Obligatory warning. This is dark. Non-con. Bondage. Bloodplay. My eternal gratitude to tabaqui you gave me words. And an awesome beta. Thanks to califi for the beautiful manip. Vision to words. And huge hugs and kisses to txrabbit for talking me off the ledge.
Quietly into the Night
"Star light, star bright, wish I may, wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight." Xander reaches out a hand, caressing the top of Buffy’s headstone. "For one night, and one night only, bring me someone who can see me, love Me the way I need to be loved. Just once."
His words dissolve into a broken whimper, tears stream unchecked down his agonized face. Time and reality melt and blurs around him. Shift and slide and nausea. His world is narrowed down to fuzzy gray,
Like swimming up from the bottom of the ocean, details come into focus. There are cracks in the plaster ceiling; the air smells musty, disused. Ancient.
It feels like four giant elephants sit on his limbs, restraining him. Dark and shadows and flickering candle light. A frantic throbbing fills the air, and he is thankful for the sound. Until he realizes it his own heartbeat, and the heavy whoosh of his breath.
"Bout time you woke up. Fucking fragile humans." And he knows that voice, echoes of memory. Harsh and coarse and mocking.
"S…Spike?" Xander flushes, his voice is squeaky and hesitant. Remnants of high school.
"Angelus told you who I am?" the voice changes, turns to poisonous satin. The disembodied echo suddenly has a face, and it hovers over his.
Xander remembers this version of Spike. Crisp white hair, slicked back tight against his skull. So thin he looks like white, etched marble.
No room for muscles to play under his flesh. Red shirt hanging open, the expected black tee absent. White skin
taking on a luminescent glow in the candlelight. Spike reaches out a gentle hand, coaxing wild curls away from Xanders brow.
"Don’t know if this is a comfort or a warning, pet. My toys don’t last long." Long fingers tangle in his hair, jerking his head back. He collapses on the bed next to Xander, face shifting to demon. A low growl is the only other warning. Sharp fangs sink into the tender flesh around his nipple, a ravenous tongue laps the welling blood. Xander howls his pain, twisting away from Spike, tearing the flesh from the fangs.
"Oh, pet." Gold eyes flash, tongue flickers out to scoop up droplets of blood.
"‘M so glad you did that. See, I don’t really need an excuse to flay the flesh from your bones, but by the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna know you deserve it all." He grins around his canines, feral and unrestrained. One-hand snakes out, worrying the jagged flesh, laughing at Xander’s whine of pain.
"Sweetest music, pet. Like an orchestra." Xander screams when those fingers tear a thin strip of flesh from his chest. Then Spike is splayed across him, sucking up the rivulets of blood. He presses his tongue against the wound, causing the blood to slow, then finally stop.
"Can’t have you bleedin out too soon, luv." He grinds his groin against Xander, leaving no room for doubt in the young man’s mind. "I wonder if I can make you last until dawn?" Spike rolls off the bed, stalking across the room to rummage through a leather satchel.
"Spike, you really, really don’t want to do this." Xander tries to reason with him. "When the slayer-" Spike flies across the room, viciously backhanding Xander before he can finish his sentence.
"First, pup, I am Master. That is the only thing you will call me."
The tone and words are lazy; the tension rolling off his body makes that a lie. "And as for Buffy…Angelus is out romancing her right now.
Don’t think she will be fit for slaying anytime soon." Xander opens his mouth to argue, and chokes on the ball gag shoved between his teeth, the quiet snick of the clasp echoing in his ear.
"Don’t want to hear that pretty voice sayin anything but ‘Master’ and ‘please’. Keep this in place till you are nice and pliable." Spike steps back, admiring the boy draped and chained on his bed.
Xander’s eyes are drawn to a flickering beside Spike.
The motion becomes more pronounced, and he realizes Spike is holding a short whip. Nightmarish images of leather, flesh, blood. The tight control he has on his panic snaps.
The ball gag muffles his screams and curses, bucking and thrashing tighten his bonds.
Spike’s eyes become brittle sapphire chips, enthralled with the beauty and passion his new toy brings to the fight.
Makes a mental note to applaud Angelus later for his wonderful taste in gifts. Flicks his wrist, letting the boy get a feel for the whip.
"That’s right pet," he flicks the leather again, raising pretty red welts on tender flesh. "Fight it, fight me. It makes
The breaking all the sweeter." Walking around the bed, watching Xander twist and arch, he feels borrowed blood rush to his cock. He lifts his arm again, and again.
Xander has time for one incredulous though - *Buffy's ALIVE!* and then there's pain. Spike's arm, white as a statue, rising and falling in the flicker-flame of the candle light, laying sharp, hot stripes of agony over and over his body - over chest and thighs and stomach, over his cock, Jesus fuck and excruciatingly over the already raw flesh around his nipple. Xander fights it - screams through the gag and tries to wrench free but he can't and it just goes on.
Things start to...blur, after a while. He's in and out, and Spike's voice has an odd echo to it - a booming quality that can only be because his ears are ringing and roaring as he falls in and out of consciousness.
Light, and there's a knife, making long grooves down his sides. Scoring to the bone and grating nauseatingly across them and Xander can't breathe, he can't breathe and...Darkness.
Light again, and there's something - oh fuck, fire, raising blisters along his thighs, the stink of lighter-fluid and a silver Zippo and the char of burnt hair, crisping flesh. It feels like his throat has torn in two, and he's not making real sounds now, only these ugly choking noises and the vampire frowns and snatches the gag out - turns his head and clears his mouth, nails sunk deep into his jaw and cutting his skin. The dark is scatter-shot with pinpricks of red, this time, but he goes down into it anyway, grateful.
Light for a third - fifth - tenth? Time. Light and red and candle-flame, pain sinking down into his marrow and his wrenched limbs are being pulled - rearranged - and he's on his belly now, writhing in incoherent agony as his flayed body rubs on the sheets and the manacles are pulled tight again.
"A fresh canvas. Only half done, sweetling," Spike purrs into his ear and Xander can feel the tears; is sniffling them and half-drowning in them and tasting them but it's not...it doesn't mean anything... It's just an interlude until - God -oh God please no pleasepleaseplease and the whip again, the flaying whip that -
"Just to soften you up," Spike murmurs, cold tongue lapping at blood pooled in the small of his back. Xander gags, trying to beg, but his throat is ground glass and sinew twisted tight - immobile and incapable of ever really working again.
Gentle fingers dance across his shoulders, scooping up and smearing blood. Xander can almost hear Spike chanting. The soft drone lost in a gory haze.
"…Paint you like a whore…Split you wide…Strip your flesh…" The words take on a passionate, loving quality. "Night’s almost over pet. ‘M proud of you."
The fog threatens to lift, the words sending silver threads of hope through his mind. Make it to morning, make it to morning. Xander’s legs are wrenched apart; Spike doesn’t bother to tie them down. His toy is too broken to fight or run. His hips are lifted, and settled on something soft. Every sensation skittering across his conscious mind. Then his world shatters. Thousands of lancets split him down the center, scattering into blackness. A double-edged sword skewers him from neck to ass, filling him up and draining him dry.
Black fades to red fades to gray. Icy droplets of water trickle down his cheek, following the parched crease of his lips. Xander peels his eyes open, dragging a hand through dew-slick grass. A dream, it was all a dream. Looking at the hand laying in front of his face, he sees the thin silver scars; one finger slightly twisted.
A thick ridge of scar tissue circles his wrist. Shallow grooves mark his forearm. It wasn’t a dream.