When the Flood of Waters Was Upon the Earth [X/A, S/X, Mature]
Title: When the Flood of Waters Was Upon the Earth
Pairing: Xander/Angel, Spike/Xander, implied Spike/Angel
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1734
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Human AU. Xander knows he should learn the rules before he plays the game, but that's easier said than done.
A/N: It's past midnight, so tomorrow is today and today just happens to be madame_meretrix's birthday! For those of you who don't know her? You're totally missing out! Not only is she a fantastic friend, she's smart and thoughtful and an awesome writer as well! I highly recommend going here and reading all of her stories--but if you're short on time, I think Steps, Pretty Baby, and Street Hassle are the essentials. You won't be disappointed! (And while you're there, nag her a bit about finishing Steps for me! *g*)
When I was thinking about what I could do for madame_meretrix for her birthday, I made a list of some of the things she likes in a fic. It looked a little something like this:
So, for madame_meretrix on her birthday, I have a fic which incorporates everything I could think of that she likes, all crammed into a mere 1734 words! The daddy!kink-D/s is very, very mild, but madame_meretrix is good at picking out those themes even when I didn't know I put them in there, so I'm sure she'll be able to find them here! *g*
Happy Birthday, madame_meretrix! Getting to know you through LJ and email has been awesome. I hope you have a fantastic day, and I wish you nothing but the best for the future! (And, um, I'm going to do my best to send your package today!)
Thanks to savoytruffle for reading this over for me. The title is from Genesis 7:6.
When the Flood of Waters Was Upon the Earth
Summer passes in shades of dirt and grime and three hours from home might as well be three hundred, as far as Xander’s concerned.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t make the map, like a dirty little secret California tries its best to hide.
Emphasis on dirty.
And little.
Sector E-3’s better off without it.
Not that home’s much better-Sunnydale’s got its share of problems.
It’s got its share of boneyards, too, but at least at home they keep their dead six feet under.
Here, endless rows of corpses stare blindly out at him, twisted, gutted, grotesque.
It turns his stomach.
“Wrench.”
The best Xander can do is probably a wrench, but Angel doesn’t complain so it must be close enough.
They’ve been assembling this old DeSoto for three weeks, flesh on bone, steel on steel. It looks worse now than when they started.
But what does he know about cars?
He answers his own rhetorical question: “Not much.”
Angel doesn’t look up.
Not much, except now he knows not to crash them. Not that he didn’t know that before, but a month ago, it was etical knowledge. Theoretical. Hypothetical. Parenthetical.
Now it’s real in a really real shipping him off to Uncle Dan’s salvage yard to learn the value of a car kind of way.
Though salvage is a generous term.
As is uncle.
It’s more like Dad’s brother-in-law’s cousin who Xander’s never even heard of’s acre of rusted, rotted metal. Empty light sockets and gaping holes where windows used to be, steel writhing, misshapen, trapped in the moment of impact.
It’s creepy.
They’d be better off to burn it down and salt the earth, if you ask Xander.
Which no one does.
“Rag.”
Unless it’s for one of the various tools of the trade which Xander may or may not be able to identify.
Though identification’s not an issue at the moment.
This is more of a location thing.
As in, the rag is located in Angel’s back pocket. Which is not something that Angel doesn’t know.
He leans low under the hood and growls, “Xander! Rag!”
It’s not that Xander wouldn’t like to give it to him.
Or, rather, it is.
And that’s the problem.
Because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know the rules of this game, and if he learned one thing from Faith, it’s know the rules before you play.
Or maybe get your pants back on before your ass hits the pavement.
Either way, his cock says yes and his brain says no and every time Angel does this, there’s a battle of Thunderdome proportions somewhere around his stomach.
A “Hey!” comes from Xander’s left, followed by, “You want someone to touch your arse, wanker, you know where to find me!”
Spike ends up leaning against the driver’s side door, and he probably walked there but he might as well have sashayed or tiptoed on pointe because Xander’s focused on Angel.
Who’s no longer wearing a shirt.
Who’s bumping shoulders with Spike as they head for the pond out back.
Naked shoulders.
Over one of which Angel calls, “Take a break, kid!”
