Drabble! Good cause! Me! :)
Okay, so - drabble last, good cause first. Ian is a ftm trans kid (well, 19), and one of the Monstrous Bebe's oldest friends. She met him in...seventh grade? I think? I dunno. Anyway - Ian's been taking T for about six months, and is trying to get a top (mastectomy) surgery. And so has a go-fund-me page set up.
If you can please donate, or please signal-boost...that would be awesome. Ian's a great kid, dealing with a lot of crap (some family stuff, some depression/anxiety), and this would be a big step up in helping with his self-esteem issues as well as just...living a better life.
Ian's Top Surgery.
Thank you, my dear flist, for any help you can give.
The drabble is for slashthedrabble's prompt 'Leather'. And I went old school - Spike/Xander. :) darkhavens did the beta *of course*. (And sweptawaybayou did one, too - old-school David/Christian! Leather.)
This is the 600 word edition i wrote (and DH beta'd), but it's not at the comm because the limit there is 500 words. (And i worked 'til 11, it's past 2 a.m., and my brain is toast, so i could *not* cut it to 500. So DH did. SHE IS AWESOME. Read her edited version at the comm
Xander hasn't ever given Spike's coat much thought. He knows it’s old - older than all the years Xander's been alive - and that he'd stolen it from the body of his second Slayer. That should make Xander angry, or disgusted, or even physically sick.
The sick thing is...it doesn't. It's like his second skin, or his missing soul: black, stolen, and blood-drenched. It shouldn't be so damn hot.
But it is. Xander's spent enough time around Spike (and his coat), to know that musky, tangy leather smell. And it's getting to him. Spike is getting to him, and Xander...is going nuts.
Maybe it's all those raised-eyebrow innuendos, or the way Spike crowds up against him in the kitchen, reaching past Xander for a mug, the cool length of the coat (and Spike's body) pressing against Xander as Xander pours early-morning coffee and Spike heats up a just-going-to-bed blood snack….
Or maybe it’s the way the coat creaks softly when Spike moves, lounging back on the steps at the Magic Box, idly lifting a long-fingered hand to his mouth to smoke, the coat draped over his thighs like a lover….
Just a little whiff of that heavy, rich scent is starting to make Xander get hard, and it's getting out of hand. Because here is Xander, standing in the gardening section of the hardware store, staring at the rows of leather work gloves. He can smell them (Spike), and he's so...fucking...gone.
"Didn't fancy you as the Francis Bacon type, pet," Spike says, materializing out of nowhere (he was supposed to be looking at axes!), and slinging his arm around Xander's neck. The sleeve of his coat is chilly against Xander's skin, warming quickly as Xander flushes. The heavy wing of it curls against Xander's back and brushes his ass, and Xander shudders.
"These look good and sturdy," Spike says, reaching out and plucking a pair of dark brown gloves off their hook. They're heavy, with sueded palms and fingers, and little elastic buckles at the wrist to snug them down tight.
Spike turns the gloves over in his hand, lifts them up for Xander to see. And then he rubs the damn things on Xander's cheek, the fingers like a cat's tongue.
"Got a little tooth on that, feel it?" Spike asks, bringing his other arm down over Xander's chest, moving to stand a little behind him. The coat is draped half over Xander's shoulder, and he can feel the ratty lining against the knuckles of his hand and his bare forearm. He can also feel Spike's knee against the inside of his, and Spike's thigh between his, and Spike's....
Oh, God, Spike is hard.
Xander's own cock goes from getting there to hard, aching, and wet in about .3 seconds, and Spike makes a little, pleased noise, like a cat with a bowl of cream.
"Gloves like this, you can get a nice," -Spike drags the gloves down Xander's chest- "tight," -down, brushing across his heaving belly, to the buckle of his belt- "grip" Spike says, right in Xander's ear. Low and rough and full of promise. Just like the gloves, which are now being rubbed across Xander's jeans, right…there.
And Xander...snaps. He spins around, grabs two fistfuls of the coat, and yanks Spike in for a kiss that leaves both their mouths bruised and tingling and wet.
"Wear the coat and the gloves and I'll let you fuck me 'til I can't fucking come any more. Deal?" Xander blurts, breathless, and Spike….
