Hunting Rituals
Turn a shoulder, move his foot and step. Into a tide of kinetic flesh that jostle him from side to side. Hemmed in when he could all too easily plough through, but won´t.
They don´t see him and really, he understands. He does. It´s not their fault.
For their life is bland conformity trained from birth, to exist with eyes stitched together and mouth sealed shut. Where magazines extol lessons in manufactured beauty all the while bitching at the sameness of the latest cardboard princess.
A bark of laughter erupts at the recollection of a movie where the guy had scissors instead of hands. Oh, yes. Now wouldn´t *that* be sublime. Snip, snip, snip and the sleepers wake from dreamland just long enough to scream at what really lies over the rainbow.
Or, he could make sushi.
Damn, its difficult to decide which would be more fun.
And perhaps Sire is right. Perhaps that old mockery and simmering resentment has become a little more .... spiteful.
He´s still the outsider; he´s still ignored but now? Now he can make them *see*. He can feel it, their silence urges him to greatness but he´s too young and just learning to swim. The frustration *eats* and he bites down a desire to scream.
Then gasp.
Unseen he may be, but not immune.
And like remnants of ocean spray their scent clings to his clothes and skin. Crystallizing taste buds with a salty tang to make his mouth water.
A driving need to *move* and if not? Then he will surely drown. Dragged to a sandy bottom littered with debris of his own making.
Suffocated by sensory overload, he drifts.
In and out, his own lazy pattern, camouflaged amongst bubbles of effervescent spring break youth blissful in their ignorance. A perfection the likes of which he´s never seen, an artless flirt with death as they teeter on long limbs tanned to the color of brown sugar.
He loves this.
A slow, unhurried exploration of his very own Octopus´s Garden, orienteering by way of blood and bone.
Or, in Spike´s words. "A puerile idiosyncrasy that´s fast givin´ me the shits!"
Yet Xander knows he must do this for perfection never lasts. He halts by a bus shelter that seems vaguely familiar, while fingers twitch at the desire to filch remnants of yellow tape still fluttering from a pole, his nose crinkles at the overpowering odour of ammonia.
"Don´t pout, luv."
"Am not!"
"Course not, yer just imitating a soddin´ goldfish ´cause you miss the ones back home."
"They´re *carp*. Carp are *not* goldfish."
"Whatever."
Miami bursts with golden humans.
28 carats of yummy precious richness just waiting to be scooped up.
So many fish in this concrete sea. Suspects a hint of Grandmum in the way he perceives them now. Pretty pretty angelfish/cheerleaders with trophy jocks firmly attached like suckerfish. Hustlers and pimps emerge from shadows only to worm back into darkness with all the slickness of a moray eel.
Easy prey, and that alone is enough to make him want to kill them all.
Scowling he rages out loud, "C´mon, where are you? Make it worth my while."
Spike trails behind his childe in a parental fashion.
With an indulgent hidden smile and a wary eye for those who would do harm.
At this point all similarity ends.
His childe is a killer whose stained promise threatens to rival those who came before.
The signature may not yet be perfect, perhaps even a tad wobbly and off centre, but its there.
His lips twist with wry anticipation. Still, there are lessons that must be taught.
Swiftly Spike closes the gap between them, ignoring the subsequent squawk of outrage as he grabs Xander by the scruff of the neck and hauls him into a convenient unlit doorway.
"Knees."
And his lad´s a fast learner.
"Oh Christ!"
With a mouth like lamprey.
Head rush.
Down on his knees like a good little childe. Sex is power baby. Because Xander´s not the one trying to gauge a hole in the wall; but he can make it happen.
Control. Fleeting though it may be, is enough to get him harder than a rail. Make any pleasure your own and own the pleasure.
Here endeth the lesson.
"Hmmm, barracuda."
Xander´s utterance gives Spike cause to reflect. That there´s an off chance he didn´t sire a childe so much as a Jacques Cousteau clone, albeit one with fangs and a taste for big game.
"One these days you´re gonna meet your very own Chief Brody, pet. I´d recommend you avoid swallowin´ the gas tank."
Xander acknowledges the reprimand with an indifferent shrug, a flat gaze still fixed on his targets.
Time to shed his skin and swim.
"Not yet," a steel band encircles his waist.
"Let them get inside the restaurant." Spike plays his lips across his childe´s neck, savouring the taste and the almost involuntary shiver of need it produces. "Let ´em feel safe and sound. Lots of people in there, all that panickin´ ´nd screamin´ will spice up our fun. Mobsters are predictable mate. Gunfire and chaos...."
"Sopranos with a sun tan?"
"Somethin´ like that."
"Cool."
"Remember, the guards first."
"Yes, Papa Bear."
Spike releases Xander with mock growl, "Right then, off you go."
And waits.
Halfway across the street Xander hesitates, with a cold clammy awareness that Sire has not followed as per usual.
"Want me to hold your hand?"
