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.
Notes: Giant chunk of smut here, bookended by a little non-smut.
Feedback: As much as you're willing to give me.
Previous parts here: http://livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=baudown&keyword=And%20All%20Was%20Said&filter=all
Being with Spike is an eye-opener. He's unfathomably creative, sexually speaking, which Xander figures comes with a hundred years of experience. Although, in terms of experience, Anya has centuries on him, and...well. So maybe Spike's just naturally gifted, because he raises even the basics to an art form. Still, they've never done IT. IT being the original and sophisticated euphemism Xander has chosen to apply when he contemplates the idea of Spike actually fucking him. Not just fucking around, but fucking-fucking. Being fucked. The whole enchilada. The real deal.
There have been a few times when Xander's thought IT was about to happen. Like when Spike's dick is riding the cleft of Xander's ass, rocking him with slow, sliding strokes that turn harder, probing, insistent. Spike's need so dense and palpable that Xander feels it, like one of those auras Willow and Tara talk about, an entity pulsing with its own ardent demand. But Spike never yields to compulsion. Stopping short, fighting momentum, like a man pinwheeling precipitously at the crumbling edge of a cliff.
At first, Xander's relieved, when IT doesn't happen. He's not ready for IT yet; not sure he ever will be. He's curious, though, at Spike's determined avoidance; and over time, his relief is tinged with a vague disappointment. And disappointment turns to dissatisfaction, as he comes to sense a corresponding desire in himself.
IT isn't something he wants to talk about, and he wouldn't know what to say if he did. But the next time Spike reluctantly inches away, Xander reaches an arm back to hold him in place. Pulls Spike's hip forward, and presses deliberately against him. Spike stills, his dick throbbing persistently in the crease of Xander's ass, the rest of him gone rigid.
"You can," Xander offers, haltingly. "I mean, it's okay with me, I guess."
Spike rolls onto his back, so they're not touching. "I can't," he says, and there's something like shame in his voice.
Xander hasn't anticipated conversation, and he's hot and hard, so the timing sucks. But he turns, resigned, and props himself up on an elbow. "Why not?" he asks, and then, with a prickle of comprehension: "Are you...are you worried about me? Because it's gonna hurt?"
"Because it's gonna hurt me," Spike says.
It clicks, then, and he remembers, with a sorry pang: the chip. And, oh, the indignity of it; the humiliation Spike must feel, having been diminished in this way. He wishes he could squash those Initiative bastards, all over again, this time purely on Spike's behalf. It's maddening, infuriating, and he realizes he's angry for himself, too. It's only then that he feels the certainty of what he wants; and the bone-deep dismay of being denied it.
"Oh," he says, trying manfully to keep his voice regret-free, because he's damned if he's going to make Spike feel even worse. "Hey, listen, forget about it. It's no big." But a moment later, he can't help adding, "So -- no way, huh?"
Spike sits up, cross-legged, looking at Xander earnestly. "Well, I think we might do. See, if we just..." And the words spill out in an eager torrent as he describes an elaborate scheme for accomplishing the act with a minimum of pain. Those lucid hands darting here and there as he gestures and mimes, sketching the details, illustrating the finer points, drawing diagrams in the air. He reminds Xander of nothing so much as an eight-year-old excitedly explaining a project for the science fair. In fact, he reminds Xander of a specific eight-year-old: Willow, her trebly voice ringing out, reporting to the class about Saturn, and Mars, pointing animatedly at paper mâché planets the size of her head.
The difference is that Spike's enthusiasm isn't focused on the solar system, but on the singular science of how to fuck Xander, and it's too much. Xander feels the laughter take shape and balloon inside his chest, rising to his throat, threatening imminent escape. He can't let it loose -- not when Spike is so serious and fired up and purposeful -- and he swallows it down, hard. But there's nothing he can do about the smile that's making its presence known, twitching at corners of his mouth.
Spike doesn't notice at first, intent on demonstrating something with the circle of his forefinger and thumb, but when he does, he stops, mid-sentence. His hands quiet and drop defeatedly to his sides.
