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: More smut -- this chapter is front-loaded with it. Then it calms down a little.
Part 1 here:http://baudown.livejournal.com/7497.html
Part 2 here:http://baudown.livejournal.com/7716.html#cutid1
They don't talk about it, afterward. It's not necessary. They both know that it will happen again, that it has to. The week passes, but not fast enough, damn it, crawling sluggishly forward at its own stubborn pace. Too much time to think. Guilt makes it's presence known, of course: an accusing knock knock knock at his door, the rebuking call of his name. It waits impatiently for Xander to listen, to answer, to stop. But he doesn't, he won't. Because he wants this. He wants it. Wants something for himself, selfishly, and why not? Why not now? Why not him? And so he simply covers his ears, la-la-la, I-can't-hear-you, until the guilty static recedes, quieting to a faint, white noise. Sometimes, he doesn't notice it at all.
When the second Thursday comes, Spike is on him, ravenous, before he even steps inside. Pulling him through the door, pushing him into a chair. Brusque and eager, not even a word spoken between them, just Spike's hasty hands, stripping him of his pants. Spike's head dipping down, showing the bare curve of his neck. Spike's mouth.
It's the first time Spike blows him, and Xander nearly comes before it happens. Worried that he's making a habit of that, and that Spike may run out of patience. But -- it's the sight of Spike folding to his knees, on his knees at Xander's feet. Spike gazing up at him, glassy-eyed. Spike on his knees. For me, for me, for me, Xander thinks. He feels the sensation creeping up his legs, and then higher, a warning, and he can't look anymore, or it's over. He drags his eyes away, a gargantuan effort of will, and he grasps his dick, hard, at the base.
"Just...just give me a second," he breathes.
Spike grunts his assent, but Xander can feel the tension in his waiting, the roiling pressure of pent-up lust. And it takes more than a second, but his usual silent litany -- naming all his teachers, from nursery school on up, and then a second time -- does the trick. He fits his hand to the back of Spike's neck, thumbing the soft nape, drawing him near.
And then there's the firm, wet curl of Spike's tongue, honing his dick to sharp-edged hardness, pleasure knifing cleanly through him. Long, smooth swipes, from his balls to the tip, and teasing circles around the head. Flicking in and out along the length of him; then lapping, rough and insistent. A hand gliding up and down the spit-slick shaft, squeezing, and Xander spreads his legs wide, and wider, sinking lower in the chair. His head falls to the side, and he hears his breathing turn to panting. Everything feels charged and hot. His dick is leaking in a steady stream, and Spike rubs the fluid over his lips.
"How you taste," Spike murmurs. Xander looks down at Spike's hovering mouth, and he's desperate to be inside it. And then he is, hips lifting, and as he's losing himself in the perfect, sucking wetness, there's a thought: different, when someone really, really wants it. There's nothing here that's part of an unspoken quid pro quo, a negotiation. No concession to someone else's pleasure. No service being bartered for something in return. He can feel that Spike loves doing this; that he's getting off on it. He can see it, in the helpless flutter of Spike's dark lashes, in the pleading flex of his hips. He can hear it, in the lush, dirty noises Spike's mouth is making around him. He's watching his dick slide in and out of that mouth, disappearing into its swallowing pressure; he's gripping Spike's hair and thrusting with total, blissful abandon. And he's not thinking of anything at all, when he comes, deep in Spike's throat, moaning his name; doesn't have to think. Not about holding back, or being careful, or respectful, because Spike wants this as much as he does. Maybe more, because -- because, yeah, Spike's coming, Spike's coming, his hands not on himself, but on Xander, where they've been the whole time.
"My god," Xander says, blearily, some time later.
"One good blow job and I'm a deity." Spike grins lewdly up at him.
