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Challenge #1: "Faces" : Slash: Ethan/? : Hard R

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  • Challenge #1: "Faces" : Slash: Ethan/? : Hard R

    Ethan feels his tongue between those teeth. It's like snogging a tiger; he feels tiny in the mouth, and the fangs: they could tear his tongue right off and yet their sharpness is wonderful.

    Safe sex isn't interesting. Ethan tired of warm arms and pretty faces, gentle fingers, the familiar flavours. The boot prints have left permanent marks on his back.

    And now this vampire: the face beastial and strange. The same as those faces he has killed, he has done deals with, he has got drunk with. A face no human can ever be at ease around.

    The vampire licks his neck, teeth grazing his chest, his stomach, the cold hands pinching his nipples. Feelings of lust and pain slink down his spine. He's imagining the beast eating his ****, and in this state, he thinks it would be entirely pleasurable.

    Distantly he hears the squelch of bone breaking and reforming, and Spike's handsome, human face squints up at him. He looks bony, beautiful, wrong. "What's the matter, mate?" he says. "You've gone all quiet."

    Ethan doesn't remember where his flat is - if he had one. There are lost years in prisons underground; places without words, and full of faces scarred by laughter lines. Now his memory doesn't seem to quite work. Lost worms wander through the caverns of his mind.

    There is only sensation. Hands closing around his wrists. The dull throb of pain in old scars. Seeing how far his weak body will go. Tonight, he is decorated by whips and pumped full of strangely coloured liquids. He doesn't need to remember who he is; what he is.

    Bones crunch in his finger. A demon's face, all yellow eyes, and blue features, hovers in front of him. He feels the strange agony of scaly hands tearing through loose skin. A torturous fingernail digging into his flaccid ****.

    "Not so pretty, are you?"

    He walks home, savouring his wounds, and limping. If he lets them do this to him now, at least the torture is his choice. When he collapses in the dark he thinks the hands that grab his torso must be another delusion. They catch him too late; his ribs are already bruised.

    "Stupid bugger," Spike says, and licks at the cut on his temple, catching the blood before it drips into his eye.
    "When people call people nerds, mostly what they are saying is, 'You like stuff', which is just not a good insult at all, like 'You are too enthusiastic about the miracle of human consciousness'."
    -John Green