Spike bumps him hard and turns. “AC’s back on in the office! Go in and relax, watch the telly or something!”
Angel returns the favor, only it’s more like a full body check and they take off toward the pond at a run.
~~~
It rains for forty days and forty nights.
Or maybe four, but it might as well be forty. They might as well load up the ark and set sail for Turkey, as far as Xander’s concerned.
He’s lost as much chess as he can lose when Angel abruptly stands and says, “Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Xander laughs, “just let me grab my raft.”
Angel mutters something that may include “fucking tent” and when he grabs his coat, it’s hard to tell whether the wide swing of leather that scatters the chess board is accidental.
Though Xander suspects it’s not.
“Don’t mind Angel,” Spike says. “He’s just pissed I won’t play chess with him. Between you and me, he never quite got the hang of it.”
Xander snorts. “And my oh for thirty record is so impressive.”
“Angel’s was negative. ”
There’s a slam and a “Now!” and Xander sighs.
“Whoever thought he was an angel is an idiot.”
“Hey.” Spike shoves Xander’s coat against his chest with hard hands and harder eyes. “Lay off the name.”
Spike lets the coat go with a little push and Xander’s across the room and opening the door by the time Spike says, “Wait!”
Xander stops but doesn’t turn.
“It was his sister. Been missing four years now.” Spike sighs. “So just… I know he can be a prick, but leave the name alone, yeah?”
Xander turns. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Spike says. “Me too.”
Xander avoids puddles like he and Willow used to avoid cracks on the sidewalk and he finds Angel by the DeSoto.
Turns out the “fucking tent” is just that: four poles, a roof, three sides, and a whole lot of ties.
It’s kicking Angel’s ass.
Xander grabs a pole. It’s a close fight, and the tent takes an early lead, but in the end, they come out on top.
Or go in, as the case may be.
Xander throws his coat inside the DeSoto and leans on the car.
Angel smiles in his direction (or maybe it’s just gas) and says, “You’re soaked.”
“Yeah,” Xander says, and Angel keeps smiling.
It’s hard to reconcile this face with the one Xander’s been stealing glances at for the last month.
Even a mother couldn’t love Angel’s smile. It cracks his face into disparate segments that war against each other and the crooked slash of white that separates them.
He looks like a guy who hasn’t smiled in years.
Like a guy who forgot how.
“Spike kinda told me. About your sister,” Xander says, before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry.” He’s watching Angel’s boots.
Which go from there to here in a step and a half, and then there’s a hand spread out, pressing on Xander’s chest and no smile in sight.
It’s almost a relief, until Angel speaks.
“Sorry,” he growls. “You want to be sorry about something?”
Xander gapes and mentally nudges the “Hey, wait!” lodged in his throat. Before he can get it out, Angel flips him so the front of his body is pressed tight against the DeSoto.
Angel is warm against his back and his breath heats Xander’s neck. “You know you want this. I know you want it. It’s so obvious, Xander… just say it.”
And okay, yeah, but not like this. Only Xander’s mouth obviously didn’t get that memo because the only thing it says is, “Please.”
“I can’t hear you…”
“Please! God, please,” Xander says, and after this, his mouth is so fired.
Angel rocks against him and his hips thrust against the smooth metal. He whimpers and adds his cock to the list. Pink slips all around.
Xander’s pants end up around his knees, and Angel says, “There’s a good boy.”
His hand trails up Xander’s leg and it jerks his cock a few times before rounding his body and entering him with one rain-slick finger.
He steels himself against the pain and waits for the pleasure. Angel’s thrusts are harsh and demanding, but he’s long and thick and he mutters “yeah… take it… you love it…”
Which Xander does, until Angel growls and stiffens against him and then retreats.
“We’re done here,” Angel says after a minute.
In a perfect world, Xander walks up to Angel and lays into him for being a complete asshole and demands that he finish the job. In the middle of a tent in the middle of a salvage yard in the middle of nowhere, Xander stumbles over the jeans that have pooled at his ankles and lands, face down, in a puddle of mud.
Two things happen when he raises his head.
First, his hips shift down as his upper body shifts up and he groans as his cock is sheathed in soft, muddy warmth.