It's precisely the kind of snarky Spike shit that would usually annoy him. But right now, he finds it...funny. Strangely sweet. Amazing, how the most irritating qualities appear charming through the gauze of post-coital contentment. It's what allowed him to fall in love with Anya, really. It's what's making him smile at the sight of Spike's hair, all in disarray, bright tufts sprouting like crazy weeds. The mussed hair somehow smooths out the angled facets of his face, giving him an open, boyish air; and Xander understands now why he slicks it back. He doesn't look menacing, like this, and Xander thinks, I did that to him.
He doesn't quite get it though -- the appeal of being the giver of that particular pleasure, rather than the receiver. Doesn't get why Spike gets off on doing it. That is, until they're back in bed, grinding against each other, and he feels the weight of Spike's hand, pushing him decidedly downward; and then Spike says, hoarsely: suck me. It's part request and part command, and Xander feels a whole new wave of desire crash through him, turning his limbs to water.
"Say it again," Xander whispers, begging in a shameful way that excites him even more.
"Suck me, Xander."
It's almost a growl, and it's those words, and it's his first name, for the first time, and he hears a high, keening sound, and it's him.
Xander crawls backward between Spike's legs, spreading him open at the knees and just looking. Surveying the territory, so to speak, because he's not really sure where to start. He knows how this should work in theory -- well, duh -- but as a practical matter he's a little less confident. Spike's dick suddenly seems enormous, and daunting. There's no way that's fitting in his mouth.
"Sometime this century, yeah?" Spike says, and puts a hand to the back of Xander's head. An oddly reassuring touch -- not really holding him there, just gently urging -- and it calms him. But then Xander must want something different, because he's saying harder, make me; and Spike says, oh, yeah, his hand tightening, shoving Xander's face further down, sparking another matchstick flare of arousal. He rubs his cheek against Spike's dick, which twitches in response. And okay, he's on the right track, so he rubs his whole face against it, feeling satiny skin, and movement underneath; and suddenly, he goes a little nuts, rubbing his face everywhere, wildly, over Spike's thighs, his belly, his hair. Sniffing hard to get the scent of him -- faint, like turned earth, and ashes.
"In for a penny," Xander mutters into Spike's pointy hip, and Spike laughs; but the laugh skids into a groan, because Xander's licking him -- experimentally at first, and then eagerly, fast and flat-tongued. Xander's mouth is wet, and his dick is wet, and he stretches out on his stomach, wriggling to get some friction. Spike's hips come up, and Xander hears him start to breathe; and it's fucking hot, getting Spike breathing like that; and when he looks, Spike's head is rolling heavily from side to side, and his face is slack with lust.
It makes him want more, and he opens his mouth wide, hungry, sucking, tasting iron and salt. Taking Spike in as deep as he can, which he knows isn't that that deep, but hey, first time; and what he lacks in skill, he's making up for in enthusiasm, because he's loving it: the solid weight of Spike's dick on his tongue, the slick slip-slide of it between his lips, the persistent, prodding rasp along the roof of his mouth. Loves the animal sounds he's pulling from Spike's throat, and the rise and fall of his body. It's good, all of it so good, that he doesn't care when his jaw begins to ache and his eyes sting with tears, or even when he chokes a little. Spike's hands tangle in Xander's hair, twisting, just this side of painful, changing the rhythm, forward, faster. He's saying something, pinched out words in a strained voice, unintelligible except for Xander's name. And then Spike's hips hitch and lock, and he's thrashing, he's coming. Coming in Xander's mouth, and Xander keeps at it, he doesn't pull away, doesn't want to pull away. Swallowing and coughing, and when Spike stops flailing, Xander crawls on top of him, thrusting his dick along the perfect crease of Spike's wet thigh, coming in one, two, three quick strokes.
It's some time before either of them speaks. "Full of surprises, aren't you, pet," Spike says, and that's all. But Xander guesses it means he did okay.
Later, Xander glances up from gathering his scattered clothes, and catches Spike staring at him. He's still in bed, a naked, casual sprawl, but his gaze is as shrewd and calculating as a card-sharp's.
"What?" Xander asks, cautiously.
Spike shrugs. "Didn't figure you for a natural," he says. And then he breaks into a radiant smile. "Reckon I was wrong about that."