"What?" he asks, wanly.
"No, nothing." But he's lost the struggle for composure, and an amused grin breaks over his face. "It's just...you seem to have given this a lot of thought."
Xander can hear the wheels spinning in Spike's brain; can practically see the defensive retort, like it's written in a thought bubble bobbing above his head: Fine, fine, leave it, then, wasn't me begging to be shagged, never said a bloody thing, did I.
But Spike bites back the words, even as they're forming on his lips. He shrugs. "Well, yeah," he admits, sheepishly, not meeting Xander's eye. Xander thinks, if vampires could blush, Spike's face would be scarlet right now.
He pauses long enough to allow Spike's embarrassed discomfort to percolate, because, hey, a little Spike torture is not without its pleasures. Lets a few teasing beats go by, before he finally prompts: "So, you were saying?"
Spike looks at him, reluctantly, before launching ahead. "I reckon -- you really wanting it is half the battle." He hesitates. "Do you want it?"
Spike seems so tentative, shy almost, like he's expecting Xander to say no. Like he's waiting to be disappointed. Like he's used to it. Xander feels a sudden twinge of tenderness, strong enough to take his breath. He puts his hand to Spike's face, running a thumb over the razor ridge of cheekbone.
"I want it, Spike," he says, softly. "I really do."
It's another week of waiting, and by the time Xander makes his wobbling way down the ladder, his apprehension, his unease, is like a presence in the room. Like an unwelcome visitor, intruding upon what Xander realizes is an established intimacy between them. His stomach is queasy, his palms are sweating, his second thoughts are having second thoughts. How did I get here, he wonders, and his heart gives a sideways lurch. I took a wrong turn, should have stopped for directions, wound up in the wrong part of town. But Spike is here, so it's probably all right. Or is that what's wrong? He doesn't know anymore.
Spike is sitting naked at the edge of the bed, watching Xander closely. He reaches out and takes his wrist, tugging gently, maneuvering him forward until he's standing in the v of Spike's legs. Looks up at him, and smiles.
"It's okay," he soothes, like he's talking to a skittish horse. "Know what I'm doing."
Spike taps his fingers against the top of his own thigh. "Foot," he says, and Xander obediently raises first one foot, then the other, for Spike to remove his sneakers and socks. He bends at the waist, so Spike can get at his shirt, which he strips from Xander with precise, efficient movements. He slides Xander's pants past his hips, his knees, until they're pooled at his ankles. "Lift up," Spike says, a steadying hand on the back of Xander's calf; and Xander steps out of one pant leg, and the next. Spike's commands are issued in a tone that's neutral, mild; and his hands on Xander are firm and business-like; and by the time Xander's standing in nothing but his boxers, he's slightly less jittery.
Spike strokes his hands up the back of Xander's thighs and over his ass. He reaches up and smooths a hand down the center of Xander's chest, his stomach, fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. His other hand kneads the flesh over Xander's hipbone for a moment, and then moves lower to stroke the soft skin of his inner thighs. Xander trembles.
"Shh," Spike whispers. "Easy."
His thumb grazes the head of Xander's dick, lightly, lightly, through the thin cotton. Barely moving, so light, it's excruciating. Xander rocks forward, he wants more contact, but Spike takes his thumb away, and stops him with a strong hand at each hip.
"No," he says. "Be still. Be quiet."
Spike's voice isn't raised. His tone is patient and matter-of-fact. But there's a vein of unbendable steel that runs through the words, foreclosing protest. Xander feels those words, like blood, throbbing in his dick.
Spike's hand returns, fingertips barely touching him through the cloth, up and down his shaft, over the head, under his balls, behind them. Xander doesn't move, and he doesn't make a sound, but it's like all that suppressed sound and movement flow into his dick, seething and pulsing there, and then radiating out. He's shivering, as if he's cold, but his skin is boiling hot; he's boiling inside, too, and the heat is leaking from him. He sees through slitted eyes, Spike fingering the damp spot on Xander's shorts.
"Nice," Spike murmurs. "Wet for me."
