Working Parts (1/1)
At last, a new fic for this poor neglected journal! I'm currently taking a break from midterm papers to offer you a Spike/Dru fic, which I dashed off the other day in an anxiety-ridden haze. I've been rewatching BtVS season 2, so Spike, Dru and the wheelchair were on my mind. Hope you like it! I'll be posting my seasonal_spuffy next week too, so there should be a few new fics coming along shortly.
Title: Working Parts
Timing: Season 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Spike/Dru
Warnings: Sexuality, bloodplay
Summary: Set shortly after “What’s My Line? Part II.” Love, loss, and healing are never easy, even for the undead.
A/N: Thanks to
eowyn_315 for her beta work. This ficlet was written for shapinglight, who asked for Spike/Dru during an open call for ficlet requests. It’s a bit melancholy, reflective, and sensual all at once. I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
*******
Cool red satin slides against his palms, the buttery fabric pooling like blood in his black denim lap. The sickness inside her has dissipated, and her wiry arms once again belie the unbelievable strength she has. She arches up, her knees spread wide on either side of his hips, an open invitation to take the strength and health that he doggedly chased down for her. It’s tempting, and he can deny her nothing. He rucks the negligee up over the curve of her ass, holding it firm at the small of her back.
French-manicured nails carve a sultry path down her belly. When they come up again, her fingertips are wet and glistening. She offers them to him, and he sucks heartily, moaning at her familiar taste. It’s been so long for both of them. It feels like Paris, Dusseldorf, Copenhagen, Rome - memories of them, of her, twirling in darkness and skipping down city streets carelessly. It was a different time then. A time before Summers and turncoat sires. His resentment shines bright. He’s glad she can’t see his frown, but then she always knows what he’s thinking.
Scooting backward onto the factory table, she kicks a high-backed chair out of the way and quirks her finger at him as she reels him in close. She kneels in front of him; he leans forward, his nose level with her mound, and inhales deeply as a coo of pleasure touches the air. He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Hers are closed, hands clenched tight in little fists with anticipation. The first swipe washes over them both, and a simultaneous groan winds its way between them.
He tries to be discreet when he locks the wheels of the chair, the cold steel putting a shudder through him, but he knows she sees, and it kills him. Nothing worse than tipping over mid-fuck, he thinks, the humiliation too much to bear. Any notions of enthusiastic shagging were thrown out when he woke up in her arms, his legs useless beneath him. After he tried to move she shushed him and bid him to hold still, whispering that there had been a terrible accident and he mustn’t aggravate the injuries. A dreadful silence swept through him then as panic became a living thing in his breast. Ever since, an insistent, grating energy has percolated in his healing muscles searching for release. It itches. He doesn’t want to dwell on how long he’ll be like this - useless.
Suppressing the fresh doubt, he shifts forward as far as he can, running his hands along her inner thighs, gathering his bearings. He’s an innovator, after all. He can manage. Delving into her folds, his hands grip her ass and guide her up over him so that her knees are splayed wide on his shoulders, her quim now hovering enticingly in front of his face. She helps and rests her weight back on her thighs. Steadying her, he nudges her nest of curls again and tugs playfully on her lips, her clit. The rasping of his tongue sends miniscule tremors across her thighs, and she cups the back of his head gently. One hand rubs across his cheek, worrying the burns on his face, but he always could take a bit of pain with his pleasure, and he pays it no mind.
He knows the minions are watching, can nearly feel Dalton sporting a boner from across the room as the wanker watches him tend to his black goddess. Spreading her ass cheeks wide, he gives the tosser a view of what he’ll never have, and skates a finger down her crack to tickle at the entrance. Dru wriggles back to recapture the sensation, offering a heady moan as Spike’s reward for his attentions. She laughs lightly under her breath and murmurs “naughty” when she becomes aware of Spike’s exhibitionist antics.
