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Title: William the Bloody Wonderful
Pairing: Spike/Beck (Spike: Asylum-verse)
Warnings: Mild body worship, something akin to a foot fetish. Schmoop.
Spike’s painting my toenails a hideously garish colour of green. It looks so funny, his big hands fumbling with the small cap-brush. He tells me that he hasn’t done his own nails in a while, so he’s out of practice. I laugh, and he smiles, ducking his head shyly. He looks like a little kid when he smiles like that… After a few quick but careful swipes of the brush over the nail on my right middle toe, he puckers his perfect Cupid’s bow lips and blows gently on my foot. His free hand cups my right heel lightly as though if he were to squeeze too hard my whole foot might shatter like porcelain. He looks up at me. The stormy blue of his eyes should make me feel cold, but instead make me feel soft and warm. This is what it is like to be cherished and worshipped.
I love him too much, but I think that’s okay.
Title: Not Ready for AA
Pairing: Spike/Beck (Spike: Asylum-verse)
Warnings: None. A little ramble-y, a wee bit schmoopy.
There’s a slight waver in his voice when he sings. It is a wobbly kind of sound that comes from too much whiskey and too much pain. Normally, I could chide him about it, gently nudge his ribs, and manage to get a smile. However, this isn’t the time. He needs to be a sad, pathetic drunk tonight. I get it. He sits on the stool, elbows on the butcher-block kitchen island, with his shoulders slumped. The little radio statically crackles out The Ballad of Curtis Lowe, and I hear Spike warbling away. It is then that I realize that Spike isn’t drunk this time. His words aren’t slurred.
I lean against the doorframe, listening to him carefully. I see the full shot of Jack sitting in front of him, his long tapered fingers tracing the rim over and over. He’s staring at something… Could be the dripping faucet or maybe the old owl, that inhabits the tree nearest the kitchen window, hooting away… The more I think about it, the more I get that he’s not staring at anything in particular. Maybe he’s thinking. I imagine that he’s thinking about all that he’s seen or will see. I’m not sure why, but I get the sense that he’s building up to a moment. An honest to God, capital ‘M’ moment. Maybe he’ll turn around and tell me something amazing, his crusade, his reason d’etre. Instead, he stands up and goes over to the sink, pouring the whiskey down the drain and setting the glass aside. Spike turns to me and grins.
“Not feelin’ thirsty at the moment,” he says, walking over to me and taking my hands in his. “Wanna go to bed?”
I smile back and nod. He’s not perfect, but I believe in him.
x-posted @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
darker_spike.
Pairing: Spike/Beck (Spike: Asylum-verse)
Warnings: Mild body worship, something akin to a foot fetish. Schmoop.
Spike’s painting my toenails a hideously garish colour of green. It looks so funny, his big hands fumbling with the small cap-brush. He tells me that he hasn’t done his own nails in a while, so he’s out of practice. I laugh, and he smiles, ducking his head shyly. He looks like a little kid when he smiles like that… After a few quick but careful swipes of the brush over the nail on my right middle toe, he puckers his perfect Cupid’s bow lips and blows gently on my foot. His free hand cups my right heel lightly as though if he were to squeeze too hard my whole foot might shatter like porcelain. He looks up at me. The stormy blue of his eyes should make me feel cold, but instead make me feel soft and warm. This is what it is like to be cherished and worshipped.
I love him too much, but I think that’s okay.
Title: Not Ready for AA
Pairing: Spike/Beck (Spike: Asylum-verse)
Warnings: None. A little ramble-y, a wee bit schmoopy.
There’s a slight waver in his voice when he sings. It is a wobbly kind of sound that comes from too much whiskey and too much pain. Normally, I could chide him about it, gently nudge his ribs, and manage to get a smile. However, this isn’t the time. He needs to be a sad, pathetic drunk tonight. I get it. He sits on the stool, elbows on the butcher-block kitchen island, with his shoulders slumped. The little radio statically crackles out The Ballad of Curtis Lowe, and I hear Spike warbling away. It is then that I realize that Spike isn’t drunk this time. His words aren’t slurred.
I lean against the doorframe, listening to him carefully. I see the full shot of Jack sitting in front of him, his long tapered fingers tracing the rim over and over. He’s staring at something… Could be the dripping faucet or maybe the old owl, that inhabits the tree nearest the kitchen window, hooting away… The more I think about it, the more I get that he’s not staring at anything in particular. Maybe he’s thinking. I imagine that he’s thinking about all that he’s seen or will see. I’m not sure why, but I get the sense that he’s building up to a moment. An honest to God, capital ‘M’ moment. Maybe he’ll turn around and tell me something amazing, his crusade, his reason d’etre. Instead, he stands up and goes over to the sink, pouring the whiskey down the drain and setting the glass aside. Spike turns to me and grins.
“Not feelin’ thirsty at the moment,” he says, walking over to me and taking my hands in his. “Wanna go to bed?”
I smile back and nod. He’s not perfect, but I believe in him.
x-posted @
darker_spike.