Lee (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
randomling) wrote2008-07-17 11:29 pm
randomling) wrote2008-07-17 11:29 pm
Under My Skin
Another long-overdue request fic from January.
Summary: There's someone in Lance's house.
Warnings: Boybands, RPF, vampirism.
Also: Thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
adelate for her customary ficlet-writing hand-holding.
Forturloughishere.
The sun was going down behind the Hollywood Hills.
Lance smiled to himself, rubbing absently at the bruises on his neck, not even really minding that he was stuck in screaming-and-hollering LA traffic on a Friday night. The window was open a crack, so at least there was a breeze to go with the blaring horns and the voice of the woman leaning out of her driver's seat window to yell at the Ferrari in front of her.
Why he'd ever left Orlando, he wasn't sure; LA was a kind of hell, really. The central part was, anyway – mile after mile of featureless traffic jam and no reason to stay. He couldn't wait to get back to his house, cool and big and comfortable, and sit on the porch with a glass of bourbon. It'd be full dark by the time he got back.
His house, good whiskey, and cover of darkness.
Yeah. That was all good.
***
He made surprisingly good time: the sky was still a luminous twilight blue when he opened his front door, just dark enough to properly make out the stars. The hallway felt empty, and so did the living room as he poured his drink and went for the ice bucket. Then the ice clinked against the glass and at the same moment someone behind him cleared his throat.
Lance didn't jump; he'd had too much practise. He glanced up at the mirror above his fireplace, which showed only his reflection, and said, “Hey, Spike.”
“Hello, pretty boy,” said Spike. There was a drawling note of contempt in his voice, but that was normal. An act. Lance was pretty sure.
Lance turned, smiling, because he could throw the insult right back in Spike's face: bleached blond hair, fine, high cheekbones, intense eyes, and the intriguing scar that marred one eyebrow, a single flaw in his otherwise perfect face. There was the accent, too, rough-hewn British vowels that made Lance's stomach curl up. Spike was standing in the doorway like he'd followed Lance from the hall. He probably had.
Once we're invited, we stay invited, Mr Bass.
“Drink?” Lance offered. A joke; he'd never seen Spike drink anything that wasn't, well. He'd never seen Spike drink alcohol.
Spike gave him a slight smile and inclined his head. “Why not.”
***
Lance poured bourbon over ice and handed the glass to Spike, a heavy crystal tumbler. Spike's fingers were cool, the skin papery where it brushed Lance's. Then Spike raised the glass. “Bottoms up.”
Lance took a careful sip, smiling again. “You're a strange man, Spike,” he said.
Spike looked at Lance over the top of his glass with fiery eyes. “I'm not a man.” He was using what Lance had come to recognize as his scary-monster voice. Lance wasn't impressed. He looked Spike up and down appraisingly.
“Well,” he said, thickening up his own accent for effect, “you sure ain't a woman.”
Spike raised both his eyebrows. “Aren't you a little ball of fire.”
These were the rules. Never show fear; you'll be slaughtered. Never show desire; it'll destroy you. Never show anything, that's the only safe thing, those were the rules that Spike had whispered into his neck that first night, fangs scraping against his skin but not breaking it. They'd been pressed together against the wall of Lance's hallway, and Lance had been surprised to find out that vampires could get hard.
Spike had just snorted. Blood flow's not a problem, pretty boy.
Lance knocked back his drink and the ice cubes clattered against the glass. “Bite me,” he said.
Spike looked at him levelly for a very long time. Lance met and kept his gaze. Challenging. Not backing down. Finally, Spike said, “Is that a request?”
Lance said nothing.
Spike kissed him violently instead, gripping him one-handed on the back of the head, his strength supernatural. He tossed his glass at the fireplace and it shattered, ice and whiskey and crystal flying, and then his other hand was on Lance's waist, holding him hard enough to bruise. Lance droppped his own glass, and ice spilled to the floor at their feet as Lance's hands slid up Spike's hard belly to his chest. Spike pulled away, panting, and his brow was swollen and furrowed, his lips pulled back over fangs. His real face.
“My neck,” Lance said in a hoarse voice.
Spike said, “I'll kill you.”
Lance met his eyes again. Never show fear. Spike's eyes were glittering, alive and human in his demonic face. Never show desire. “You won't,” Lance said steadily.
Lance angled his head back, exposing the line of his neck, the bruised side. Spike's tongue flickered out of his mouth and he made a reptilian sound, part-hiss, part-moan. Spike bent towards Lance's neck, and Lance's head was supported by Spike's hand. The bruises ached deliciously as Spike's tongue slithered over them, and then his teeth scraped; Lance's chest hitched once and he grabbed handfuls of Spike's T-shirt.
A growl came from Spike's throat, low-pitched and utterly inhuman, and Lance's breath came out in one long sigh as Spike's teeth sank under his skin.
Summary: There's someone in Lance's house.
Warnings: Boybands, RPF, vampirism.
