Over at [info]nekid_spike, [info]kayt_arminta asked me for "Spander. Something dark, and if it's D/s I want Xander to be the submissive. Just something unique, a kink you haven't written about yet"

Now, I'll admit that it wasn't easy for me to think of a dark kink that I hadn't written, and I'm not really sure how I succeeded here. I sort of chose the "kinks" as insanity and captivity, i.e. Spike turning Xander and making him completely crazy before using and unleashing him. Due to the captivity, there are themes such as bondage and deprivation, and the insanity has basically given me license to not always write proper sentences...Heh. I suppose there's a fairly significant blood kink as well.



A New Animal


by
Ash Carpenter


The joke backfired like a burned-out old motor, plume of smoke and oil substituted by fear and blood.
 
Spike had been humming in his sleep – not Sex Pistols or The Clash; something ancient and feminine, too amusing to be passed up. Snatched words Googled, folk rendition downloaded. Humiliation set up for when the vampire stirred from slumber, bleary-eyed and oblivious.
 
Early one morning...
 
Everything changed in a second, confusion sliced through with the sharp knife of hunger, and laughter dying in the still, close air.
 
Backfire.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
There’s something scrabbling in the walls. Rats, maybe, although it’s kind of sick that vermin smell so damned delicious.
 
He can hear their little hearts beating, a quick-time staccato beat. Thump-thump-thump-thump. It’s all he can hear, really. Sometimes there’s a drip or a scuffle, but mostly he just listens to the maddening sound of pumping blood, drool dripping from his permanently-bared fangs. The gag doesn’t help.
 
At first his arms ache, wrists chafing, but soon it’s dull and distant like everything else. The only thing that grows sharper is the ache in his belly.
 
He thinks he used to find things amusing – or at least pretend he did. Witty rejoinders about “hanging out” deserted him after a week or so, and now his brain doesn’t seem to work quite right. Nothing’s funny at all...but sometimes he hears his laugh echoing off the walls anyway.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
“You’re not really here.” Muffled by the gag, but Spike seems to understand.
 
“That’s usually my line...”
 
Spike’s smirking. He can hear it – in his voice, and maybe even the movement of his face. Spike’s different though. Spike’s not Spike – or, just maybe, he’s never actually met the real Spike before. Either way, this guy vibrates like a tuning fork, violence barely contained in his skin and his various hungers making the air hard to breathe.
 
Oh, yeah...Breathing. Redundant. One problem solved, at least. His lungs flutter when he stops using them, panic trying to claim him. But its paltry little sparrow wings beating in his belly can’t hope to compete with his pain and hunger.
 
“Hey, Spike?” His voice is cracked and rusty, either raw from disuse or broken from screaming. He can’t remember.
 
“Yeah?”
 
“I think I might’ve fucked up.”
 
Rich laughter echoes around the subterranean space again and it sounds like screaming.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
“Are you dreaming about the blood yet?”
 
He doesn’t answer. There is no awake or asleep anymore, so how can he tell if he’s dreaming? Blood is all there is; it presses in on his vision; it pools in his veins, causing him to contort and dislocate his shoulders as he tries to bite himself around the gag.
 
“Pu-please...” He thinks it must be him begging, but that’s silly. He’s pretty sure Spike’s not even here anyway. He sees people all the time, but they just dissolve, disappear. He sees his friends, but they run away because he tries to bite them, yellow eyes ferocious and desperate. Yellow, yellow...His brain snags on something, sand and dark hair and crying, but it slips away. He gurgles a line from Yellow Submarine and laughs.
 
“Not yet, boy. You’re not there yet, not like my princess. Guess Angelus was better at this than I am...But don’t worry; we’ve got time. Plenty.”
 
Sometimes he thinks people crawl out of the earth around his feet, but he ignores them. They leave and the rats stay, so he knows who he’ll take his chances on, thank you very much.
 
Thump-thump-thump-thump.
 
Someone’s pulling his stomach apart with meat hooks and he can’t stand upright anymore, swinging and tracing strange sigils in the dirt with his bare, dragging feet.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
There’s an odd kind of monotony for a while, frightening and arousing images the whole time, sinking into a bottomless pit of fantasy and despair. He thinks maybe it’s Hell – ‘cause he’s damned now, right?
 
But then it stops.
 
Everything stops because there’s this thick, rich smell, heady and delicious like nothing he’s ever even dreamed of, and he can hear a keening wail and saliva is running down his face and neck. His body strains toward the scent, even as his mind stands away detachedly, doubting that this can be any more real than anything else. Although now he must be in Heaven because that precious nectar is on his tongue and his taste buds explode, every single cell in his body singing some kind of exultation.
 
He’s drowning and it’s the most perfect, incredible sensation ever; he loses himself to it, flying, soaring, time passing in a blood-drenched whirlwind.
 
Each fibre of his being saturated and replete, synapses exploding, he sinks into the welcoming blackness.
 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
 
He wakes and he’s free, an unimagined medley of night-time sights and scents assaulting his senses and exciting him, confusing him.
 
Strong, so damned strong, and he runs through the woods. He tears into the things that move, his own unfettered tornado of destruction, but he moves closer and closer to the lights. Things live there, things he wants, things that he has to have.
 
He tears and rends and there are screams that he drinks down, melding with his laughter, and he’s the king of the goddamned universe, stars going supernova just for him.
 
And at the beginning and end of all things, there’s Spike. Spike, who knows just what to do with all that excess energy and power, who teaches him to kneel and to fight and to be defeated. He learns the true meaning of blood and life, lets it surge south and Spike manipulates him to ecstasy that he’s never known. And the pain is so exquisite that he feels like he’ll explode into ash...
 
Spike makes him wear the hated gag from his first few days (weeks, months...?) of imprisonment, and he learns to love it. Spike cuts and burns him, and it just makes him beg harder – with his body when his mouth’s otherwise occupied. Spike’s territorial, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know how to share when he feels like it, so sometimes he’s blindfolded and he feels other hands on him, in him. Sometimes he hears the rustle of money.
 
He’s chained or he’s free, allowed to glut himself now when he turns predator. The in-between times, when there’s no Spike and there’s no blood, are just dead time, passed in a weird semi-consciousness that he doesn’t bother to remember. He thinks maybe he talks to the rats, or the stars. Doesn’t matter, because they never give him the answers he wants.
 
His only truths now are Spike and the kill, the only things that give his life any meaning, and both are mind-blowing, showing him something that pulses in him so bright and powerful that the rest of the world may as well be drawn in grey. At first he thinks he simply can’t remember that old life that he has no use for, but later he realises that he just doesn’t want to. Because he can remember, if he tries, if he needs to. If the occasion calls for it.
 
Like now.
 
Spike hadn’t been around for a long time, leaving him with only the hunt, so he finally tested his strength and found that now he can make metal links snap like kindling. He ran and ran, and it has been a long time since he stuck to the woods but this is the furthest into the lights he’s gone, closest to the familiar paths itching at the back of his mind.
 
She finds him in the garden, sniffing out Spike’s fresh scent. He knows who she is, although what she is, is prey. He just needs to get close enough...
 
“Oh God, Xander! What did he do to you?” The wail is pathetic, her eyes big and heart-broken, and her grief makes her stupid, because she knows exactly what Spike did.
 
He smiles, fangs dripping; he’s long since forgotten how to conjure up his old face. “Hey, Buff...”




The End





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