Disclaimer: Don't own them. I would like to.
Summary: Xander's got a little something on the side. Alternate season 5ish where nothing whatsoever is happening to any other characters.
Note: Here there be smut. I'm nervous.
Part 1 here: http://baudown.livejournal.com/7497.html
He spends the better part of the next three days engaging himself in every obvious, rational argument against taking this step, understanding all the while, and with no shortage of self-loathing, that he's going to take it. Scenarios, fantasies, play like tapes in his head, and he ruminates over them, obsessively, altering the details, re-working the sequences, editing his own, private, dirty movie. Jerking off to the images with adolescent frequency and fervor. His desire so overwhelming that at times it renders him motionless, speechless, breathless. But equally consuming are fear, and fury: at himself, for his helplessness to it, and at Spike, for being its object. But mostly at Spike, whom he knows, he knows, is reveling in Xander's weakness. He can see the future, plain as day, and it's awful: Spike's snide and knowing smile as Xander steps inside the crypt and goes to him.
So when Thursday comes, he's not prepared for what he finds instead.
Spike greets him at the door with a beer and a smile that can best be described as sunny. The irony isn’t lost on him.
“All right, then!” Spike says brightly, and Xander’s only ever heard him this cheerful when he’s hurting something. Which, it occurs to him, for about the millionth time, may be exactly what Spike’s doing. He peers at his bottle warily, although he guesses that the chip would probably preclude poisoning. Anyway, it’s more the smile that worries him.
“Christ, Harris.” Spike is shaking his head, and the smile has dimmed. "The look on your face. Like you're about to heave. Not very flattering, that."
"Flattering?" Xander says, bristling with nervous anger. "Forgive me for not feeding your over-inflated ego."
"Not meant to be some kind of bloody ordeal," Spike continues, huffily, as if Xander hasn't spoken. "Meant to be fun."
"Well, color me crazy, but I'm not convinced your motives are quite that pure."
"Oh, they're anything but pure, mate." Spike's face is midway to a leer, when it suddenly changes course and turns quizzical. "You mean...you think I'm taking the piss? That it?"
"If that means fucking with my head and ultimately humiliating me, then, yeah, the possibility had crossed my mind."
Spike contemplates this idea, seemingly for the first time. "Not a stupid thought," he says, musingly, amused. He studies Xander in a considered, reassessing way that makes Xander feel like he's about to get his tires kicked. Spike smiles again, but it's a different smile this time, one that makes Xander's heart do a quick, jerky backflip.
"But no," Spike says, and his voice is sultry and slightly threatening. "Not what I had in mind. Not at all." And then, Spike comes toward him, and his walk is like sex and his eyes are lit and it doesn't matter if it's all bullshit, doesn't matter if it's the dumbest of all the dumb mistakes he's ever made, doesn't matter if it ends in soul-crushing shame and disgrace. Because right now, right this instant, all he can see is Spike, and he's never wanted anything so much in his whole stupid life.
Spike is standing close to him, so damn close, but Xander wants him closer. He's suddenly aware of his own blood, racing through his veins; how it pounds in the too-fast beat of his heart; the heat of it, spreading beneath his skin and rising. He's painfully hard, and he can feel it, not just in his dick, but everywhere.
Spike places a hand flat on Xander's chest, and Xander's heart violently rattles its cage. "Oh," Spike says, with the slightly bewildered air of a man who realizes, mid-sermon, that he's preaching to the choir. And then he closes his eyes and bows his neck, resting his forehead on the hard edge of Xander's collarbone.
There's something patient and subdued in Spike's posture. Something yielding and unguarded that gives Xander courage, makes him feel pleasantly reckless and bold. He runs his palms up Spike's sides, and down again, and his hands itch for skin. He pulls Spike's shirt loose and slides his hands underneath, circling around to his back, knuckles bumping up the spine, fingers curling over shoulders. A man's body, and it's harder, different, good. Spike makes a low, needy sound, mouthing the skin just behind Xander's ear, and Xander feels the vibration shimmy through him. A smooth cheek rubs against the scratch of stubble on his jaw, and then Spike's lips are there, ghosting toward Xander's mouth; and Xander shifts his head away slightly, thinking for one confusing second that Spike might kiss him. But he doesn't, and Xander's grateful, because that's not what this is about, is it? Not about kissing, but about what's happening below the belt, where they've started rocking together. Where Spike has worked a thigh between Xander's legs, a thigh for him to rub against. Where Spike's hands are palming Xander's ass, and Xander is gripping Spike's hips, pulling him forward, grinding their bodies together, desperate and dirty.
Xander hears himself making high-pitched, whimpering noises; they're coming from the back of his throat, like something bigger and louder is trying to work its way out. Girlish sounds, he thinks, but he's not embarrassed, it's fine, and he couldn't stop, even if he wanted to, because it feels so...fucking...good. The hands and the noise and the rhythmic rubbing meld into a brain-numbing buzz; and he's only foggily aware that Spike's worked a hand between his legs, grazing lightly against him through his pants; and then Spike is stroking him with just the tips of his fingers; and then scratching with his nails, a prickling, dick-twitching sensation that finally forces the sound from him in a guttering burst. Spike gets Xander's pants undone, and Xander helps, shoving them roughly below his hips, and he drives forward as Spike's hand closes around him. And he was right, right to have come here, right to be doing this, because this is what he wanted, it's what he wants, he wants, and Jesus, it's -- it's --
"Fucking beautiful," Spike says, huskily. "Look."