Also: Thank you to
adelate for her customary ficlet-writing hand-holding.For
turloughishere.The sun was going down behind the Hollywood Hills.
Lance smiled to himself, rubbing absently at the bruises on his neck, not even really minding that he was stuck in screaming-and-hollering LA traffic on a Friday night. The window was open a crack, so at least there was a breeze to go with the blaring horns and the voice of the woman leaning out of her driver's seat window to yell at the Ferrari in front of her.
Why he'd ever left Orlando, he wasn't sure; LA was a kind of hell, really. The central part was, anyway – mile after mile of featureless traffic jam and no reason to stay. He couldn't wait to get back to his house, cool and big and comfortable, and sit on the porch with a glass of bourbon. It'd be full dark by the time he got back.
His house, good whiskey, and cover of darkness.
Yeah. That was all good.
***
He made surprisingly good time: the sky was still a luminous twilight blue when he opened his front door, just dark enough to properly make out the stars. The hallway felt empty, and so did the living room as he poured his drink and went for the ice bucket. Then the ice clinked against the glass and at the same moment someone behind him cleared his throat.
Lance didn't jump; he'd had too much practise. He glanced up at the mirror above his fireplace, which showed only his reflection, and said, “Hey, Spike.”
“Hello, pretty boy,” said Spike. There was a drawling note of contempt in his voice, but that was normal. An act. Lance was pretty sure.
Lance turned, smiling, because he could throw the insult right back in Spike's face: bleached blond hair, fine, high cheekbones, intense eyes, and the intriguing scar that marred one eyebrow, a single flaw in his otherwise perfect face. There was the accent, too, rough-hewn British vowels that made Lance's stomach curl up. Spike was standing in the doorway like he'd followed Lance from the hall. He probably had.
Once we're invited, we stay invited, Mr Bass.
“Drink?” Lance offered. A joke; he'd never seen Spike drink anything that wasn't, well. He'd never seen Spike drink alcohol.
Spike gave him a slight smile and inclined his head. “Why not.”
***
Lance poured bourbon over ice and handed the glass to Spike, a heavy crystal tumbler. Spike's fingers were cool, the skin papery where it brushed Lance's. Then Spike raised the glass. “Bottoms up.”
Lance took a careful sip, smiling again. “You're a strange man, Spike,” he said.
Spike looked at Lance over the top of his glass with fiery eyes. “I'm not a man.” He was using what Lance had come to recognize as his scary-monster voice. Lance wasn't impressed. He looked Spike up and down appraisingly.
“Well,” he said, thickening up his own accent for effect, “you sure ain't a woman.”
Spike raised both his eyebrows. “Aren't you a little ball of fire.”
These were the rules. Never show fear; you'll be slaughtered. Never show desire; it'll destroy you. Never show anything, that's the only safe thing, those were the rules that Spike had whispered into his neck that first night, fangs scraping against his skin but not breaking it. They'd been pressed together against the wall of Lance's hallway, and Lance had been surprised to find out that vampires could get hard.
Spike had just snorted. Blood flow's not a problem, pretty boy.
Lance knocked back his drink and the ice cubes clattered against the glass. “Bite me,” he said.
Spike looked at him levelly for a very long time. Lance met and kept his gaze. Challenging. Not backing down. Finally, Spike said, “Is that a request?”
Lance said nothing.
Spike kissed him violently instead, gripping him one-handed on the back of the head, his strength supernatural. He tossed his glass at the fireplace and it shattered, ice and whiskey and crystal flying, and then his other hand was on Lance's waist, holding him hard enough to bruise. Lance droppped his own glass, and ice spilled to the floor at their feet as Lance's hands slid up Spike's hard belly to his chest. Spike pulled away, panting, and his brow was swollen and furrowed, his lips pulled back over fangs. His real face.
“My neck,” Lance said in a hoarse voice.
Spike said, “I'll kill you.”
Lance met his eyes again. Never show fear. Spike's eyes were glittering, alive and human in his demonic face. Never show desire. “You won't,” Lance said steadily.
Lance angled his head back, exposing the line of his neck, the bruised side. Spike's tongue flickered out of his mouth and he made a reptilian sound, part-hiss, part-moan. Spike bent towards Lance's neck, and Lance's head was supported by Spike's hand. The bruises ached deliciously as Spike's tongue slithered over them, and then his teeth scraped; Lance's chest hitched once and he grabbed handfuls of Spike's T-shirt.
A growl came from Spike's throat, low-pitched and utterly inhuman, and Lance's breath came out in one long sigh as Spike's teeth sank under his skin.
no subject
no subject
*flails incoherently*
no subject
I could read a LOT more of that...
(Drusilla's still out there!!!)
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Because omg Lucy, I barely watched Buffy (or Angel) and I'll be damned if I don't want to read more of this.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed it!
no subject
no subject
Thank you!
no subject
Yay!
no subject
I'm so glad you enjoyed it, thank you!
no subject
Thank you for reading, I'm glad you enjoyed it!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject