Rating: PG-13 by implication
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm, no foul.
Cold sweat, fear of the monsters, and a twinge of wildly inappropriate, swiftly stifled, forever to be denied lust.
Cold, delicate fingers stroke the soft skin at nape of neck as the monster tests the air, tastes the mixed emotions, the heady flavour of fear and arousal. And recognises the deceit.
Then that hand is pushing the offered snack down and away, as the other comes up, connects with jaw: a meaty thud, well-earned, in the opinion of both bait and baited.
And the monsters fight, hand-to-hand, with tooth and nail, as the snack flees.
In his dreams it's different…
Such pale, delicate hands, so soft and eloquent.
Without a single scar or callus to show for a century of bloodletting and violence.
How many times have they tried to take his life? A dozen? Two?
And now they are the center of his focus, even at the periphery of vision.
He watches as they go about their business,
Pat the pocket, find the packet, lift 'fag' to lips then light it.
An elegant and oft repeated dance he never tires of watching.
He wonders how those hands would feel against his skin when not in anger.
And he dreams…
Big hands. Solid hands. Tanned and scarred and callused hands.
A workman's hands. A fighter's hands. From what he's heard, a lover's hands.
Amused, at first, he knew the boy was watching.
He turned the tables, just because he could.
And now he was entranced, enrapt, enchanted.
He hungered for those hands upon his skin.
He watched the fingers toy with tools and weapons.
He watched them dragging furrows through thick hair.
He watched them as they stroked and soothed and petted,
He watched them as they spread such love and care.
Oh, he definitely wanted some of that.
First Touch Reprised: With Intent
Cold, delicate fingers stroke the soft skin at nape of neck…
Memories and dreams rush to the surface, chased by blood and sweat and pheromones.
Spike smiles, and drags his nails across the skin, awakening the hunger in them both.
Then fingers drop to shoulder: quick squeeze and… gone, as he moves around the desk to take a seat.
Xander's heart is pounding, eyes unfocussed, fingers numb.
His fantasies, a thousand of them, all just came to life and struck him dumb.
And so they watch the clock and count the minutes.
Two sets of fingers drumming on the desk…
Halfway home a hand lands on his shoulder,
Spins him round and pins him to the wall.
Lips on lips and hands on hips, and later…
So weak that he can barely even crawl…
Those hands he’s spent a chunk of lifetime watching,
Lift him, tuck him in, don’t let him fall.
They help him home, and help him in, then, waiting…
Drumming on a door no longer there,
Waiting for an invite, but not asking,
Pretending that they really just don’t care.
A pause, a moment’s thought for fear of safety?
Immediately discarded without flair…
“You’re welcome here, Spike.”
It Must Be Love
At first, the holding hands thing was just creepy, but Xander got into it really quick. Spike said it was for show, to freak the Scoobies, but occasionally his cute Victorian vampire would forget, and then they’d tangle fingers, watching movies, soaps or sci-fi, and they’d cuddle.
He knew that it was love when he gave in and let his boyfriend paint his fingernails. Not black, oh no, ‘cause that’s his trademark colour. And so he walked around with dark green polish on his nails because, as said by Spike, it matched the tiny dark green flecks within his eyes.