Probing deeply, he draws out her moisture in glistening webs so that they dribble down his chin and cover it in a shiny film. Her pretty moans become more urgent. His teeth nibble at her clit genteelly, even though he wants to gnaw and gorge himself on her so that there’s no escape from him, not ever. She shudders helplessly, and he feels those razor-sharp nails pricking his scalp. He groans along with her, an insistent throb spreading across his groin. The sensation is diffuse and not at all localized where it should be. He tries not to think about his inability to give her a right seeing to, and sucks hard to push her over the first crest and prep her for the next.
On the next internal pulse, she’s full of fingers. Two, then three, glide languidly in and out of her, spreading moisture on every contraction. One slippery thumb catches her clit, and he rocks his fingers up, pressing tight on her upper wall. Another tremble runs through her, and she loses some fluid as she’s swept up in another wave. Before she’s done writhing out her pleasure, a sudden thrust seats his fingers far back inside her. His pumping becomes insistent; so do his words of desire. She likes it best when he talks to her, his pretty phrases and profanities driving her to higher points of passion. Sometimes his murmurs and the voices in her head gather together in a cacophony of intrigue, so that her head spins along with her cunt and she can hardly make heads or tails of sky and earth.
Slipping loosely back down onto his lap, her arms thread across his shoulders, her nails lightly scoring his jaw as she clutches him tight. Their kiss is explosive, and he practically cries into her mouth, so taken up as he is in the moment. He’s lovely when he begs, and he’s oh so good at being an obedient boy when she wants it, but she likes this side of him, too. His surrender to her makes her remember what a wise choice she’d made - she finally got the chivalrous knight she had dreamed of. A knight she forged in her own image. She can’t remember when he stopped writing poetry and wonders if this is enough to draw out his sense of romanticism. They left the quatrains, couplets, and lyrical phrases back in the sands of China. Who needs pretty words when the blood of a Slayer becomes your new muse and mistress?
Fingers drifting down to his belt buckle, she undoes his fly swiftly and reaches in to hold him. All he feels is her suckling on his tongue, though, and doesn’t even glance down when she palms his flaccid member. Caressing it, she pouts and whimpers at his lack of response.
“What’s wrong, luv?” he murmurs, and then his eyes drift down to his lap and his jaw sets tight. He can’t stand to see her looking at him with eyes full of pity. There should be reverence, awe, desire, passion there, never pity. It disgusts him.
“She’s gone and broken you. Not nearly in working order,” she says mournfully. Her fingers dance over his chin and he looks away from her in shame.
“Let it alone, Dru. There’s nothing to be done about it.” Humiliation coats his strained voice. He wants to scream, hit, kill. He needs to destroy, but he can’t, not caught in the chair like he is. His role has been stripped from him, the tables turned. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, but he wonders if she knows what he needs to begin with. He remembers the bird. She has a penchant for forgetfulness.
“Shhh, I’ll make it right again,” she soothes him, ghosting a kiss along his forehead. “Little girl can’t keep my Spike down forever. We’ll see to it.”
Letting go of him, she shrugs out of the top of her gown until her breasts are exposed and the chilled factory air causes them to pucker. She kisses his lips again, draws his hands up to cup her chest.
“There, now. Toys in hand. Give us a smile then, won’t you?” she asks, her voice taking on a girlish lilt.
His lips press against the soft skin of her breasts, and he pillows his face to them, drawing his cheek along the milky expanse of her cleavage. He tries to lose himself in the feeling. If he doesn’t, he might go mad.
All of a sudden there is moisture on his lips, warm, fragrant, and he licks at the thick syrupy substance.
“Dru…?” He picks his head up, eyes wide and shimmering.
She smiles down at him, her fingers coated in blood drawn from the gash made on her breast.
“A toast,” she says, “To us.” She offers herself up again, and nudges him forward encouragingly.
“I’ll drink to that.”
