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Built to Last

Built to Last
Written for the Trading ‘Verses ficathon. Based on Willshenilshe's Pierced!Verse.
Thanks to Vinnie for the beta and to Yindagger for the read through and guide to Willa-ness. I finally had to go with Sue-ness, 'cause I couldn't find my inner Willa (and what I know about piercing, I learned from her.) So this is her 'verse, filtered through me.
Wanted: Romance / body-mod
Not Wanted: Character death / characters splitting up.
Heavy boots thumping against the top of the stairs, Spike walks into the apartment. Head down, he roughly strips the gloves off his hands, frowning and tugging as the latex snags on one of his rings. “Xan, love, glad you got a free afternoon and all, but I’ve only got a few ‘til I…”

Words trail into silence, heavy, expectant, that hangs in the air around them. Sunlight from the open windows gleams against the wood, tawny as the hands that molded it.

The gloves tangle around his fingers, forgotten, as Spike watches Xander’s hand curve slowly over the carved wooden rails, caressing, with a smile that’s hopeful but hesitant. Skillful hands almost awkward, nervous, as they rub against the grain.

“It’s walnut,” Xander says into the silence, licking his lips as he looks from Spike to the bed and back. “Well, the wood. I used a lighter stain, ‘cause,” he glances around Spike’s apartment – the bare white walls, the unmatching chair and table, stark, colorless – “um, I didn’t want it to be too dark, dominant…”

Xander pauses, watching as Spike moves closer, impatiently jerking the glove off to lift a cautious hand, tracing the path Xander’s has taken over the satin smooth finish of the scrollwork along the edges.

“You made it,” he says quietly, listening to the dull thud the silver on his hands makes as it connects with the wood. Solid sound, heavy and deep.

“Well, yeah,” Xander laughs, lightly, “Wouldn’t ask you to leave work for something I picked up at Beds ‘R Us…”

“No.” Spike turns to look at him, his voice soft, reverent. “You made it…the loft bed. Didn’t think you’d…” He breaks off as Xander reaches past him, grinning, and slowly slides open a built-in drawer at foot of the bed, already stocked with lube, oils, condoms, favorite toys…Spike’s breath becomes harsh at the sight of the precisely placed supports bolted to the sides of the drawer, one already holding a soft flogger while others, longer and more formidable, wait to be filled.

A wicked grin clicks the bead on his tongue against his teeth, and then Spike realizes Xander is moving past him to the ladder at the foot, his voice stuttering, nervous.

“…needed to be wider, these are usually singles. So I used cleat reinforcing joints on the brackets to…” The rest is forgotten as Xander watches Spike coming toward him, one hand tossing the gloves away as the other rides low on his stomach, the thumb lazily brushing the navel piercing below his t-shirt. “And you don’t really care about bracket studs and fast-tap screws, do you?”

Spike shakes his head slowly, teasing, as he eases closer, his body pressing Xander’s back into the rails of the ladder. “Love it when you talk wood, pet. Like slow-tap screws better, though…”

Xander swallows as Spike’s hands make slow circles on his hips and then slide higher, fingers soft from the talcum lined gloves slipping beneath the back of Xander’s shirt. “And I made it lower, just high enough to fit a drafting table beneath it,’ he says with a soft gasp at those talented fingers, and then nods toward the low, tilted desktop beneath the bed. “Didn’t want us to have to climb too high, ‘cause bunk beds? Not sexy.”

Spike’s hands are roaming over the muscles of his back, restless, searching. Xander’s words are becoming soft moans and he stops caring how the bed was made, important thing being that it was, as Spike presses him firmly into the hard slats of the ladder.

“So, you like it?” Xander asks with another quiet gasp as Spike’s hands curve around his chest, fingers finding beaded rings and tugging lightly.

“How?” Spike asks instead, nodding toward the bed behind them, his voice calm and steady as he grinds his hips against Xander’s in a rhythm that’s just as steady but anything but calm.

Xander tilts his head, his lips brushing along Spike’s cheekbone to his ear as he breathes, “You didn’t really think Faith needed you to take-on that asshole needle supplier for her, did you?” His tongue traces a slow pattern beneath Spike’s ear, and then his breath shivers against the wetness as he laughs, “Although she did get him good and pissed off before she sent you down there.”

“So, everybody knows?” Spike asks, closing his eyes and arching his neck to give that wicked tongue its way.

“Everybody knows,” Xander confirms, his hands leaving the railing behind him and curving around the tight denim of Spike’s ass, drawing him closer. “That’s why I moved the bed against this wall,” his voice just a murmur against the skin of Spike’s neck, “and why you don’t really have a three o’clock.”

