Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Events go slightly askew just a day or two before the events of the episode 'Hush'.
Xander wakes unexpectedly to vaguely familiar sounds. Broken gasps, creaking springs and muffled moans against a backbeat, a rhythmic, slick slipslide of skin on skin. It takes a moment for realisation to dawn, but when it does he gets hard. So hard that he's profoundly grateful he woke up on his side and not his back, because a tent would let Spike know that he'd been heard, and he might stop. This way he can experience each stroke as though that black-nailed hand is on his cock.
They come together.
There's a sniff, and a chuckle.
"You smell delicious, pet."
"If you're staying, you're on the chair, and you're tied down. You're one of the evil undead, remember? I know killing me would probably give you the migraine from hell, but at least you would recover."
"Wouldn't kill you, pet. You'd make a glorious vampire."
"Sit down and shut up."
The ropes are tighter tonight, but Spike is nothing if not resourceful. Touching might be off the menu, but he can still talk.
His words flow over Xander like a river of silk, tempting, teasing, caressing.
The sound of surreptitiously moving sheets paints a grin on Spike's face.
When Xander wakes to find he's unable to speak, he blames Spike. He knows it's a stupid, knee-jerk reaction, even as he silently berates the still-bound vampire, flailing his arms in frustration at the soundless laughter that ensues.
Spike waits until Xander's ire has burned out, then stands, ropes snapping and splitting like badly treated hair. His unwilling host is too swamped in confusion and defeat to even notice, and Spike knows that this is likely the best chance at escape he'll ever get.
With one last glance at the door to freedom, Spike slides onto the bed.
When the phone rings they ignore it. Too busy learning each other through sight and scent and touch and taste to be bothered by intrusive sounds. Mouths move in silent benedictions against bare skin, teeth grazing, nibbling, fangs aching to sink deep. Neither truly believes they'll ever have this chance again.
The second time they're simply too entangled to break free. Limbs cling tighter at the thought of letting go. Fingers sink deep into muscled flanks and milk-white buttocks, and the pace of thrust and counter-thrust increases.
The third caller leaves a message about 'The Gentlemen'.
They sleep on, unaware.
Pimping - "The Colour, Sound, and Random Object Spander Ficathon.".
Signups are open until Saturday January 15th, and fic is due seven weeks after that, on Saturday March 5th, which, quite coincidentally is my birthday. Clever, eh? ;o)
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