Which is so wrong, but so right that he does it again.
And then boots and knees and blue eyes enter his line of vision and Spike is crouching next to him.
“You’ll break your toys if you leave them like that,” Spike says, and Angel doesn’t care or doesn’t hear or doesn’t something because he doesn’t respond.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to be a dirty little secret?” Angel asks on his way out of the tent.
“You’re a prick, Liam,” Spike calls after him.
“Fuck off, Will!”
Spike rolls his eyes and sits down next to Xander. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing I didn’t want.”
Spike raises an eyebrow.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I wanted this, exactly,” Xander says. And then he adds, “Will?”
Spike smirks and then laughs. “William and Liam at your service, citizens of the British Isles and right pricks all around. Him more than me.”
“He doesn’t sound British.”
“Born in Ireland. His mum was Irish, and-you sure you want to hear about all this right now?”
Xander groans at his mud soaked body and sits up, tugging at his pants. “Why not? Not like this can get any worse.”
Spike brushes a smudge of mud off of Xander’s bottom lip. “Can get better, though.”
And then there are lips on Xander’s, blue eyes close and out of focus, and a warm, wet hand on his cock.
He only lasts a minute but he drags the kiss out. Kissing’s better than the “What the fuck was that?” that’s tickling the back of his throat.
Much better, in fact.
Which Xander realizes when Spike eventually pulls away.
“So,” he says, before Xander can speak, “his mum was Irish. My mum’s step-sister.”
Spike gets up and gives Xander a hand. “She died when we were really young, and Liam and Kathy were raised here.”
“Oh,” Xander says, buttoning his jeans, “that’s…”
“Listen, Liam’s just… Liam. But he’s not a bad person. Whatever it is you’re doing-if you don’t want it, just say so. He’ll stop.”
“And if I do want it?” Xander asks. “Not this, maybe, but something?”
Spike looks at the ground for a minute and then lights a cigarette before answering. “Change your mind,” he says. Then, “Come on, let’s get dried off.”
Pairing: Xander/Angel, Spike/Xander, implied Spike/Angel
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 1734
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: Human AU. Xander knows he should learn the rules before he plays the game, but that's easier said than done.
A/N: It's past midnight, so tomorrow is today and today just happens to be madame_meretrix's birthday! For those of you who don't know her? You're totally missing out! Not only is she a fantastic friend, she's smart and thoughtful and an awesome writer as well! I highly recommend going here and reading all of her stories--but if you're short on time, I think Steps, Pretty Baby, and Street Hassle are the essentials. You won't be disappointed! (And while you're there, nag her a bit about finishing Steps for me! *g*)
When I was thinking about what I could do for madame_meretrix for her birthday, I made a list of some of the things she likes in a fic. It looked a little something like this:
- Human AU
- Xangel
- Spangel
- Spander
- Daddy!kink
- D/s
- Cousins/borderline incest
- Younger Xander
- Somewhat unresolved ending
So, for madame_meretrix on her birthday, I have a fic which incorporates everything I could think of that she likes, all crammed into a mere 1734 words! The daddy!kink-D/s is very, very mild, but madame_meretrix is good at picking out those themes even when I didn't know I put them in there, so I'm sure she'll be able to find them here! *g*
Happy Birthday, madame_meretrix! Getting to know you through LJ and email has been awesome. I hope you have a fantastic day, and I wish you nothing but the best for the future! (And, um, I'm going to do my best to send your package today!)
Thanks to savoytruffle for reading this over for me. The title is from Genesis 7:6.
When the Flood of Waters Was Upon the Earth
Summer passes in shades of dirt and grime and three hours from home might as well be three hundred, as far as Xander’s concerned.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t make the map, like a dirty little secret California tries its best to hide.
Emphasis on dirty.
And little.
Sector E-3’s better off without it.
Not that home’s much better-Sunnydale’s got its share of problems.
It’s got its share of boneyards, too, but at least at home they keep their dead six feet under.
Here, endless rows of corpses stare blindly out at him, twisted, gutted, grotesque.
It turns his stomach.
“Wrench.”
The best Xander can do is probably a wrench, but Angel doesn’t complain so it must be close enough.