Spike takes his hand away, and Xander's eyes fly open, but he still doesn't move or speak, and Spike glances up at him, not smiling, exactly, but pleased.
"Very good, pet," he says, and there's not steel in his voice anymore, there's something alive and prowling in it. Spike slips the boxers partway down, exposing just the head of Xander's dick, and bends forward until his mouth is not quite on it. Xander's in agony, waiting to feel him there; but instead of touch, there are words. Spike is looking at his dick, like he's talking to it. Crooning to it.
"I love this cock, you know. Do you know? That I love it? Love everything about it. How it looks when it's ready for me, when it's hard and twitching for me. How it fits in my hand, the taste of it. God, the taste of it. There's nothing tastes like that, I fucking crave it. Love what it does to me, the feel of it against me, against my cock, between my legs. Want it all the time. Want it in my mouth, sucking it, all the time. Want it all over me, everywhere, want it rubbing off on my face, in my hair."
And Spike means it, Xander feels how much he means it. No one's ever burned for his body with such single-minded intensity. There's a groan rising up in his throat, and he tries to smother it. He's shivering madly, with pleasure, and with the effort of control, and his breath is coming in short, rapid bursts.
"That's how it is, you see? How it is for you, too, isn't it? How you feel about my cock? How you fucking love it. Can't think about anything else. The way you look at it, the way you hold it, the way you suck it, like you adore it. 'Cause you do, don't you?"
And it's true, Xander knows it's true. As if those are Xander's words on Spike's lips; as if Spike's spirited them out of his head. True, because he's felt it, on his skin, and with his hands, and in his mouth. He makes an inarticulate, garbled sound, but Spike seems to understand.
"That's right. Yeah, that's right. Live for it. Need it, like air, don't you? Need it everywhere. Need my cock like I need yours. Want it inside you, 'course you do. Want it fucking you, fucking you. I can feel how much you want it. My cock, inside you, fucking you. Gonna give it to you, all of it, so fucking deep, where you fucking need it. Just ask me, pet, and I'll make you scream. Just tell me, and it's yours. Say the words, that's all."
Xander does: "Fuck me, Spike." Spike shoves his boxers down, and then the hand is back, no, two hands, one pressing right there, behind his balls, the other stroking and squeezing his dick. And god, that's it, he's coming, and when he's done, Spike tongues him clean, like a cat. He has a fuzzy notion that he's being moved; and by the time he partially gathers his wits, he's already on the bed, loose-boned, blissed-out. He can't do anything but smile dopily as Spike touches him. Giving his body over to Spike's hands, to the strength in them; to Spike's hands, turning him over, spreading his legs, arranging his limbs. Xander's ready, now. It's time.
The thing is, he's tried this before, or an approximation of it, with Anya. But Anya's sharp-nailed fingers had been nervous and hesitant; and her mouth had balked and retreated. And when he'd turned his head to see her fumbling with the embarrassing apparatus, the whole thing had just seemed sad and silly and wrong. Desire fled him, and when their eyes caught, he'd seen it was the same for her. They'd relegated the thing to the back of the bedroom closet, and chalked it up as a failed experiment.
But Spike's fingers aren't hesitant, and his mouth is eager. His mouth is doing things that turn Xander hot and melting; that start him rumbling, like a revving engine. The tip of a tongue, teasing wetly against him, inside him, and then the whole tongue, hard and probing, and each slippery thrust feels like it's going to spin Xander into a million flying pieces. He's moaning, Spike, Spike, and Spike answers back with his own moan, deep inside, and Xander feels the sound squirm through him; and it makes him squirm on the bed, rubbing his dick against the mattress, mindlessly humping. It's almost too much, but he wants more, and he rolls back onto Spike's tongue, and rolls back, and rolls back. He gets a hand underneath himself, clumsy around his dick, but his arm is pulled away, and Spike sits up.
Xander's body keeps moving for a few seconds, as if Spike's tongue is still there. But then he feels the absence, awful and empty, and he's almost crying, fuck, Spike, please. Spike is shifting sideways, doing something behind him, and then Spike is spreading him open, slicking him up, and working one finger into him, and then a second. Xander immediately starts rocking, and the fullness is so fucking good, it can't possibly get better. But Spike turns his fingers, and it does. It gets better than anything he's ever felt, or thought he could feel. Lights spark behind his eyelids, and his body rises off the bed, his entire body, like he's levitating. Spike does it again, and again, and Xander's clutching at the sheets; and there are sounds like words, but meaningless, pouring from him. And when Spike takes his fingers away, Xander moans, don't go, please don't go.
Spike runs a hand up his back, and leans over him, whispering, shhh. "All right, pet?" he asks. His voice like whiskey, smooth and dark.
Xander tries to speak, but he can't, and he nods his head instead.
"I think you'd better say it, pet."
"I want you," Xander croaks. "I want you to. Want you to. Fuck me."
Spike gives a short, desperate bark, but he's not wasting time, he's right there. Xander feels the slick, blunt prodding, and tenses against it at first, but Spike has told him how it's going to be, and what to do, the way to relax and loosen, so he breathes through it and thinks about how Spike's tongue felt, and his fingers, and how much he needs to feel this, too.
"Want it," he pants. "Put it in me, Spike, I want it."
Spike pushes, hard, and he's in; and fuck, it burns, it fucking hurts. He doesn't want to yell, but a pained grunt escapes him. Spike is making terrible, anguished noises, and Xander knows the chip is firing and it must be ghastly. And he wants it to stop, for Spike, so he bears down and pushes back, the way Spike said, until Spike's all the way in. And he's praying that this will get better, but it doesn't, it doesn't, it doesn't, until, suddenly, it does. The pain seems to curl in on itself, growing tighter and smaller, and then it unfurls into an altogether different feeling. Not pain, any longer, but something unfamiliar, skirting a wavery line between pain and pleasure; and he needs to cross the line; needs to be in the next place, and his body knows how to get there, opening to Spike, and then closing around him. Spike's cries ebb into low whimpers, and then stop entirely, and then he's saying, so fucking tight, and he's saying, god, oh, god. And then he begins moving inside Xander, stroking him there, on the inside; slow and deep, fast and shallow, one angle after another, and they're all amazing. So amazing that Xander can't believe it, and for some reason, he starts to laugh, and Spike is laughing too, because who could believe that anything could ever feel this fucking good, and what else is there to do but laugh about it?
His body shakes with laughter, and then it just shakes, or really, quakes. Like an earthquake, a huge and seismic force of nature that’s shifting the ground beneath him, rocking the foundation inside him, making him crumble and fall apart; only somehow it’s putting him back together, too, different, and better. He can hear Spike's cracked whisper, and the words break off and float all around him: I'm in you, I'm in you, I'm in you. There's a feeling, a tingly, cresting, on-the-verge feeling, only it's not in his dick, it's somewhere new, somewhere way down that he's never felt. He’s going to come like this, yeah, just from this, he doesn’t need friction, doesn’t need a hand, doesn’t need anything touching his dick, because he's being touched, everywhere, from the inside. And when he’s just about to let go, Spike’s hand is there, anyway; and his voice, saying, yeah, and, fuck, and, Xander, Xander. Bright light behind his eyes, and muffled sounds like singing, and he’s coming, coming, coming, but it's so much more than coming; it's Spike's hand on him, Spike's voice saying his name, Spike's dick inside him, still moving, still moving in him and moving something inside him. It's about being fucked, about being fucked and opened up and gutted and exposed; it's terrifying and euphoric and irrevocable; and it's not only in his body, it's in his head, and Spike didn’t tell him about that part, which is maybe the best part of all.
Xander drifts for a bit, in a stoned, slackened stupor, and it's only when Spike rolls them onto their sides that it registers: Spike’s still inside him, and Spike is still hard. He hasn’t come yet, but he doesn’t move, other than to nuzzle at the back of Xander's neck, licking at the sweat drying there. Xander feels content in his body, with Spike in his body. He feels like he's been fucked to heaven and back, and he tells Spike this, and Spike answers with a smile against Xander's neck and the slightest push inside. Xander arches back, and with a long, aah, like he’s sinking into a hot bath, Spike starts again, easy and unhurried.
He keeps on like that, as if he could go on forever, just lazily rocking inside Xander’s warmth, a hand on Xander’s heart, measuring it’s beat. Waiting for it to speed up again, for Xander's dick to flush and stiffen with blood again. It takes a while, but not as long as Xander would have thought, if he were capable of thought; and then they're into it, really fucking again, Xander scrabbling for purchase against the sheets, trying to push back harder onto Spike's dick. Wanting to take all of it, to feel Spike in every part of him. Shifting and rising to meet every stroke, and Spike pulls out for a moment, no, no, no, no, no, and maybe he shouted it, because Spike says, shh, okay, and then Xander's on his back, legs over Spike's shoulders, wide open, and Spike's there, so deep. Xander twists and lifts, searching to find that place inside; and there, and there, and there it is, jolt after jolt of blinding bliss, shivering all the way through him. Spike's hand on his dick, warm now, with Xander's own heat, wet with his come and sweat, a thumb rubbing the underside of the head, and everywhere he moves, he's met with pure pleasure.
His body heaves up in a rigid arc, and his head presses back into the mattress, mouth working like it's shaping words, but there aren't even sounds this time when he comes, just hands reaching for Spike. His legs loosen and slip from Spike's shoulders, but Spike is still going, and he keeps going, and Xander tries to stay with him, but his limbs are quivering and weak. Manages to wrap his knees slackly around Spike's jerking hips and maneuvers onto his elbows, for leverage. Gives a few answering thrusts before flopping laxly back to the mattress.
"Sorry, sorry," he slurs.
"'S'all right," Spike pants, and grabs Xander by the shins, pushing back and folding him neatly in two. Changes the rhythm, shoving way in and staying there, screwing his hips slowly, for however long it takes Xander's exhausted body to spasm despite itself. His dick wants to get hard again, but hello, human, and it has its limits.
"Spike," Xander groans, "I can't keep...how long can you..."
"Don't wanna, don't wanna stop." Spike is breathing hard -- huge, ragged, unneeded breaths. "I love...fucking you, Xander. You feel so fucking good. So good to me."
"You...yeah...you,” Xander murmurs. "But I want...I want to feel, just want...please. Please, Spike, come in me. I want to...oh, fuck, I want to feel it."
And that does the trick, because Spike's face seizes up and his body convulses as he gives a few, final, haphazard thrusts. There's a cool, trickling wetness inside Xander, and he watches Spike go loose and liquid on the outside, too.
When Xander blinks back into wakefulness, Spike is sitting up, angled against the headboard, one arm behind his head, smoking. He stubs out the cigarette and looks down at Xander's blurry, sex-soaked smile. His own smile seems oddly cramped and cautious, though he puts out a hand to brush the hair from Xander's face. There's nothing in Xander's brain but a pleasant, swirling fog, and maybe that's why he blurts out: god, Spike, you're the best, the best; and when he hears his own words, he blushes. But for a brilliant split-second, Spike's smile bursts free, clear and refreshing as a glass of cold water. Replaced instantly, inevitably, by the twist of lemon smirk.
"'Course I am," Spike says, smugly, reaching for another cigarette. "And quit acting like a bleeding ponce."
Things change between them, after that; small, barely noticeable things. When Xander, fucked-out and spent, slips into brief, dreamless sleep, he always wakes to Spike's touch: fingers combing carelessly through his hair as Spike smokes and reads; or Spike absently bumping a thumb back and forth over Xander's knuckles, like he's soothing himself with a string of worry beads. Occasionally now, Spike allows himself to fall asleep while Xander's there, and Xander has the chance to look his fill. Head pillowed on his arm, gazing greedily at that face; thinking, no one can be this beautiful. And if Xander climbs upstairs to grab a bite to eat, he always returns with a mug of blood, and there's surprise and gratitude in Spike's face, as if he hasn't expected to be remembered; although the most he'll ever offer is a gruff thanks as he turns his head and drinks.