And it's like the weirdest thing in the history of ever, but Spike is -- Spike is paying him a compliment. Spike is complimenting him on his dick-sucking abilities. Spike is complimenting him on a (blow) job well-done, and what's even weirder is that Xander feels his chest puffing up, and he's blushing like he's -- proud, maybe? Which, no, it's too bizarre, embarrassing, and he needs to shake it off before Spike sees.
"I live to serve," he says, aiming for jokey, but it somehow comes out low and serious-sounding. And maybe it's the tone, or maybe it's the words, but Spike's eyes go all cloudy, and his dick is turning dark and stiff, and Xander's mouth begins to water. Like Pavlov's fucking dog, but who cares, that dog knew what it wanted, and so does he. He wants it right now, again, but it's late, nearly midnight, and he has to go.
"Don't worry, pet," Spike says, slinking toward him with predatory ease. His voice honey-thick, and Xander feels he could drown in it.
"We'll be quick," Spike adds, nodding toward the floor, and Xander's going under, taking one deep breath, dropping blindly to his knees, and then he's gone.
He gets it, after that. Spends a lot of time thinking about having Spike's dick in his mouth. Spends a lot of time having Spike's dick in his mouth, because it's all he wants to do, for a while. Crowding Spike up against walls, flinging him onto the bed, shoving him into chairs. Burying his face between Spike's legs, mouthing him through his pants, starving for him. Sucking Spike's dick as Xander fists himself, or rubs off in the sheets. Twisting gymnastically to clamp Spike's leg between his and humping it as he swallows. "Like a fucking bitch in heat," Spike murmurs, but fondly. "You bloody...cocksucking...bastard," Spike hisses, right before he comes, and it sounds like an endearment.
That's how it is at the beginning, hectic and hurried, a pace Xander associates with passion. So he's not surprised, when, after a few weeks, the tempo changes, slowing. He thinks, what goes up, must come down, and this holds true for passion, too -- this kind of fire can't sustain itself. But he quickly discovers that he's very much mistaken -- the fire isn't dying. It's simply finding new outlets, flames rising not only to the ceiling, but curling down hallways, creeping through doors, licking deep into dark closets. Spike is taking his time.
Spike is taking his time, and making Xander take his time. Exploring Xander's body languorously, leisurely, a slow, slow build of sensation. Denying him release -- not yet, not yet, not yet -- until Xander is unthinking and incoherent. Until he's just a body, begging. Until Spike finally whispers, now, now, come for me now, unleashing orgasms of such intensity that Xander's left nearly shattered in their wake.
Spike's taking his time to study Xander's body. Learning the meaning behind each sigh and grunt and moan. Learning what he likes, what he likes even more, what he likes more than that. Learning what he dislikes, and finding ways to make him like that, too.
There's the nipple thing, for example.
See, Xander's never liked having his nipples touched. Physically, it just doesn't do much for him. He's not especially sensitive there; but worse, there's something about having his nipples played with that makes him feel -- childish. Unmanly, somehow. The whole nipple thing just turns him off, shuts him down, and every time Spike goes there, Xander pushes him wordlessly away. But Spike's a persistent bastard, and he won't give up trying, until Xander's forced to say it aloud, protesting feebly, "I don't...I really don't ..."
"Yeah, I know," Spike says. "But let me, won't you? Not for you. For me."
And okay, he's not a selfish guy. If Spike wants this so bad, he should probably just suck it up and take one for the team. He sighs, resigning himself to it. "Go to town," he says, waving an arm magnanimously at his chest.
Spike pushes him flat, and Xander laces his hands behind his head. "Lie back and think of England," Spike says, grinning.
Xander isn't familiar with the expression, but he figures he's been given permission to space out while Spike gets his weird nipple groove on; and so he does, waiting out Spike's fingers and mouth and wondering whether the rain will hold off long enough to get the new foundation laid; and if the lumberyard over by Broad Street is more reliable than Martinson's; and is there enough milk in the house for both cereal and coffee in the morning.
