normal. He's too close to the edge; too far from what the kids of today call 'the scene'. And he knows it. You can tell by the set of his shoulders, that almost defensive posture betrays his expectation of attack from all sides.

He's not unique.

Time was, the same could be said of you.

It's just a matter of time before he'll be yours, but right now you force yourself to step back, to watch his bumbling attempts to connect with someone - with anyone. Something inside wants to smile but it's been so ling since you have that the impulse an alien thing to you.

You sit, un-noticed, in the back of the club, nursing a drink you've barely touched. No one approaches you or questions your lack of thirst because you don't want them to. You're focused. Intent.

A predator with his prey in sight.

It takes over an hour, part of you applauds his perseverance, but eventually he slumps alone on a stool at the bar. You let him sit, alone, for as long as it takes for him to get restless, to start picking at the label of the (imported - naturally) beer he's nursing.

You let another minute tick by. Let him marinate in his loneliness. Finally, when the level of his beer hits the bottom of the shredded label, and the level of his self-confidence has hit about the same place, you step up beside him.

You signal for another for yourself and with a sideways gesture indicate to the barmaid that his next round is also on your tab.

He glances at you as the beer is placed in front of him and you don't even try to hide your smirk as the look of sheer contempt crosses his face. It's not like you and he are soul mates or BFFs or anything.

You raise your glass, whisky - a surprisingly good one for such a small town locale, and meet his eyes as you down your drink in one.
"Whaddya think? You had enough humiliation for one night?" You ask, almost lazily.
He scowls at you and takes a long draft from the long neck you just supplied. Your eyes track down to the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows and you realize your tongue has flicked over your suddenly dry lips. A sudden heat floods through you but you manage to restrain yourself - barely. And then his tongue flicks out to capture the moisture that clings to his lips and all the restraint you had is gone in an instant.

You lean forward and run your fingers through his hair in a parody of gentleness as you pull him towards you. You capture the remnant drops of moisture remaining around his mouth with the barest flick of your tongue and you press on. Claiming him, capturing his mouth under yours and breathing in his scent in an unnecessary breath.

He's shocked for a moment, but then abruptly something seems to melt in him and as he begins to respond you can't help the grin that forms. He's yours now. Just like you he'd be.

Without saying anything you draw back and stand. Turning from him, you walk towards the exit. You'd like to think you weren't fighting the impulse to glance back, but you can't kid yourself. You know he's following, but there's still a part of you that wants to be sure he is.

You make it to the door before you turn, and when you do you force a know-it-all smirk onto your face. He's trying to swagger. Trying to pretend like this is all his idea and part of you applauds him for it.

The far louder part of you recognizes the smoldering look in his eyes and knows you're not going to make it back to your place before you're tearing at his clothes. Lucky The Bronze isn't exactly in the bustling heart of the town - more in the no-go industrial part really - definitely makes it your kind of club.

Three blocks west and two north you find an unoccupied alley - not the easiest thing to find in this vamp-friendly town - and you drag him in after you. There's no pretence at gentleness this time. This is all about satisfying needs and desires.

Teeth and nails come into play as you pull at each other, the copper-rich scent of freshly drawn blood is in the air and just that makes you lose control. You push him against the wall, aware that at any other time you would wince at the not-so-subtle crunch of flesh hitting brick with more than enough force enough to bruise, but right now you don't care. You just want to taste flesh, sweat, semen, blood.

You could almost feel guilty for the damage you're inflicting if he wasn't tearing at you in a mirror of your own frenzy.

You force yourself to stop. This is going nowhere fast, the logistics are all wrong. You cast around almost frantically before you spot the door hanging almost of its hinges. You drag him towards it and into the derelict warehouse. The two of you stumble inside and come to rest beside a raised loading platform from where trucks could have been filled with anything from high-end furniture to plastic dog shit to human sacrifices, you never could tell on the Hellmouth. You turn him to face it, his hands on the lip of the platform, arms braced. He bends forward, provocatively and you take a second to wonder what happened to his pants and exactly when he managed to get out of them. It's only a second though because he looks back at you and the wanton lust in his eyes overwhelms you almost as much as does his not-so-subtle offering of his ass.