Xander casts his eyes down. His dick is hard and dark and glistening at the head, where Spike's thumb is rubbing in wet circles, dizzying him with shocks of pleasure. Then Spike lets go and Xander gives him a frantic, pleading look, but Spike doesn't see. Spike is looking at the hand that's just been touching Xander, raising it to his mouth, licking it. Xander's breath catches.
"I knew how you'd taste," Spike murmurs. "I knew it."
Spike's face is distant and dreamy; but suddenly, something like panic jitters across it; and then he looks stunned. "Oh, fuck," he rasps, and now he seems almost angry. Xander doesn't get it, he's lost the thread of what's happening, but there's no time to puzzle it out, because Spike's hand is on Xander's dick again. And it's not gentle now, the way Spike's touching him, it's rough, it's furious, it's perfect. Perfect, and how does Spike know? Perfect, but he's too close, too close, and he wants it to go on and on.
"Don't," he pants, plucking limply at Spike's wrist. "Stop. I'm gonna...I'm gonna..."
Spike's hand doesn't slow, and his voice turns silky. "Come," he says. And Xander does, a tumble into mindless pleasure, and he keeps coming, thick, spattering ropes of it, until he's a jellied, quivering weight on Spike's shoulder.
When he's breathing again, when thoughts begin to cohere, when he's sensate, Spike's hands are stroking his back, and once more, they're strangely gentle.
"You with me, mate?" Spike asks, laughing; but it's not a Spike-laugh, not a laugh that's a precursor to the infliction of mental torture. It's more a laugh meant to be shared by two people who've just done something fucking fantastic together, so Xander laughs, too. He straightens a little, and as he does, his leg nudges against Spike's dick. Spike swallows, hard, that's all. He's waiting to see what Xander does next.
Xander knows he has to return the favor, which isn't really a favor, because he wants to do it. But he feels anxious and clumsy as he reaches down, cupping Spike in his hand. Spike lets loose a long, "Mmmmmm," and his hips hitch forward, and Xander's nervousness ebbs a little. He rubs and squeezes and Spike moans again and starts pushing harder. Just a layer of cloth between his hand and a dick that isn't his, and the thought is both frightening and hot, but hot wins out. Xander tries to unbutton Spike's jeans, but it's difficult, because Spike has plastered himself to Xander's thigh, and why the hell is he wearing a belt, and the pants are fucking tight; so eventually Spike takes over and pulls himself out. Xander draws in a breath, reaches, and there it is, this is it, he's touching another man's dick. It's not quite as scary as he thought, and he tries a few tentative strokes, but something feels off and his hand stills.
"What is it?" Spike asks, tightly, and his muscles are taut with restraint.
"Sorry," Xander says, awkward now. "It's just...kinda weird. Another guy's...you know...like I'm doing it sorta in reverse or something."
Spike's head snaps back to stare at him. "Are you...you're saying...you mean to tell me you've never been with a bloke before?" Shocked, like Xander's said something truly bizarre: I don't like chocolate, or, there's no such thing as vampires. Xander shakes his head.
"Shoulda told me," Spike mutters. "I'd've..." He trails off. Neither of them says anything for a minute, and then Spike smiles a little, and then a little more, until it's a full-on grin. "C'mon," he says, beckoning with a tilt of his head.
He follows Spike through a door in the floor, down a ladder, to a kind of basement. Xander's been in the crypt once or twice before, but he didn't know about this room. There's a bed, and rugs, and even a nightstand, holding a clogged ashtray, a reading lamp, and a book, splayed open, face down. Spike notices Xander's curious expression as he takes in the surroundings. "What?" he asks. He sounds oddly defensive.
"It's just...almost normal. Nice. You know, setting aside the whole final-resting-place thing."
"We don't sleep in coffins, Harris," Spike scoffs, and then shrugs. "Least, not if we don't have to."
Spike strips off his shirt in an easy, fluid motion that makes the muscles in his abs and chest and arms flex and ripple. In a way that strippers would envy. In a way that makes Xander start to harden again, though the phenomenon defies basic physiology. Spike's pants are shed and tossed in a corner, and now Xander is self-conscious about the prospect of getting naked, because Spike is like some ideal of the male body that's never actually been achieved in anyone else. Hard and lean and sinewy; skin pale and gleaming as moonlit marble; everything perfectly proportioned. His dick is big -- not freaky, porn-star big, but definitely in the upper percentile of dick-bigness. Uncut, leaking, so stiff it's practically bobbing against his flat belly. Xander can't stop staring, eyes wide, mouth open. He's never seen a body speak so bluntly of its desire -- for him. No need for guesswork, or fumbled questions -- do you mean? are you ready? -- because Spike's body is unequivocal. It says: I. Want. You. Xander feels suddenly like a sex object, in the best possible way. An incredible turn-on, and blood travels in a rush to his groin.