Under the circumstances, he's using the time pretty productively, until he gets distracted by that loud huffing noise, and huh, it's coming from him. His breathing's gotten heavy at some point; he's panting, in fact. Plus, there's this warm feeling, rolling all through him, and it gets hotter and hotter, and oh, yeah, he's hard. He lifts his head, chin brushing Spike's hair, and he can see that Spike has his tongue on one nipple and his fingers on the other, and no question, that's the source of the heat, right there. Like a live wire running straight to his dick, surging and humming, making it throb. He's aching to be touched, but when he reaches for himself, Spike bats his hand away. Xander's hips are straining to come off the bed, but he's weighted down by Spike's leg, slung heavily over his; and so he arches and twists, trying to rub off on Spike's body, anywhere, but Spike won't let him. He just keeps up the slow, steady torture of stroking and pinching and licking and sucking; keeps it up for a fucking eternity, until finally, finally, he skims his fingertips lightly up Xander's dick and palms the head, which is all it takes. Xander comes, with a startled yelp, bouncing so hard he nearly throws Spike off the bed.
When he surfaces from that muzzy gray nowhere, Spike is rocking against his leg, relaxed and languid; but Xander feels the broad smirk against his shoulder, like a stifled: told you so.
"Yeah, yeah, okay," Xander answers, a grudging, pleasure-won concession. And then he turns on his side, reaching down; and his hand is too busy with Spike's dick, and his mind too blissfully blank to contemplate how it is that Spike understands Xander's desire so much better than he does himself.
Things go on like that, week after week, and it's all amazing, everything they do.
It's heady and thrilling and gratifying to a degree Xander's never known; it's euphoria. And if, occasionally, he worries that he's never felt this with Anya, or with any woman, he simply pushes the intruding thought aside. Tells himself it's not fair to make comparisons, that it's apples and oranges. Although, not such a great analogy, because, hey, both tasty in a fruit salad. More accurately, it's familiar ground versus unexplored terrain. Female versus male, each to be appreciated in its own, particular way. These are legitimate points, sound arguments, beliefs necessary to maintain a dual existence. Which he's got to maintain, because losing either half of the equation is unthinkable.
There are signs, of course. If he were paying attention, there are things he would notice, even from the beginning. Like how Spike starts patrolling with them more often, pitching in for a price, or the fun of a fight. Or how he starts keeping food around, after Xander half-jokes that there's nothing but blood in the fridge, and, news flash, humans get hungry after sex. Or that Spike no longer eye-rolls or ignores him when he speaks, but instead, makes listening noises as Xander babbles on about half his crew showing up drunk after lunch; or the latest episode of Futurama; or his most recent fight with Anya. Or when one Friday evening, Spike surreptitiously slips Xander his wallet, inadvertently left at the crypt the night before, glancing hurriedly away when Xander blinks up, dumbfounded at finding most of the money still inside.
Other things, he does notice. He lives his life in two distinct places, two clearly defined compartments: real life, and Spike-life. But the lines begin to blur, or move, or something, because Spike-life gradually encroaches, coming closer and closer, catching him unawares. He doesn't try to deny it: the power of their attraction, the intensity of his desire, and he decides that these moments are simply that -- raw, animal lust -- and that he needs to be more vigilant, more guarded. Calming himself with the comforting thought that this can be controlled. But it can't be, and over time, he's taught that lesson, again and again.
Bent to one knee on the floor of the Magic Box, back to the door as he works a stubborn knot in his shoelace, Xander hears the announcing jangle of the shopkeeper's bell; and he doesn't need a voice or a visual to know who's just entered. He vibrates with it, like a tuning fork pitched perfectly to the key of Spike. The reverberations so strong, he has to flatten his shaking hands to the floor to keep from tipping over.