They’ve been assembling this old DeSoto for three weeks, flesh on bone, steel on steel. It looks worse now than when they started.
But what does he know about cars?
He answers his own rhetorical question: “Not much.”
Angel doesn’t look up.
Not much, except now he knows not to crash them. Not that he didn’t know that before, but a month ago, it was etical knowledge. Theoretical. Hypothetical. Parenthetical.
Now it’s real in a really real shipping him off to Uncle Dan’s salvage yard to learn the value of a car kind of way.
Though salvage is a generous term.
As is uncle.
It’s more like Dad’s brother-in-law’s cousin who Xander’s never even heard of’s acre of rusted, rotted metal. Empty light sockets and gaping holes where windows used to be, steel writhing, misshapen, trapped in the moment of impact.
It’s creepy.
They’d be better off to burn it down and salt the earth, if you ask Xander.
Which no one does.
“Rag.”
Unless it’s for one of the various tools of the trade which Xander may or may not be able to identify.
Though identification’s not an issue at the moment.
This is more of a location thing.
As in, the rag is located in Angel’s back pocket. Which is not something that Angel doesn’t know.
He leans low under the hood and growls, “Xander! Rag!”
It’s not that Xander wouldn’t like to give it to him.
Or, rather, it is.
And that’s the problem.
Because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t know the rules of this game, and if he learned one thing from Faith, it’s know the rules before you play.
Or maybe get your pants back on before your ass hits the pavement.
Either way, his cock says yes and his brain says no and every time Angel does this, there’s a battle of Thunderdome proportions somewhere around his stomach.
A “Hey!” comes from Xander’s left, followed by, “You want someone to touch your arse, wanker, you know where to find me!”
Spike ends up leaning against the driver’s side door, and he probably walked there but he might as well have sashayed or tiptoed on pointe because Xander’s focused on Angel.
Who’s no longer wearing a shirt.
Who’s bumping shoulders with Spike as they head for the pond out back.
Naked shoulders.
Over one of which Angel calls, “Take a break, kid!”
Spike bumps him hard and turns. “AC’s back on in the office! Go in and relax, watch the telly or something!”
Angel returns the favor, only it’s more like a full body check and they take off toward the pond at a run.
~~~
It rains for forty days and forty nights.
Or maybe four, but it might as well be forty. They might as well load up the ark and set sail for Turkey, as far as Xander’s concerned.
He’s lost as much chess as he can lose when Angel abruptly stands and says, “Let’s go.”
“Yeah,” Xander laughs, “just let me grab my raft.”
Angel mutters something that may include “fucking tent” and when he grabs his coat, it’s hard to tell whether the wide swing of leather that scatters the chess board is accidental.
Though Xander suspects it’s not.
“Don’t mind Angel,” Spike says. “He’s just pissed I won’t play chess with him. Between you and me, he never quite got the hang of it.”
Xander snorts. “And my oh for thirty record is so impressive.”
“Angel’s was negative. ”
There’s a slam and a “Now!” and Xander sighs.
“Whoever thought he was an angel is an idiot.”
“Hey.” Spike shoves Xander’s coat against his chest with hard hands and harder eyes. “Lay off the name.”
Spike lets the coat go with a little push and Xander’s across the room and opening the door by the time Spike says, “Wait!”
Xander stops but doesn’t turn.
“It was his sister. Been missing four years now.” Spike sighs. “So just… I know he can be a prick, but leave the name alone, yeah?”
Xander turns. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“Yeah,” Spike says. “Me too.”
Xander avoids puddles like he and Willow used to avoid cracks on the sidewalk and he finds Angel by the DeSoto.
Turns out the “fucking tent” is just that: four poles, a roof, three sides, and a whole lot of ties.
It’s kicking Angel’s ass.
Xander grabs a pole. It’s a close fight, and the tent takes an early lead, but in the end, they come out on top.
Or go in, as the case may be.
Xander throws his coat inside the DeSoto and leans on the car.
Angel smiles in his direction (or maybe it’s just gas) and says, “You’re soaked.”
“Yeah,” Xander says, and Angel keeps smiling.
It’s hard to reconcile this face with the one Xander’s been stealing glances at for the last month.
