![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Aug. 14th, 2003 08:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
essene_backupSpander in the desert. Well, it's a long slow, dry process. But it keeps dripping out. Also? I thought I was going for smut. Apparantly, the story has decided that our old friend angst needs a part too. So here's where we began:
Roadtrip: Broke Down Palace
Roadtrip:My Own Private Idaho
Roadtrip: Pricilla Queen of the Desert
And our current update: Roadtrip: 200 Cigarettes
The thin slash of bright light drove itself between Xander’s eyelids. Blinking, he turned his head to try and avoid the unwelcome intruder. Unfortunately, it was everywhere he turned. Sighing, he stretched, farted and yawned.
He turned to the clock. No clock. Blinking he surveyed his surroundings. That’s right. Fleabag without the fleas. He flipped back the covers and swung his legs over the edge. Yawning with abandon he made his way to the bathroom. Turning on the sink, he stopped.
“Spike.” He looked in the mirror. Searched for something, anything that could account for the way he was currently feeling upon realizing that he was thinking about…Spike. It wasn’t the easy disgust and irritation normally associated with Spike-leaning thoughts. It was…curiosity, affability, and damnit, a twinge of guilt.
He walked to the drapes and yanked them open. No car in the small dusty lot. He opened the door; looked left, looked right, still no car. Closing the door, he looked at the rotary phone on the nightstand and listened to the water run.
_______________
“…on the side of the road. Can you believe it?” Spike looked blearily at the old man seated a few stools down, empasizing his incredulity with a drunken cigarette. “Of all the fucking places. I should have just left him there. Let him get washed away in all that…water.”
From the small collection surrounding him, Spike lifted the nearest dark brown bottle, guzzled a portion of the contents and took a long drag on the butt between his fingers.
“And then he doesn’t shut up. For 2 fucking days. I thought I was in hell. I mean, I thought the chair in the boor’s basement was bad? At least he didn’t prattle on at me for hours at a time.”
Shaking his head, the old man got up from the stool and discreetly moved to a booth in a far corner of the bar.
Spike continued on to the empty air, “So when he shut up and shut the door in my face. I mean…well…shit! Who expected that? Usually they leave me with some choice words, or a punch or two. Dru, Angelus, Harm, Buffy, well hell any of the scoobies…” the bottles jumped slightly as Spike’s head hit the bar near them.
Screaming and smoking, Spike ducked under his duster from the bright morning sun, as he ran desperately for the car from where he’d been unceremoniously dumped in the early, early morning by the bartender. Once he reached the dim interior he passed out again, as much from the sizzling pain of his burns as from the lingering alcohol.
A full, pulsing cock. A sturdy male hand stroking it up and down. A long, tendoned neck swallowing in release. When he woke in the dusky desert evening, these were the first images that flashed through Spike’s brain.
“Fuck.” He turned the key in the ignition, lit a cigarette, and drove the battered Desoto back the way he’d come.
__________________________
Xander just looked at the door when the knock came. His lungs had suddenly migrated directly to his throat and threatened to end breathing altogether. His heart was pounding a jackhammer staccato in the remaining cavern of his chest. He’d been waiting for it all day. Knowing that it would come, wanting it to come, wishing it would never come.
Swallowing, Xander stood up from the bed and walked slowly to the door. He placed his hand on the worn surface and waged a fierce battle with his identity. If he were to open it, the person he thought he was would vacate the premises. If he ignored the knock, went back to the phone and just dialed, that well-worn persona would be his to lug around for a while longer.
He opened the door.
_________________
“Come in, Spike.”
Amidst a flash of leather, a blur of white and a slamming door, Xander was sent careening to the bed. Strong hands gripped his shoulders brutally as lean hips overpowered his own. In the space between breaths Xander’s mouth was ground against teeth and skin and lips. It took a monumental effort, but Xander was finally able to cram a hand between their bodies and push Spike marginally off of him, giving just enough space for him to say, “Slow down.”
Spike jolted back, as if slapped. Lake blue eyes scrutinized him. Xander looked back calmly. Spike sat back on his haunches, still straddling Xander’s body.
Xander sat up slowly. Reached a shaking hand up to the chiseled planes in front of him. Traced a sharp cheek, a mangled brow, his eyes following each move of his own fingers, finally making their way to the curve of lush, yet cruel lips. Spike jerked his head away. Xander dropped his hand to the chained neck, and began undoing buttons.
Spike watched this browned youth in something akin to amazement. This wasn’t the same nervous boy who’d talked incessantly from Las Vegas to Carlsbad. This gentle, unhurried, serene being was disturbing him. Making his body burn and his emotions twist.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Spike voiced the question in a harsh whisper, then pushed off of Xander with one hand and began patting himself down for a cigarette.
Roadtrip: Broke Down Palace
Roadtrip:My Own Private Idaho
Roadtrip: Pricilla Queen of the Desert
And our current update: Roadtrip: 200 Cigarettes
The thin slash of bright light drove itself between Xander’s eyelids. Blinking, he turned his head to try and avoid the unwelcome intruder. Unfortunately, it was everywhere he turned. Sighing, he stretched, farted and yawned.