Things change between them, small things. Comes a Thursday when Xander is sick -- just a cold, but he's feverish and sweating and miserable. He wants nothing more than to stay tucked in bed, but a picture plants itself in his head, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't uproot it: Spike waiting, wondering, pacing in impatience. Cursing to himself and thinking Xander's blown him off. It nags at him and it won't let him rest. So he drags himself from under the piled covers, across town and to the crypt, feeling ridiculous, because, really, would Spike give one missed Thursday more than a few minutes thought?
Spike seems strangely shaken, seeing Xander's flushed face, and at the heat rising from him. Asks uneasily if it's anything to do with his lungs -- "no joke, lungs," he says --and frowns dubiously at Xander's assurances that he'll be better in a day or two. And even after Xander explains that he's incapable of doing anything more than lying down and impersonating a vegetable, Spike tells him to stay. So that's what he does, watching TV with his head nudged up against Spike's leg, sipping at a glass of pretty good whiskey, and dozing. After a while, Spike rests a hand on Xander's forehead, and keeps it there, until Xander has to leave.
Things change between them, and there are times that the thought of kissing Spike crosses his mind. Or more accurately, the thought of not kissing Spike, and why they don’t do it. Not that he spends much time imagining it -- the press of Spike's mouth to his, the taste of his tongue. Not that he ruminates over it, or pictures how Spike's lips would look, kiss-bruised and swollen. Not that it bothers him or anything. But when he does think of it, he’s forced to admit that it’s a little weird. Weird, even for their -- whatever this is -- which is saying something. And whatever this is, or isn’t, even Xander can’t deny that it’s big, and it's important. That sex with Spike is an entirely new world, with strange geography, exotic customs, its own, alien language. It’s a place that’s beckoning and wide open; and each time Xander journeys there, it's with the joyous expectancy of a man taking his first steps on the moon. Feels transformed, being there, feels himself, for once, and shouldn’t kissing be a part of it?
But habit has taken hold, and the moment to break it seems to have passed. Like not knowing somebody's name when you already should -- a time comes when asking is awkward and odd and almost an insult. Xander wouldn’t know how to bring it up, or even if he wants to, and so he doesn't. Doesn't want to rock the boat, and risk ruining what he has. He isn't stupid -- he knows this isn't his to keep -- but he's damned if he's giving it up just yet. It belongs to him. It's his. Not forever, but at least, for now.
Things change, and not just between them, because he finally stops sleeping with Anya. Sex has been sporadic, for a while, and pretty perfunctory when it happens. The topic is territory even Anya's been afraid to tread, opting instead to air her discontent at his lack of ambition, his fixation on fighting evil, his frustrating failure to be the man she's imagined. But now, she ventures forward, asking unanswerable questions, and accusing.
He offers up exhaustion as an excuse, but it doesn't satisfy; and, really, why should it, being pure and utter bullshit. Tries "all couples go through this," and wishes that this was the truth. But Anya is unconvinced, and keeps at him, all the time. He mostly stands mute; accepts the anger as his due. The fault is his -- the cheating, the lying, the secrets. The creeping, unwelcome awareness that his body hadn't betrayed him that night in the cemetery, but had known with certainty what he wanted. That maybe, just maybe, the problem isn't not wanting Anya anymore. That maybe the problem is not wanting women anymore.
But that's ludicrous, isn't it? He's not attracted to men; not really. It's just, he's attracted to Spike. Not so much a gay issue as a Spike issue. Overwhelming and consuming, yes, but anomalous, and temporary. Like a fever raging through him that simply needs to run its course. To flare up and burn out. An intense craving, like when his Aunt Candace was pregnant and ate only liverwurst -- three meals a day, until Kirstin was born, and then never touched it again. It's like that, with Spike, he thinks. Like liverwurst.
A matter of time, is all. He just needs to hold on. To wait it out. He just needs a little more time.
Part 6: http://baudown.livejournal.com/9063.html