Even a mother couldn’t love Angel’s smile. It cracks his face into disparate segments that war against each other and the crooked slash of white that separates them.
He looks like a guy who hasn’t smiled in years.
Like a guy who forgot how.
“Spike kinda told me. About your sister,” Xander says, before he can stop himself. “I’m sorry.” He’s watching Angel’s boots.
Which go from there to here in a step and a half, and then there’s a hand spread out, pressing on Xander’s chest and no smile in sight.
It’s almost a relief, until Angel speaks.
“Sorry,” he growls. “You want to be sorry about something?”
Xander gapes and mentally nudges the “Hey, wait!” lodged in his throat. Before he can get it out, Angel flips him so the front of his body is pressed tight against the DeSoto.
Angel is warm against his back and his breath heats Xander’s neck. “You know you want this. I know you want it. It’s so obvious, Xander… just say it.”
And okay, yeah, but not like this. Only Xander’s mouth obviously didn’t get that memo because the only thing it says is, “Please.”
“I can’t hear you…”
“Please! God, please,” Xander says, and after this, his mouth is so fired.
Angel rocks against him and his hips thrust against the smooth metal. He whimpers and adds his cock to the list. Pink slips all around.
Xander’s pants end up around his knees, and Angel says, “There’s a good boy.”
His hand trails up Xander’s leg and it jerks his cock a few times before rounding his body and entering him with one rain-slick finger.
He steels himself against the pain and waits for the pleasure. Angel’s thrusts are harsh and demanding, but he’s long and thick and he mutters “yeah… take it… you love it…”
Which Xander does, until Angel growls and stiffens against him and then retreats.
“We’re done here,” Angel says after a minute.
In a perfect world, Xander walks up to Angel and lays into him for being a complete asshole and demands that he finish the job. In the middle of a tent in the middle of a salvage yard in the middle of nowhere, Xander stumbles over the jeans that have pooled at his ankles and lands, face down, in a puddle of mud.
Two things happen when he raises his head.
First, his hips shift down as his upper body shifts up and he groans as his cock is sheathed in soft, muddy warmth.
Which is so wrong, but so right that he does it again.
And then boots and knees and blue eyes enter his line of vision and Spike is crouching next to him.
“You’ll break your toys if you leave them like that,” Spike says, and Angel doesn’t care or doesn’t hear or doesn’t something because he doesn’t respond.
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to be a dirty little secret?” Angel asks on his way out of the tent.
“You’re a prick, Liam,” Spike calls after him.
“Fuck off, Will!”
Spike rolls his eyes and sits down next to Xander. “You want to tell me what happened?”
“Nothing I didn’t want.”
Spike raises an eyebrow.
“Well, I wouldn’t say I wanted this, exactly,” Xander says. And then he adds, “Will?”
Spike smirks and then laughs. “William and Liam at your service, citizens of the British Isles and right pricks all around. Him more than me.”
“He doesn’t sound British.”
“Born in Ireland. His mum was Irish, and-you sure you want to hear about all this right now?”
Xander groans at his mud soaked body and sits up, tugging at his pants. “Why not? Not like this can get any worse.”
Spike brushes a smudge of mud off of Xander’s bottom lip. “Can get better, though.”
And then there are lips on Xander’s, blue eyes close and out of focus, and a warm, wet hand on his cock.
He only lasts a minute but he drags the kiss out. Kissing’s better than the “What the fuck was that?” that’s tickling the back of his throat.
Much better, in fact.
Which Xander realizes when Spike eventually pulls away.
“So,” he says, before Xander can speak, “his mum was Irish. My mum’s step-sister.”
Spike gets up and gives Xander a hand. “She died when we were really young, and Liam and Kathy were raised here.”
“Oh,” Xander says, buttoning his jeans, “that’s…”
“Listen, Liam’s just… Liam. But he’s not a bad person. Whatever it is you’re doing-if you don’t want it, just say so. He’ll stop.”
“And if I do want it?” Xander asks. “Not this, maybe, but something?”
Spike looks at the ground for a minute and then lights a cigarette before answering. “Change your mind,” he says. Then, “Come on, let’s get dried off.”