It has sucked mightily. And it may not be over yet. BUT! I wished kitty_poker1 a happy birthday about 8 hours ago and the resulting conversation ended with a stern admonition to write, dammit, write! So I did. And those eight hours produced the following two additions to my BDT of Spander.
Pairing/Fandoms: Spike/Xander of Buffy
Feedback/Concrit: darkhavens @ slashverse.com
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Title: First Impressions
Summary: An alternative first meeting for Spike and Xander
Notes: Written for lishel_fracrium, who chose #001 - 'Cemetery' on my Big Damn Spander Table.
Spike can see it coming from a mile away - it's violently, amusingly predictable. And right up to the moment that he does, he has absolutely no intention whatsoever of intervening.
The boy literally cannot fight to save his life. Oh, he has courage enough to spare, and determination by the bucket load, but the actual skills to save his skinny hide are only noted for their absence.
He goes down in a tangle of long limbs and Spike winces at the thunk as teenage head meets granite headstone. He's not unconscious -not quite - the feeble flailing of his arms can testify to that. However, he's obviously not long for this world.
He knows it, Spike knows it, the dirt-fresh fledgling snapping eagerly at his throat knows it, but the boy just doesn't stop batting away in some hideous parody of self-defence.
Spike's actually charmed by that, almost against his will, and, without the slightest interference from his conscious self, is suddenly leaping from the shadows to separate the boy's attacker's head from his neck.
The boy's still fighting off an attacker that's now dust and ash and Spike just stands and watches him wind down in puzzled entropy.
The snick-flame of Spike's Zippo focuses the boy's attention nicely.
Or at least as focussed as it gets right now.
Spike lights his cigarette and snaps the Zippo shut. The boy switches at the sharp metallic click.
"Yeah, you said that already. You do know you're crap at this fighting lark, right?"
The boy makes a scrambling attempt to gain his feet but only ends up muddier and pink around the edges.
"Don't swallow your tongue, mate, I'm not going to eat you. Not now at least, and certainly not here. I just didn't want to see such a pretty thing as you, wasted on a bloke that still had dirt in his ears."
Spike can hear the Slayer and her magic-scented friend approaching, so he knows his time is short.
"What's your name?"
The flustered blink tells Spike he hadn't meant to answer, and Spike files the name away for future reference.
"Till next time, Xander. Try and keep yourself alive for me, eh? I might not always be around to save your-" His gaze slipped down to lodge at Xander's groin. "-neck."
Spike disappears with a dramatic swish of leather just as Buffy pokes her head around the corner of the nearest crypt.
"Xander, what are you doing on the ground? Did you fall over again?"
Title: Out of Alternatives
Rating: R for gore
Warnings/Squicks: Death!fic but not permanently.
Summary: Spike is out of alternatives
Notes: Written for outsideth3box who chose #078 - 'Other' on my Big Damn Spander Table. She also provided the following additional prompt: Blood on his hands, its sweet, metallic smell thick in the air. The temptation to lick away the droplet rolling down his cheek was strong.
Blood pulsed rhythmically under and between his fingers, seeping slowly into neatly buttoned cuffs and pooling, warm and viscous, in the earth beneath his bended knees.
The air was thick with it, the stench of offal - a miasma of iron-copper, sweet and hot, heartbreakingly familiar on his tongue.
Every breath that rattled in through open mouth and out through punctured lungs tore vicious holes in Spike's soul. A liquid cough sent glistening beads of dark arterial blood fanning up and out, a deathly final fountain. The temptation to bend and lick the darkly crimson droplets that trailed streaks across tanned cheeks was almost too strong to resist, but Spike bit down on it and swallowed hard.
No alternative, no other way to save this boy, there was only Spike - demon, soul, conflicted lover. As one clouded, barely focussed eye watched on, he leaned in, his face shifting and reforming under folds of toughened skin.
Xander's eyelid fluttered closed and Spike was ready to pull back - to resist, accept rejection, let him die - and then his head rolled slowly, heavily aside to bare his neck.
Fangs slid easily through precious flesh, seeking out the weakened dregs of what had been so very strong just an hour before. A mouthful, two, not even three and he was done, drained, an empty vessel waiting to be filled anew.
Spike slashed his wrist on a fang and then forced it between chilly, bluish lips and watched to make sure Xander swallowed. And then he waited.