At work one bright morning, and Paul is grousing about his younger brother, the fuck-up, and semi-apologizing that he might be showing up at the site to borrow money, again. Xander nods, barely paying mind, but a few minutes later, an old beater blaring Rancid screeches to a stop by the cement mixer. The kid steps out, bottle-blonde, leather jacketed, cigarette dangling from his pouting lower lip. One glimpse, and Xander's rock hard. He's forced to make a quick exit, jogging away, painfully, purposefully, to jerk off in the smelly confines of the Port-O-San.
All of them at Giles's, hours of unsuccessful research, and Xander pushes back from the table, tired, disgruntled, fingers pressing hard at his temples.
"Bugger this," he says.
All at once, every set of eyes in the room is on him, and Buffy laughs, "Get you with the British. Spike must be rubbing off on you."
The unintended double-entendre sparks sudden heat, blood flushing his face, rushing to his dick. And when he risks a glance, Spike's face is half-hidden behind a book, but he's grinning with lunatic delight.
They're patrolling one night, and the vamp they're tracking is a fast and wily fucker, so they've split up, and Xander's with Spike. Skirting a statue of two ascending angels, Spike stops abruptly, listening for a trace of its tread; Xander, oblivious, plows clumsily into him. The briefest contact, and lust gathers and rolls through him, sudden as a summer storm. He's drenched in it. One arm circles Spike's waist; the other snakes across his chest, tugging Spike back against him. He buries his face in Spike's neck, breathing him in, and breathing out with a groan. Spike's hands are scrabbling at the sides of Xander's thighs, and his head drops back on Xander's shoulder. And then something scuttles by them, and they hear Buffy shout: "That way!" They unlatch limbs, hastily, and just in time, because Buffy's right there, passing them at a sprint, turning toward them, without stopping, to yell, "Come on! Why are you just standing there?"
Sometimes, without warning, he flashes on something -- Spike's fingers grazing his scalp in that way that makes him tingle down to his toes; Spike bending over him, face feral, joyful, stroking himself and coming on Xander's belly; the feel of Spike's tongue on the back of his knee, soft and teasing and wet -- the sensations so powerful, so palpable, so present, that the real world turns distant and dull.
Sometimes, just the thought, I'm getting away with it -- a gleeful, guilty whisper inside his head -- is enough to make him hard.
The threat of being found out is ever-present; and it's dangerous, and terrifying, and exhilarating. Rushing recklessly toward detection, and then, a timid, tiptoed retreat. There's a constant, unspoken negotiation about where the uncrossable line really lies.
Spike is careful never to leave marks, even ones that wouldn't hurt. But Xander can feel his leashed desire, the trembling effort of holding back. A hand abruptly retracted, as if touched by sunlight. Teeth, grazing over flesh, hesitating, and then, the wrenching turn of his head. Resisting some innate urge, a craving, to see himself on Xander's skin. Xander's pretty sure the chip wouldn't fire over scratches, or hickies, or the speckled bruises of a too-tight grip; and he’s also pretty sure Anya would spot them in a second. He's never asked for Spike to rein himself in like this, but he's grateful for the consideration.
One night, when Spike is tracing his tongue along Xander's inner thigh, nuzzling at the tender flesh, gnawing just a little, Xander hears him gasp, and feels a sharp jerk as Spike tears himself away. He opens his eyes, and sees Spike, still human-faced, teeth sunk into his own forearm, rocking mindlessly, like a man lost in prayer.
He's stunned by it: the depth of Spike's self-imposed self-denial. Wonders what it would be like if Spike truly let himself go. Xander has never experienced sex as untamed and intense and extreme as this, and it's nearly impossible to imagine anything surpassing it. Almost frightening, to contemplate what more would mean.
What he chooses not to think about is the cause of Spike's restraint. About the reason for this generosity; about where it comes from, or whether Xander's earned it. About the fact that Spike even has the capacity for such thoughtfulness. It happens again, from time to time: Spike, helpless to his own need, turning the bite on himself. Leaving twin, half-moon imprints, like a shadow of his longing, on a strong, white arm. There's a dark, twisting pang that comes with bearing witness to this. But the marks fade as the night passes, and the time arrives for Xander to go home.