Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Nick Brendon/James Marsters
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The faint whiff of the fairy tale hovers above the proceedings. It will not be dislodged, nor wholly acknowledged, ever. It is faint, because this is not a world that admits fairy tales. A beast and a maiden in the darkened chamber, the Erl King within his hut of twigs, giant wolves prowling the wastes: there's no room for anything that fantastic.
No room here for anything but two bodies, one dark and one light. Corded arms and broad palms, soft as women's though tipped with long, graceful fingers and blunt nails. Nails that scrape down stubbled jaws, scratch up muscular backs, dig into the jut of a hip and bring up a hiss of pleasure.
It is faint, but it clings nonetheless. To the ceiling, around beads of sweat, within the grunts and moist, slipping sounds of mouths on skin.
It is real, just temporary. Transient as sensation careening down the nerves, torches tossed end over end, bright and fast.
"Christ," Nicky says, palming the back of James' skull, pushing into the biting kiss to his collarbone, redlight pain sparking out. "Jesus Christ, what're you doing?"
He is always the innocent. Wide dark eyes, clutching fingers. Voice that's half-maple syrup -- sticky-sweet early morning pancakes shovelled down -- and half-tobacco rough -- late nights after-hours grit and leaves.
"You," James replies, and his lids are heavy with the weight of sweat-lust-urgency, his tongue darting out over spitslick lips, "I'm doing you, aren't I?"
James is not innocent. (Nor, for that matter, is Nicky, but he seems to be, he plays it, he believes it, he opens his mouth, begs and whines for it like a puppy.) James is worn around the edges, crowfeet spray of skin at the eyes and deep lines around his smile, sharp bones beneath burnished skin. James is old, is experience, is cynical.
He knows a couple things for sure. He knows that acting's just better-paid whoring, he knows that what he does is hardly acting, closer to commedia dell'arte, buffoons and tragedians cartwheeling out of synch. He knows that he's just marking time, saving his money, storing up anecdotes, and someday, someday soon, he knows he's out of here. He will flee this chrome and tin metropolis, its smog and silicone, flee back north. Direct Macbeth in a refurbished barn, with a minimum of staging, just the words in the dark, more powerful, always authentic, for their stripped context.
He knows that this is just a sojourn in the land of the unreal. As unreal as his dye job, as the cold-cream pancake make-up on his body, as the accent that wavers among the Cockney, West End, Belfast and Innisfarne.
This is his fairy tale. He tarries here, a visitor from the Real, and he will not be corrupted. When he escapes, it will be with the proverbial full purse.
"C-can I?" Nicky whispers, and he must be close. All the signs are there. The stutter's back, the scars from his shoulder surgery stand out fresh as snow on his flushed skin, his cheeks are soaked with red. "Ppplease ccccan I?"
Without waiting for an answer, he slides down to the floor. Off the couch, off James, to his knees. His prick grinds against his fly, against the cushions. He buries his face in James' groin, fingers gone thick and stupid before they untangle the drawstring of James' loose cotton pants.
James' dick tents the pants, hot beneath thin fabric, butting at Nicky's cheek. James is groaning already, anticipating that mouth. Inexpert and ardent, Nicky sucks like a boy, like an innocent, humming around the head, swirling his tongue and swallowing hungry spit.
Feedback whines, then screeches, through James' skull at the deep kiss, at eager fingers on his balls, snarling in the hair, yanking him closer, pushing him farther into Nicky's mouth. His nails dig into Nicky's scalp, bring up more redflush spangles, as he thrusts.
Stutter-stammer swallow as Nicky tries to take it all, wants to take it all, wants this perfect heat-ballooning moment. Wants mastery, and power, and something like a home run. Crack of the bat, crick in the neck, two fingers probing the tight crease of James' ass, and he's rewarded. High, endless groan from James, muttered curses Fuck, just like that, oh, fuck and hot silken flesh choking him, scraping his palate. Tastes like locker rooms and low tide down here, tastes like everything different, everything forbidden, and he's doing it, circling the bases, stealing third, swallowing jizz that scorches and sprays.
Nicky swallows and leans back, licks one last line up the underside of James' shaft. Grins to himself as he adjusts his own cock, knuckles it roughly, grins wider.
"Getting better at that," he says.
James only nods.
"Like you always say," Nicky adds and swipes his hand across his mouth. His fingers smell like James, like dirt and chlorine and sweat. "Gotta practice what you love."
"Yeah," James says vaguely. "Except that was about acting. And playing guitar."
"Whatever." Nicky pulls himself back up onto the couch. Kicking out one leg, he tips his head back and unzips his pants. Digs his hand inside and tugs out his cock. Red-purple swollen, obscene against his tan.
Sucking his lower lip, James watches him pull himself off. Reaches over occasionally to pinch a nipple, run the flat of his palm up Nick's belly.
He can't for the life of him imagine why Nicky would listen to him. Never mind quote him back. It's flattering and creepy.
"Don't listen to me," James tells him, gripping Nicky's balls and twisting gently. "Don't ever listen."
Nicky's body tenses, goes longer and tighter as he arches, head thrown back, neck a long golden column, and when he comes, he pants like a dog in heat, whines and bucks.
This is a modern fairy tale. Innocence and experience, Psyche's candle waking her lover, the jock and the idol, home runs and Modern, because there's no moral, no resolution, only a drunk kid wiping his mouth and an old man twitching in the afterglow.