His lips are on her again, her sire’s blood filling him with the buzzing energy of her strength. As he suckles on her breast and she strokes his hair like a babe, at once a smirk breaks out on his face. His jeans begin to tent slightly. It appears he’s not quite so toothless after all.
Title: Working Parts
Timing: Season 2
Rating: R
Pairing: Spike/Dru
Warnings: Sexuality, bloodplay
Summary: Set shortly after “What’s My Line? Part II.” Love, loss, and healing are never easy, even for the undead.
A/N: Thanks to
eowyn_315 for her beta work. This ficlet was written for shapinglight, who asked for Spike/Dru during an open call for ficlet requests. It’s a bit melancholy, reflective, and sensual all at once. I hope you enjoy it.
Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. No profit is gained from my writerly endeavors and no copyright infringement is intended.
*******
Cool red satin slides against his palms, the buttery fabric pooling like blood in his black denim lap. The sickness inside her has dissipated, and her wiry arms once again belie the unbelievable strength she has. She arches up, her knees spread wide on either side of his hips, an open invitation to take the strength and health that he doggedly chased down for her. It’s tempting, and he can deny her nothing. He rucks the negligee up over the curve of her ass, holding it firm at the small of her back.
French-manicured nails carve a sultry path down her belly. When they come up again, her fingertips are wet and glistening. She offers them to him, and he sucks heartily, moaning at her familiar taste. It’s been so long for both of them. It feels like Paris, Dusseldorf, Copenhagen, Rome - memories of them, of her, twirling in darkness and skipping down city streets carelessly. It was a different time then. A time before Summers and turncoat sires. His resentment shines bright. He’s glad she can’t see his frown, but then she always knows what he’s thinking.
Scooting backward onto the factory table, she kicks a high-backed chair out of the way and quirks her finger at him as she reels him in close. She kneels in front of him; he leans forward, his nose level with her mound, and inhales deeply as a coo of pleasure touches the air. He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Hers are closed, hands clenched tight in little fists with anticipation. The first swipe washes over them both, and a simultaneous groan winds its way between them.
He tries to be discreet when he locks the wheels of the chair, the cold steel putting a shudder through him, but he knows she sees, and it kills him. Nothing worse than tipping over mid-fuck, he thinks, the humiliation too much to bear. Any notions of enthusiastic shagging were thrown out when he woke up in her arms, his legs useless beneath him. After he tried to move she shushed him and bid him to hold still, whispering that there had been a terrible accident and he mustn’t aggravate the injuries. A dreadful silence swept through him then as panic became a living thing in his breast. Ever since, an insistent, grating energy has percolated in his healing muscles searching for release. It itches. He doesn’t want to dwell on how long he’ll be like this - useless.
Suppressing the fresh doubt, he shifts forward as far as he can, running his hands along her inner thighs, gathering his bearings. He’s an innovator, after all. He can manage. Delving into her folds, his hands grip her ass and guide her up over him so that her knees are splayed wide on his shoulders, her quim now hovering enticingly in front of his face. She helps and rests her weight back on her thighs. Steadying her, he nudges her nest of curls again and tugs playfully on her lips, her clit. The rasping of his tongue sends miniscule tremors across her thighs, and she cups the back of his head gently. One hand rubs across his cheek, worrying the burns on his face, but he always could take a bit of pain with his pleasure, and he pays it no mind.
He knows the minions are watching, can nearly feel Dalton sporting a boner from across the room as the wanker watches him tend to his black goddess. Spreading her ass cheeks wide, he gives the tosser a view of what he’ll never have, and skates a finger down her crack to tickle at the entrance. Dru wriggles back to recapture the sensation, offering a heady moan as Spike’s reward for his attentions. She laughs lightly under her breath and murmurs “naughty” when she becomes aware of Spike’s exhibitionist antics.
