Fic: I Touched the Fire
This one turned out darker than I planned. It's what you get from messing with Season 6, I suppose.
Author: gillo
Rating: NC-17, probably.
One-shot. Approx 1,125 words
I Touched the Fire
Even in California, a cellar with no natural light, beneath a mausoleum with thick walls and little sunlight - for a damned good reason - and with access to chill tunnels, could be a touch on the cool side. Not that Spike cared. He could feel it was cold in an academic sense, but his body was at room temperature whatever the room, so it wasn’t as if it mattered.
That was, not until he started getting house calls from a certain Slayer. She brought her own heat with her, and what they did together made him feel as hot as he was bothered, but in the quiet aftermath, however few seconds or many minutes it lasted, he could see the goose pimples on her skin. Sometimes he even suspected she booted him in the face before dressing and leaving just to build up a little core warmth again. Or perhaps she just did it from habit? He didn’t know and didn’t rightly care, as long as he had those blissful moments when she, or at least her beautiful body, was focussed only on him, on what he was doing to her and even, possibly, a tiny bit, what she was doing to him.
On her last visit they had even ended up under his rugs. They were pretty, but the underside was scratchy. He didn’t mind the roughness on his skin while he pounded into her and brought her off again and again, but despite her strength he saw her as delicate, even fragile these days, and it didn’t sit right with him that she needed the warmth from the dusty wool pile piled over them.
He had a quiet day or so following that particular encounter. Time to sip blood, ease his aches and think of his girl. Whatever she’d said to him, nay shouted at him, that was how he thought of her these days, his head full of images of her silky skin rubbing against him, her face building to an ecstasy only he could give her right now, the rosy blush across her tits when he’d sated her for the time being. If she wasn’t his girl, why would she keep returning for more? She’d as good as told him she was only capable of feeling when she was with him. She’d sung it at him, in the circumstances a guarantee of truth. And that had to mean love, deep down. One day she would wake up to that fact, recognise how she needed him as much as he needed her.
Yank shops seemed to be open every bloody hour possible, which came in useful at times. He took advantage of their readiness to work their underpaid minions at all hours quite often. Occasionally he even paid for stuff he got from them. This was one of those times.
He’d racked his brains for an easy way to heat what, for the sake of argument he was calling a room. Candles were good, but open fire was right out. Gas was a non-starter. Electric - well, he did have a way of draining enough off the network to run his fridge on, but the crappy system was easily overloaded and the sort of kilowattage needed to heat his dank quarters might, with his luck, blow the whole district. Then he dropped into that megastore to filch a couple of silky scarves and other such tat. It was a stroke of luck when he drifted towards the section marked outdoor entertaining or some such and spotted it. A charcoal brazier was perfect for his needs. He remembered them from the city streets of his childhood, used to roast chestnuts and warm the hands of passers-by. Sentimental guff, but the girl might even like that.
No way of tucking that thing under the coat and strolling out with it. Shop clerks might not be the sharpest needles in the jar, but they would spot that. Cash it was, then.
It took him longer than he expected to negotiate the purchase. The girl was all sympathetic and stuff. No, he repeated, it really wouldn’t be too heavy for him. No, he didn’t live far away. Yes, he bloody could carry it all by himself. No, he wasn’t going to give her his address. Right berk he’d have looked, dictating: “Third mausoleum on the left, Restfield Cemetery.” Even Sunnydale levels of denial wouldn’t save him from that.
Eventually he prevailed, got her to throw in a couple of bags of charcoal, paid over a wodge of hard-nicked greenbacks and left. And if he did have to pause once on the way back, pissed off from wrestling the bugger, whose sodding business was that? In the end he got it inside and downstairs.
It looked right neat in the corner, well away from any flammable crap. Couple of candles on a shelf nearby, firelighter nestled under a heap of briquettes, ready to heat up while he and the girl were heating each other up. He’d given up hope of getting to the bed, but her sheer athleticism usually kept her warm enough for a bit.
His tongue curled against his teeth. He was looking forward to the next visit. That had been a fun quickie outside her house, up against the tree, but he was definitely up for more, in every possible sense. He had a feeling she’d be crashing his door down soon, telling him to shut up and get his cock out. And then in. He was stiffening at the mere thought of it. Lots of fun, followed by a cosy little natter in a nice warm crypt, got ready specially just for her. There was even half a bottle of the good stuff they could share.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hours later he kicked his way through the ashes and debris of the place he’d worked to tart up for her. Trust the tin soldier to turn up when and where he was very much not wanted. Trust the sod to set him up with plaster props next door. Trust him, trust the fucking bastard, to blow up his den, the nearest thing he had to any sort of home, and waltz out arm in arm with the new missus - and that hadn’t exactly taken him long, had it?
And trust his girl, riddled with misery, deeper in the dumps than ever before, to give him the boot, cutting herself adrift from her only way to feel. She'd been so desperate for him, for his body, for his words of love. Should have known that could never bloody last.
The brazier looked oddly tidy, not really touched by the flashbangs. Burnt out, not burning now.
The room was cold. His body, always at room temperature, was cold. And he was feeling very, very cold.
And alone.
Thanks to everyone who reads - double thanks if you comment. I'm so proud our comm is still going strong and that folks support it and us.