He turned to the clock. No clock. Blinking he surveyed his surroundings. That’s right. Fleabag without the fleas. He flipped back the covers and swung his legs over the edge. Yawning with abandon he made his way to the bathroom. Turning on the sink, he stopped.
“Spike.” He looked in the mirror. Searched for something, anything that could account for the way he was currently feeling upon realizing that he was thinking about…Spike. It wasn’t the easy disgust and irritation normally associated with Spike-leaning thoughts. It was…curiosity, affability, and damnit, a twinge of guilt.
He walked to the drapes and yanked them open. No car in the small dusty lot. He opened the door; looked left, looked right, still no car. Closing the door, he looked at the rotary phone on the nightstand and listened to the water run.
_______________
“…on the side of the road. Can you believe it?” Spike looked blearily at the old man seated a few stools down, empasizing his incredulity with a drunken cigarette. “Of all the fucking places. I should have just left him there. Let him get washed away in all that…water.”
From the small collection surrounding him, Spike lifted the nearest dark brown bottle, guzzled a portion of the contents and took a long drag on the butt between his fingers.
“And then he doesn’t shut up. For 2 fucking days. I thought I was in hell. I mean, I thought the chair in the boor’s basement was bad? At least he didn’t prattle on at me for hours at a time.”
Shaking his head, the old man got up from the stool and discreetly moved to a booth in a far corner of the bar.
Spike continued on to the empty air, “So when he shut up and shut the door in my face. I mean…well…shit! Who expected that? Usually they leave me with some choice words, or a punch or two. Dru, Angelus, Harm, Buffy, well hell any of the scoobies…” the bottles jumped slightly as Spike’s head hit the bar near them.
Screaming and smoking, Spike ducked under his duster from the bright morning sun, as he ran desperately for the car from where he’d been unceremoniously dumped in the early, early morning by the bartender. Once he reached the dim interior he passed out again, as much from the sizzling pain of his burns as from the lingering alcohol.
A full, pulsing cock. A sturdy male hand stroking it up and down. A long, tendoned neck swallowing in release. When he woke in the dusky desert evening, these were the first images that flashed through Spike’s brain.
“Fuck.” He turned the key in the ignition, lit a cigarette, and drove the battered Desoto back the way he’d come.
__________________________
Xander just looked at the door when the knock came. His lungs had suddenly migrated directly to his throat and threatened to end breathing altogether. His heart was pounding a jackhammer staccato in the remaining cavern of his chest. He’d been waiting for it all day. Knowing that it would come, wanting it to come, wishing it would never come.
Swallowing, Xander stood up from the bed and walked slowly to the door. He placed his hand on the worn surface and waged a fierce battle with his identity. If he were to open it, the person he thought he was would vacate the premises. If he ignored the knock, went back to the phone and just dialed, that well-worn persona would be his to lug around for a while longer.
He opened the door.
_________________
“Come in, Spike.”
Amidst a flash of leather, a blur of white and a slamming door, Xander was sent careening to the bed. Strong hands gripped his shoulders brutally as lean hips overpowered his own. In the space between breaths Xander’s mouth was ground against teeth and skin and lips. It took a monumental effort, but Xander was finally able to cram a hand between their bodies and push Spike marginally off of him, giving just enough space for him to say, “Slow down.”
Spike jolted back, as if slapped. Lake blue eyes scrutinized him. Xander looked back calmly. Spike sat back on his haunches, still straddling Xander’s body.
Xander sat up slowly. Reached a shaking hand up to the chiseled planes in front of him. Traced a sharp cheek, a mangled brow, his eyes following each move of his own fingers, finally making their way to the curve of lush, yet cruel lips. Spike jerked his head away. Xander dropped his hand to the chained neck, and began undoing buttons.
Spike watched this browned youth in something akin to amazement. This wasn’t the same nervous boy who’d talked incessantly from Las Vegas to Carlsbad. This gentle, unhurried, serene being was disturbing him. Making his body burn and his emotions twist.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Spike voiced the question in a harsh whisper, then pushed off of Xander with one hand and began patting himself down for a cigarette.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 09:13 pm (UTC)::wanders off wondering which movie title will be gakked next::
no subject
Date: 2003-08-14 09:27 pm (UTC)You're so good to my ego.
You're right about the angst/smut thing. It seems to come so much easier when writing Spander than with Spuffy. Spuffy just leans schmoopy for me.
And using the movie titles? I thought: "Broke down" for the first chapter which led to the movie, which led to the inevitable naming continuation. Plus it means I didn't have to work too hard to think of anything catchy. =-)
Although....I spelled Priscilla wrong. Damn.
Wow Redux
Date: 2003-10-21 07:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-10-22 02:26 am (UTC)Love the way Spike passed out and had to make a run for his car in the morning.
This is fun.
I also like the way you handled Xander's pivotal moment. :-)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-22 05:38 pm (UTC)As far as "fun", I guess it depends on who's having the fun. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2003-10-25 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-12-28 05:49 pm (UTC)