Probing deeply, he draws out her moisture in glistening webs so that they dribble down his chin and cover it in a shiny film. Her pretty moans become more urgent. His teeth nibble at her clit genteelly, even though he wants to gnaw and gorge himself on her so that there’s no escape from him, not ever. She shudders helplessly, and he feels those razor-sharp nails pricking his scalp. He groans along with her, an insistent throb spreading across his groin. The sensation is diffuse and not at all localized where it should be. He tries not to think about his inability to give her a right seeing to, and sucks hard to push her over the first crest and prep her for the next.
On the next internal pulse, she’s full of fingers. Two, then three, glide languidly in and out of her, spreading moisture on every contraction. One slippery thumb catches her clit, and he rocks his fingers up, pressing tight on her upper wall. Another tremble runs through her, and she loses some fluid as she’s swept up in another wave. Before she’s done writhing out her pleasure, a sudden thrust seats his fingers far back inside her. His pumping becomes insistent; so do his words of desire. She likes it best when he talks to her, his pretty phrases and profanities driving her to higher points of passion. Sometimes his murmurs and the voices in her head gather together in a cacophony of intrigue, so that her head spins along with her cunt and she can hardly make heads or tails of sky and earth.
Slipping loosely back down onto his lap, her arms thread across his shoulders, her nails lightly scoring his jaw as she clutches him tight. Their kiss is explosive, and he practically cries into her mouth, so taken up as he is in the moment. He’s lovely when he begs, and he’s oh so good at being an obedient boy when she wants it, but she likes this side of him, too. His surrender to her makes her remember what a wise choice she’d made - she finally got the chivalrous knight she had dreamed of. A knight she forged in her own image. She can’t remember when he stopped writing poetry and wonders if this is enough to draw out his sense of romanticism. They left the quatrains, couplets, and lyrical phrases back in the sands of China. Who needs pretty words when the blood of a Slayer becomes your new muse and mistress?
Fingers drifting down to his belt buckle, she undoes his fly swiftly and reaches in to hold him. All he feels is her suckling on his tongue, though, and doesn’t even glance down when she palms his flaccid member. Caressing it, she pouts and whimpers at his lack of response.
“What’s wrong, luv?” he murmurs, and then his eyes drift down to his lap and his jaw sets tight. He can’t stand to see her looking at him with eyes full of pity. There should be reverence, awe, desire, passion there, never pity. It disgusts him.
“She’s gone and broken you. Not nearly in working order,” she says mournfully. Her fingers dance over his chin and he looks away from her in shame.
“Let it alone, Dru. There’s nothing to be done about it.” Humiliation coats his strained voice. He wants to scream, hit, kill. He needs to destroy, but he can’t, not caught in the chair like he is. His role has been stripped from him, the tables turned. It’s not that he doesn’t trust her, but he wonders if she knows what he needs to begin with. He remembers the bird. She has a penchant for forgetfulness.
“Shhh, I’ll make it right again,” she soothes him, ghosting a kiss along his forehead. “Little girl can’t keep my Spike down forever. We’ll see to it.”
Letting go of him, she shrugs out of the top of her gown until her breasts are exposed and the chilled factory air causes them to pucker. She kisses his lips again, draws his hands up to cup her chest.
“There, now. Toys in hand. Give us a smile then, won’t you?” she asks, her voice taking on a girlish lilt.
His lips press against the soft skin of her breasts, and he pillows his face to them, drawing his cheek along the milky expanse of her cleavage. He tries to lose himself in the feeling. If he doesn’t, he might go mad.
All of a sudden there is moisture on his lips, warm, fragrant, and he licks at the thick syrupy substance.
“Dru…?” He picks his head up, eyes wide and shimmering.
She smiles down at him, her fingers coated in blood drawn from the gash made on her breast.
“A toast,” she says, “To us.” She offers herself up again, and nudges him forward encouragingly.
“I’ll drink to that.”
His lips are on her again, her sire’s blood filling him with the buzzing energy of her strength. As he suckles on her breast and she strokes his hair like a babe, at once a smirk breaks out on his face. His jeans begin to tent slightly. It appears he’s not quite so toothless after all.