Xander’s certain he hears a soft laugh, but then Spike’s sliding to his knees, his movements fluid, languid as always, but his hands rough and careless as they scrape down Xander’s stomach to his jeans. Then the only sounds are the rasp of a zipper and Xander’s soft moan as his jeans are spread open and Spike’s mouth is on him, tongue tracing first the sharp outlines of the tattoo and then gliding over the letters. Both with eyes shut tight and no sound but their jagged, shuddering breaths, each swipe of Spike’s tongue reaffirms the word he traces like Braille on Xander’s skin. Mine.

Xander’s hands clench around the carved posts of the ladder as Spike dips lower, his touch harsh, impatient, as he shoves Xander’s jeans down his legs. His mouth is against Xander again, but still now, as he rubs his cheek against the dark curls he finds there, breathing deep.

Teeth sharp against his own lips, Xander groans, because somehow that stillness, Spike just breathing him in, finding mindless bliss in his flesh, his scent, is so much more than even the clever tricks of Spike’s tongue. The softness of Spike’s lips, the coolness of metal below them, teasing, waiting, anticipating.

In the quiet of anticipation, Xander’s aware of the ever-present buzz of needles from the floor below, the muted sound of voices and the husky rasp of Faith’s laugh rising above it, but then Spike’s lips are wrapping around his cock and it’s all just white noise, blurring into the roar in his head.

Spike’s tongue thrums against the piercing that crowns the head of his cock, and the pleasure/pain spirals up Xander's stomach, tightening his nipples and making his throat close tight as he moans and fights to keep his hips still. Long, lavish licks trace every inch of his cock and then lips slide down the length again and now Spike’s moaning and every breathy ripple makes Xander’s hands clench, slippery wet, around the already slick wood of the bed.

Drawing back, Spike suckles the tip, threading the bead of his tongue ring through the PA and tugging, and then he’s on his feet, hands threading through damp, dark hair as he plunders Xander’s mouth, the bars clicking together as their tongues meet, sharing flavors of salt, sweet and smoke.

Spike pulls away and the words are back as he spins Xander around, hands reaching for hands and closing them around the rails as he grits out, “Hold fast, love. Built it to last, yeah? Let’s see what it can take.”

Fingers slicked with saliva probe inside Xander and Spike’s groan, dark and gritty, smothers the breath of Xander’s gasp at the feeling.

“Slick already for me,” Spike murmurs, and then a cock, thick and dripping and weighted with metal that Xander’s body knows piece by piece, is driving into him.

Xander’s fingers are clinging to the rails beneath them, slippery with sweat but holding on, feeling every curve and grasping where he knows the grain is roughest. Spike’s hands are tight on his hips as he works them both, before slipping one free and wrapping it around Xander’s cock, fingers finding the rhythm with a single stroke.

“This what you wanted?” Spike’s words flutter hot on the skin of his neck, and Xander can only nod as he holds on, tightening around Spike as the pounding of their bodies, hot and urgent, slams them into the bed, the wood shuddering and singing with each thrust.

Spike’s hand strips Xander’s cock, the palm rubbing the PA and sliding back, slicking the shaft with pre-come and then stroking faster. Spike’s fingers tighten around Xander, squeezing firmly from base to tip, and he lifts his other hand, closing it over the death grip Xander has on the bed rails. His hips twist as he pulls almost all of the way out and then drives back in, metal dragging and gliding, body warm, over Xander’s sweet spot.

Xander comes with a sharp cry, watching as drops thicken to ribbons, falling white against the gleaming brown gold of new wood. Spike’s groans of, “Xander…fuck,” bathe his neck, fingers tighten around his, grinding, and that heavy cock plunges one last time, the bed rails rattling as they fall against it, breath harsh, bodies quaking.

Still shuddering against him, Spike carefully releases Xander’s hand, lifting it and looking at the intricate carvings imprinted into the palm and then raises it to his lips, his tongue soothing against the reddened lines.

“It’s a lovely bed, love,” he breathes into Xander’s flesh as he presses on last kiss against it, his lips quirking in a grin. “Love the scrollwork.”

“Hmm,” Xander says, closing his fingers around Spike’s and leaning back against him as they looked at the sturdy lines of the bed, honey colored in the light of the late afternoon sun. “Maybe someday we’ll find out if it feels as good as it looks.”


Willa often uses Shakespeare's sonnets as a muse for her 'verses, and I tried to pick up the five senses refrain in this one.

Sonnet 141

In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

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