Rating: R for language and imagery
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: Each time, Spike pushes him that little bit further, and Xander - lets himself be pushed.
Notes: Written for day two of mini_nanowrimo, for prompt 003 at slashtheimage (see thumbnail of image below), but, most importantly, for my Pookie, literati, who, after five long years, has finally seen the light and embraced the Spanderlove. *smooches* About Damned Time! :D
Xander knows that Spike's hands will never truly be clean of the blood - and guts and other random bits of viscera - he's spilled over the years, sometimes just for fun, because he could, because it pleased him.
He harbors no illusions about the innocence, or lack thereof, of the golden-curled, debauched cherub he finds sprawled across his bed when he gets home each evening, covered in sweat and sawdust, limned in layers of sunshine and Sunnydale's miasma.
He knows there's a heart at least as black as Lucifer's wings inside that sleek pale chest. But he also knows, because Spike whispered it once, probably thinking Xander must be too fucked out to even hear, that if Spike's heart could beat, it would beat for him, for Xander. There's some strange comfort in that, he thinks.
He does wonder sometimes, between the sex and the sex and, yes, more sex, if he maybe doesn't care quite as much as he should about the blood - and the guts and the viscera.
He cared a lot, once upon a time. He remembers that, though distantly now, as if through an insulating layer of… Okay, so he's never been one for metaphors. He wonders if the constant touch and tease and torment of Spike's hands has maybe transferred a little of Spike's attitude - 'It's done and gone, can't change it, don't want to. Bored now; let's fuck.'
They fuck. Long and often. And each time, Spike pushes him that little bit further, and Xander - lets himself be pushed.
He doesn't wake with bloody handprints on his skin, though the fingertip-sized bruises on his biceps never quite seem to fade to dusty green before they're purple once more.
He thinks those handprints might be burned, instead, into his soul.
He'd probably be concerned about that if he had time, but Spike has other plans.
Bored now; let's fuck.
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