"Let's get your kit off, yeah?" Spike says, giving Xander a come-hither look that makes Xander come-hither. He starts to pull off Xander's shirt, fingers spidering over his waist, his ribs, tracing goosebumps onto his skin, making him tremble. Xander reaches his arms over his head like a little kid, but he doesn't feel like a little kid, because Spike is rubbing his chest against Xander's, and then mouthing and licking him there. Spike's lips are cool, and his tongue is cool, and his hands are cool; but heat flares everywhere he touches, a snaking trail of flame. And once Xander's out of his jeans and boxers, he's not self-conscious anymore, because Spike is looking at him with eyes that are lustful and admiring.
"Get on the bed," Spike says. Almost an order, and Xander obeys, zombie-like, tripping over his feet and groping blindly until he's sitting up against the headboard. Spike begins to touch himself, a few long, lazy pulls, and Xander feels a swimming light-headedness, and has to close his eyes. When he opens them again, Spike is on the bed, too, and he settles himself between Xander's legs, back to Xander's chest. Naked, in bed, touching from head to toe, and he's imagined doing this, exactly this; imagined all that cool, smooth skin against his, and Spike's hair tickling his neck, his cheek. Xander runs his hands up Spike's forearms, his biceps, his shoulders; over his chest and down, down; fingertips brushing against Spike's pubic hair, softer than his own, and Spike's sigh burrows into him, like need.
"I want," Xander chokes out. "I want..."
"You want this?" Spike murmurs, as if it's a question, and takes Xander's hand, curling it around his dick.
Yeah, Xander thinks. This, this, this.
"Like it's you," Spike says, and Xander gets it. He starts, and it's easier, familiar, it's movements that are ingrained in him from years of practice, he knows how to do this. And he likes it -- the feel of Spike's dick, thick and heavy in his hand, its urgent, searching thrust. Jerking Spike the way he jerks himself, fingers coiled firmly, cupping the head on the upstroke, and letting his calloused palm rasp over the tip. His own dick is fully awake, nerves tingling and sending out sparks inside him; and he wants to fuck something; has to fuck something; just needs to fuck, the way Spike is fucking Xander's fist, making low, encouraging noises. Spike's rhythm is slightly different than his own, so he adjusts to it, and gets rewarded with a drawn-out, sibilant hiss; and the sound makes him buck and slide his dick up along Spike's back.
"That's it, rub off on me," Spike mutters. "Come all over me."
He almost does, at the words, hips leaping and stuttering; but then, unexpectedly, Spike stills himself, and pats Xander's thigh, as if he's telling Xander, take you're time, whenever you're ready. Xander can't wait, though, he really can't. He's shoving up against Spike, and Spike raises himself a little, palms on the bed, thrusting backward against Xander's dick and forward into his hand. And they're moving together like that for a while, easy at first, and it gradually gets more and more heated, until Spike gasps out, "Harder, yeah?" Xander tightens his grip, speeding up, twisting his wrist; and Spike makes a strangled noise. Xander's dick is slipping wetly against Spike's back; and hot little tremors travel up his legs and down his spine, melting and pooling there; and then he heaves up and comes again, streaks of white on Spike's white skin. He's half-sobbing, "Fuck, Spike, fuck," but his hand never stops moving; and then Spike's muscles go rigid, and his whole body spasms, flipping him sideways, and he spills, with a fierce, full-throated cry. His come isn't warm, like Xander's, but it's not cold either. Xander's fingers go unthinkingly to his mouth. Spike tastes sharp and salty and fine.
He's out for a while, and he's not sure for how long, or if Spike sleeps, too, but when he wakes, he's hard, and so is Spike. They do it again, Spike braced above him, their dicks slicked up and sliding against each other. And he didn't know, couldn't have known, but still, how can he have gone his whole life without feeling this? This pure delirium of skin on skin, and he's drugged and dazed with it; greedy for it.
Spike angles his hips, dipping down, surging up. “How’s that?” he asks, a gleeful growl, and Xander's only answer is to writhe and squirm and clutch at Spike, furiously, anywhere he can reach. Using his teeth and his fists, and it's okay, because he can't hurt Spike, he can't; and Spike's face is beautiful, contorted in ecstasy. Spike holds them together in his hand; and he's breathing, but Xander isn't; and then Spike's words, an unrelenting chant: "Good, it's good, it's so fucking good. Tell me, tell me, tell me it's good." Xander can't speak, he's trying, but there are only gasps, until finally he manages "good," in a gravelly whisper. But good doesn't come close to describing what this is. He'd need a new vocabulary for that, or a whole new language; or maybe it defies description, because no one has ever felt it until this moment.
Afterward, coming down, when his body's still buzzing, when Spike is a slack-boned blanket atop him, when his fingers are absently tracing elliptical lines across Spike's back, he thinks, fleetingly, that if Spike were a woman, they'd be kissing now. But he's not, and they don't, and Xander wouldn't change a single thing about what's happened tonight, not one thing. Not a glance, not a word, not a touch.
Part 3 here: http://baudown.livejournal.com/8137.html