Yes, I crave attention. I mean that about the comments. ;-)
Author: gillo
Rating: NC-17, probably.
One-shot. Approx 1,125 words
I Touched the Fire
Even in California, a cellar with no natural light, beneath a mausoleum with thick walls and little sunlight - for a damned good reason - and with access to chill tunnels, could be a touch on the cool side. Not that Spike cared. He could feel it was cold in an academic sense, but his body was at room temperature whatever the room, so it wasn’t as if it mattered.
That was, not until he started getting house calls from a certain Slayer. She brought her own heat with her, and what they did together made him feel as hot as he was bothered, but in the quiet aftermath, however few seconds or many minutes it lasted, he could see the goose pimples on her skin. Sometimes he even suspected she booted him in the face before dressing and leaving just to build up a little core warmth again. Or perhaps she just did it from habit? He didn’t know and didn’t rightly care, as long as he had those blissful moments when she, or at least her beautiful body, was focussed only on him, on what he was doing to her and even, possibly, a tiny bit, what she was doing to him.
On her last visit they had even ended up under his rugs. They were pretty, but the underside was scratchy. He didn’t mind the roughness on his skin while he pounded into her and brought her off again and again, but despite her strength he saw her as delicate, even fragile these days, and it didn’t sit right with him that she needed the warmth from the dusty wool pile piled over them.
He had a quiet day or so following that particular encounter. Time to sip blood, ease his aches and think of his girl. Whatever she’d said to him, nay shouted at him, that was how he thought of her these days, his head full of images of her silky skin rubbing against him, her face building to an ecstasy only he could give her right now, the rosy blush across her tits when he’d sated her for the time being. If she wasn’t his girl, why would she keep returning for more? She’d as good as told him she was only capable of feeling when she was with him. She’d sung it at him, in the circumstances a guarantee of truth. And that had to mean love, deep down. One day she would wake up to that fact, recognise how she needed him as much as he needed her.
Yank shops seemed to be open every bloody hour possible, which came in useful at times. He took advantage of their readiness to work their underpaid minions at all hours quite often. Occasionally he even paid for stuff he got from them. This was one of those times.
He’d racked his brains for an easy way to heat what, for the sake of argument he was calling a room. Candles were good, but open fire was right out. Gas was a non-starter. Electric - well, he did have a way of draining enough off the network to run his fridge on, but the crappy system was easily overloaded and the sort of kilowattage needed to heat his dank quarters might, with his luck, blow the whole district. Then he dropped into that megastore to filch a couple of silky scarves and other such tat. It was a stroke of luck when he drifted towards the section marked outdoor entertaining or some such and spotted it. A charcoal brazier was perfect for his needs. He remembered them from the city streets of his childhood, used to roast chestnuts and warm the hands of passers-by. Sentimental guff, but the girl might even like that.
No way of tucking that thing under the coat and strolling out with it. Shop clerks might not be the sharpest needles in the jar, but they would spot that. Cash it was, then.
It took him longer than he expected to negotiate the purchase. The girl was all sympathetic and stuff. No, he repeated, it really wouldn’t be too heavy for him. No, he didn’t live far away. Yes, he bloody could carry it all by himself. No, he wasn’t going to give her his address. Right berk he’d have looked, dictating: “Third mausoleum on the left, Restfield Cemetery.” Even Sunnydale levels of denial wouldn’t save him from that.
Eventually he prevailed, got her to throw in a couple of bags of charcoal, paid over a wodge of hard-nicked greenbacks and left. And if he did have to pause once on the way back, pissed off from wrestling the bugger, whose sodding business was that? In the end he got it inside and downstairs.
It looked right neat in the corner, well away from any flammable crap. Couple of candles on a shelf nearby, firelighter nestled under a heap of briquettes, ready to heat up while he and the girl were heating each other up. He’d given up hope of getting to the bed, but her sheer athleticism usually kept her warm enough for a bit.
His tongue curled against his teeth. He was looking forward to the next visit. That had been a fun quickie outside her house, up against the tree, but he was definitely up for more, in every possible sense. He had a feeling she’d be crashing his door down soon, telling him to shut up and get his cock out. And then in. He was stiffening at the mere thought of it. Lots of fun, followed by a cosy little natter in a nice warm crypt, got ready specially just for her. There was even half a bottle of the good stuff they could share.
* * * * * * * * * *
Hours later he kicked his way through the ashes and debris of the place he’d worked to tart up for her. Trust the tin soldier to turn up when and where he was very much not wanted. Trust the sod to set him up with plaster props next door. Trust him, trust the fucking bastard, to blow up his den, the nearest thing he had to any sort of home, and waltz out arm in arm with the new missus - and that hadn’t exactly taken him long, had it?
And trust his girl, riddled with misery, deeper in the dumps than ever before, to give him the boot, cutting herself adrift from her only way to feel. She'd been so desperate for him, for his body, for his words of love. Should have known that could never bloody last.
The brazier looked oddly tidy, not really touched by the flashbangs. Burnt out, not burning now.
The room was cold. His body, always at room temperature, was cold. And he was feeling very, very cold.
And alone.
Thanks to everyone who reads - double thanks if you comment. I'm so proud our comm is still going strong and that folks support it and us.
Yes, I crave attention. I mean that about the comments. ;-)