You bend over him, gripping his hips with both hands and tracing your tongue right down his spine, marvelling as he shivers under your touch, until you reach the tight ring of muscle. You almost stop; he's not ready. You'd entertained all those images of taking him someplace, prepping him properly, you hadn't expected it to pan out quite in this way - you didn't bring anything… but abruptly his back arches at just the stimulus of your breath on him and suddenly you don't care. Warily, hesitantly, your tongue laps out, circling his opening and a muffled cry of pleasure escapes him as he bucks forward a little.

Emboldened you keep going, circling the tight muscles, marvelling as he relaxes and contracts against you, and suddenly - almost without you planning it - your tongue is inside him, slackening the muscles, moistening him. You've never done this before but it doesn't matter, you release your tight grip on his hips and let one hand join your mouth in teasing him, opening him, whilst the other moves to grasp his cock and caress him gently.

His cry is anything but muffled this time and in any town but Sunnydale you'd worry that help would come running, but in this town people know better than to get involved. A second finger joins the first in his tight hole and it's too uncomfortable to keep mouthing him there as well. You hope there's enough lubrication by now and add a third finger, curling them gently, trying to find that sweet spot, that perfect angle, and then suddenly you can't take anymore. You position yourself behind him, knowing it's going to hurt, lube isn't just an optional extra after all, but you're beyond caring.

You push in gently but steadily, marvelling at the tightness and as a small scream starts to emerge from him you bite down into his shoulder to detract from the pain. It seems to work, or maybe the distraction comes from the fact that the whole time you're gently rolling his balls in your free hand.

Either way, he isn't complaining.

You stop, breathing heavily through your nose as you try to bring yourself under control again. You want this to last after all.

Eventually you begin to move, shallow thrusts, timing it with the strokes of your hand on him. He writhes a little under you but he doesn't fight. He wants this as much as you do.

You straighten, the better to get the angle you're looking for and on your next thrust you can almost feel that sensitive nub inside him. The whimpers escaping him seem to indicate he definitely felt it.

Your thrusts become faster, less co-ordinated, and you know you're about to lose it, but you want him to experience the full effect. You force your hips to slow while speeding the work of your hand, you pull on him, twisting gently and then sliding back down the length of him. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Your lazy thrusts from behind and the sharp tempo you're maintaining from the front succeed in sending him over the edge and he shudders around you - muscles contracting in an exquisite agony around your cock for an instant as his seed spills over your hand and coats his naked skin.

You bring your semen-covered hand first to your lips then his. Tasting him, letting him taste himself on you; and as his breathing starts to slow to normal you start to speed your leisurely thrusts into something more insistent.

Something more animal.

You're close. So close.

His back arches and he tries to push back into you, meeting you thrust for thrust. It's too late to stop now, not that you want to. You want this. Part of you always has.

You feel your balls tighten and you somehow manage to focus.

You trace your hand up his back, picturing his heart below your fingers.

You plunge the stake in as your climax hits.

The dust settles.

It only takes you a couple of minutes to clean yourself up, to rearrange your clothing, to pop a breath mint to kill the bitter taste in your mouth.

Your phone rings and you answer it walking out of the alley. "Buffy." You say, knowing it's her.
"Xander? Where are you?" She almost sounds worried about you and for a second you wonder if you did the right thing. "Have you seen Spike?"

Figures. Not worried about you at all, just about him. You turn and look at the fast dissipating pile of dust. "Not for a while, Buff. Sorry."

  • 1
Ouch! This was indeed very dark.

Hopefully not *too* dark!

Oh, that's - wicked. I knew, due to the warning of a twist, that the protagonist wasn't who one would first suspect, but I still didn't see the end coming. Whoa.

Hee! My entire goal in writing this boils down to your comment - I'm so glad it worked!

I didn't read all the warnings - shocking! But very well written.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo. ::cries:: Wonderfully written.

GAH! Just...GAH!!!!!!!! Holy GAH!!!!!!

OMG! That ending totally took me by surprise! o.O Very dark! Very well written!

  • 1