Rage. All molten and boiling as brown leaches into gold. "No, I´m fine." A feigned nonchalance starkly revealed by an all too casual need for reassurance, "See you inside then?"
"Sure ducks, I´ll be right behind you."
Spike admits that whilst he may not be king of the mind–fuck, (he´ll leave that dubious honor to Angelus) but ..a dark prince perhaps?
Yeah, that´ll do, ta very much.
"Sex, lies, and the Sire who screws you over," Xander makes some effort to put venom behind the words, but that can be rather difficult with a cock lying neatly between the cleft of your ass.
"Sometimes the food is inclined to get a bit testy," Spike´s tone is sarcastically eloquent. "Call it a nasty little side–effect of the whole not wanting to die thing. Did you even bother scoutin´ for another way out?"
Xander´s witty retort dries up in the back of his throat. Cringing, he can only admit, "You know I didn´t."
Spike blankets his back like some hard, marble white quilt. "Right then, you can sulk with righteous indignation later."
"What if I don´t?"
"What if I leave you here all hard and needy," push and *grind*.
"I ... I...You fuck!...I DO have two hands ya know."
"For the moment."
Priorities. A fear that this time, Spike might *not* be joking. Or, the sticky pre–cum pooling between stomach and mattress from an unsatisfied cock slowly being pulverised into dust.
Can´t help but hiss and contort like a rapturous sea snake when a cool tongue laps the jagged edge of a healing bullet hole.
One of *many* bullet wounds that decorate Xander´s torso like some mutated form of chicken pox.
The stab of velvety hard softness right *into* the wound results in leakage from all manner of sensitive twitchy places.
Together with the total loss of coherent speech.
Which is okay because he´s adaptable. Xander *slams* his ass backwards as a timely reminder to ´Bastard Inc.´ of other aches that need attending to, thank you very much!
"Through sulking?"
And its amazing how one can vocalise without utilising a single vowel.
"Can do this all day, my lovely. Sit here and ride between your cheeks."
Emphasised with a slow, smooth glide full of a promise that proposes nothing but a sticky lower back when Xander knows he should be filled and *full*.
"Spike?"
"Later, pet. I´m busy."
His Sire has missed the warning of shoulders coiled. For this Xander is of the old yet shiny new, with past lessons now remembered.
Power is in the knowing of what you want, and how to get it.
So easy, to lie palms flat and push upward. Arch his back to allow thin rivulets of blood to flow from freshly opened wounds. Rivulets turn into streams that nestle briefly in the soft curve of his spine before overflowing.
Spike´s hiss of awe stretches into forever.
Anticipation is an ugly brutal thing, shredding control as the guise of humanity falls from them both.
The sensation of Sire´s blunt arousal seeking entrance morphs into the slow shivering burn of penetration. Spike´s cock is like some hungry needful thing leaving behind nothing but the wish to be consumed until they are locked together.
Xander rolls his hips to meet each thrust as a skilful hand skims his chest, sensitive nipples are tweaked and rolled while a hip is held fast.
The thought of bruises he´ll sport tomorrow is fleeting, pushed aside by the giddy flush of success.
Exhilaration curls into fear as thin lips press against his ear to whisper, "Don´t think I don´t know the game you´re trying to play, pet."
Spikes alters his angle with a brutal twist of hips and *rubs*. Over that spot again and again.
Xander unravels with guttural cries of submission until hoarse, his cock held in Spike´s crushing grip throbs in pain and need.
He´s sorry. So sorry, please Sire, please!
Still babbling and hard when Sire floods him with come.
Still hard but gagging in his own blood as razor fangs rip and tear.
Loses time only to re–awaken in the now, on his back with a tongue gently lapping at the bloody horror of his neck. Can only mutely plead as Spike raises his head, rakes Xander´s frame with eyes of blue blue ice to eventually fix on a jutting cock as if Spike´s forgotten it was even there.
"If you want to play, then you have to know what happens when you lose."
Spike moves his fist with slow, uneven strokes that quivering hips can´t even begin to mimic.
Xander is finally allowed to find the rhythm, fucking himself into Spike´s hand there is nothing left but open surrender.
He comes in silence. Jagged, painful spurts like his balls have been storing barbed wire.
Ripped to pieces by Sire yet instinctively seeking protection and the comfort offered when hauled in close, Xander can only wonder.
How is it that the scent and touch of Sire can calm? How is it that the bloody wrist pressed against his mouth *connects* and *completes* him in ways that make him wonder if he´d ever truly been whole before he became Spike´s.
"I´m sorry, Spike. I won´t do it again."
Wry laughter shakes Spike´s frame.
"Of course you will. Be disappointed if you didn´t," and Spike´s voice hardens. "Remember this though next time you want to play. There isn´t a game I haven´t seen or done. No rule I haven´t broken and laughed while doing it. I am not a game, Childe. I am your Sire!"
"I am the game, set and *match*!"
The End