Spike puts the gloves on, and turns up the collar of his coat, and grins.
"Deal."
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/192473.html - comment where you please!
If you can please donate, or please signal-boost...that would be awesome. Ian's a great kid, dealing with a lot of crap (some family stuff, some depression/anxiety), and this would be a big step up in helping with his self-esteem issues as well as just...living a better life.
Ian's Top Surgery.
Thank you, my dear flist, for any help you can give.
The drabble is for slashthedrabble's prompt 'Leather'. And I went old school - Spike/Xander. :) darkhavens did the beta *of course*. (And sweptawaybayou did one, too - old-school David/Christian! Leather.)
This is the 600 word edition i wrote (and DH beta'd), but it's not at the comm because the limit there is 500 words. (And i worked 'til 11, it's past 2 a.m., and my brain is toast, so i could *not* cut it to 500. So DH did. SHE IS AWESOME. Read her edited version at the comm
Xander hasn't ever given Spike's coat much thought. He knows it’s old - older than all the years Xander's been alive - and that he'd stolen it from the body of his second Slayer. That should make Xander angry, or disgusted, or even physically sick.
The sick thing is...it doesn't. It's like his second skin, or his missing soul: black, stolen, and blood-drenched. It shouldn't be so damn hot.
But it is. Xander's spent enough time around Spike (and his coat), to know that musky, tangy leather smell. And it's getting to him. Spike is getting to him, and Xander...is going nuts.
Maybe it's all those raised-eyebrow innuendos, or the way Spike crowds up against him in the kitchen, reaching past Xander for a mug, the cool length of the coat (and Spike's body) pressing against Xander as Xander pours early-morning coffee and Spike heats up a just-going-to-bed blood snack….
Or maybe it’s the way the coat creaks softly when Spike moves, lounging back on the steps at the Magic Box, idly lifting a long-fingered hand to his mouth to smoke, the coat draped over his thighs like a lover….
Just a little whiff of that heavy, rich scent is starting to make Xander get hard, and it's getting out of hand. Because here is Xander, standing in the gardening section of the hardware store, staring at the rows of leather work gloves. He can smell them (Spike), and he's so...fucking...gone.
"Didn't fancy you as the Francis Bacon type, pet," Spike says, materializing out of nowhere (he was supposed to be looking at axes!), and slinging his arm around Xander's neck. The sleeve of his coat is chilly against Xander's skin, warming quickly as Xander flushes. The heavy wing of it curls against Xander's back and brushes his ass, and Xander shudders.
"These look good and sturdy," Spike says, reaching out and plucking a pair of dark brown gloves off their hook. They're heavy, with sueded palms and fingers, and little elastic buckles at the wrist to snug them down tight.
Spike turns the gloves over in his hand, lifts them up for Xander to see. And then he rubs the damn things on Xander's cheek, the fingers like a cat's tongue.
"Got a little tooth on that, feel it?" Spike asks, bringing his other arm down over Xander's chest, moving to stand a little behind him. The coat is draped half over Xander's shoulder, and he can feel the ratty lining against the knuckles of his hand and his bare forearm. He can also feel Spike's knee against the inside of his, and Spike's thigh between his, and Spike's....
Oh, God, Spike is hard.
Xander's own cock goes from getting there to hard, aching, and wet in about .3 seconds, and Spike makes a little, pleased noise, like a cat with a bowl of cream.
"Gloves like this, you can get a nice," -Spike drags the gloves down Xander's chest- "tight," -down, brushing across his heaving belly, to the buckle of his belt- "grip" Spike says, right in Xander's ear. Low and rough and full of promise. Just like the gloves, which are now being rubbed across Xander's jeans, right…there.
And Xander...snaps. He spins around, grabs two fistfuls of the coat, and yanks Spike in for a kiss that leaves both their mouths bruised and tingling and wet.
"Wear the coat and the gloves and I'll let you fuck me 'til I can't fucking come any more. Deal?" Xander blurts, breathless, and Spike….
Spike puts the gloves on, and turns up the collar of his coat, and grins.
"Deal."
Originally entered at http://tabaqui.dreamwidth.org/192473.html - comment where you please!