Summary: AU. Xander hates Spike. Xander's not so sure if he hates Spike. Xander's pretty sure he still doesn't like Spike, but now he's got smoochy feelings for him. Xander's interested in taking Spike for a test drive - is he interested? Xander gets lucky. How's that for succinct? ;-) An alphabetical drabble sequence written at 4:00 a.m. I have a weird muse, but I love her.
He Might Be a Pain in the...
But He's My Pain
Aggravating, agitating, annoying, awful, abhorrent, anti-social asshole! And I get to share quarters with him. Oh, lucky me. Such a happy day in Xander-land. Could it get better?
Anya. She left me. Not two weeks ago. Said she'd had enough waiting around for the next Apocalypse, and that after a thousand years of vengeance her nerves couldn't take it.
Actually, I don't blame her. For breaking my heart and stomping on it, yes, that I do hold a tiny bit of blaming for, but not for leaving. I'd get out of Sunnydale if Buffy - Willow - Giles - if they didn't need me. And I have to tell myself that every day, that they do need me, that I'm not just the Zeppo, not just doughnut-boy. I contribute. I patrol. I research. I help. I'm part of the team.
Even if they don't seem to care a lot of the time.
I am part of them.
I don't, however, appear to be a part of my family, but that's not news. I stopped caring if they cared a long time ago.
Apparently, they decided the basement had bugs and needed to be fumigated. Conveniently or not, they "forgot" to tell me about it.
So I get home tonight, being dragged by a Bleached Blunder hot on the trail of the blood bags stored in my mini-fridge, and the entire basement's full of roach-and-Xander-killing fog. Can't even unlock the door, the fumes are that strong.
Spike lets loose with a stream of really interesting words that probably woke my parents (good) and the neighbors (not so good), and then when he's through, he pauses and goes on with some even better ones that I'd never even heard before. And I'm the construction worker! Maybe Victorian British blue, I'm not sure what the shade is, but let me tell you it's colorful.
Handy he doesn't need to breathe. He jerks open the door like it's hot and plunges inside. I can hear his ranting floating out on clouds of noxious fog while he slams open the fridge and loads up with all the pig's blood and O-pos he can carry.
When he emerges, he stinks like an exterminator's van and he has a look on his face that would have made the Gentlemen back down. "Right," he growls. "Rupe's still got that Olivia bint stayin' over, so we can't go back there. You got cash for a hotel?"
I nearly laugh at him. I don't even have enough for a night at that fleabag Faith stayed at! Spent it on tonight's snack runs, Mr. Thanklessness' bloody dinner from the butchers' because Giles was short himself, and mailed the rest to Anya for gas money (yes, I'm a fucking wuss; get over it).
He snarls again. "Fine. Back to my place, then."
And he takes off without even seeing if I'm coming, or if I want to come along.
And that's when it starts to rain. Hard. Harder than it has in years. Just like the universe is singing "nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah" at me. And Spike's already almost a vanishing black duster in the distance. My only hope for shelter. I'd rather stake myself.
But do I have a choice?
Nope. So here I go, over to play sleepover with Chips Ahoy.
Like I said, could it get any better?
Big bad? ::snort:: Yeah, right. Bastard is more like it.
We get to his tomb - sorry, his crypt - sorry, his home, as he corrects me with a few glares that warn of what he'd do without the chip, and I'm standing there dripping freezing rainwater all over a tatty carpet he picked up from - the junkyard, smells like - and he nearly has a fit.
"You'll ruin the bloody thing!" he howls, tossing an unlit candle not at, but past me, so the chip doesn't go off. "Sodding prat!"
"Excuse me for not being water soluble, Spike," I shoot back. "The only things I've ever known to melt in the rain are Wicked Witches of the West. And certain demons."
"Rather be dossing with one of them," he mutters with another daggery look.
Then I shiver and sneeze.
Oh, please. How pitiful can you get? I'm ashamed of myself. And embarrassed, because he throws his hands in the air and groans. "For the love of all that's unholy, pet, don't go and get your nasty human germs on my things, would you?"
Man, am I tempted to go and use his favorite ratty chair for a Kleenex. Now, now, not in second grade any more, Xan. But oooh, it's tempting.
Maybe he can see me rolling that thought over, or maybe he's just tired of watching me drip, because he shoves his hands in his pockets with a disgusted look and jerks his head toward the staircase leading down to the cave below his "home".
"For pity's sake, go find yourself something dry to put on," he orders. "Towels on the shelf to the far left. Don't be coming back up here 'till you look less like a rat drowned in a gutter, got it?"
Real sweet guy.
Chips. Chipped vampires. Chipped Spike.
Cause and effect, that's what it's all about.
Cause. Spike is chipped. The Initiative is not so nice, but in this case I've got to say Yay For Them. No more evil killer capable of slaughtering us in our sleep gives me a happy, and yes, you can salute just a little at that particular thought, Little Xan. That'd give a statue a little thrill. Plenty of vampires left, but not any Masters that I know of (I so do not count Harmony. She's a Mistress of nothing but Shopping and Stupidity.)
Effect. He takes petty revenge any and every way that he can on whoever he can.
He knows damn well nothing he owns is going to fit me. I'm taller and broader in the shoulders and hips. No more baby fat; construction took care of that a while back, but now there are these things called Muscles to contend with. I glance them over with an understandable (hey, I think so) pride as I peel off my soaking flannel shirt, jeans and boxers. There's a handy underground pipe to drape them across. I resist the urge to check for notches in it, and the headboard, as I wriggle and writhe out of wet denim.
Asshole. I rummage through the few identical red button-downs and black T-shirts that are all he seems to own, and of course they're all too small. Huh. I can see his plan now. Keep Xander downstairs, naked and thus too humiliated to come up and be a pain, until his clothes are dry and he can bugger off.
Fine, then. Naked Xander will now proceed to sit, lie on, and jump up and down on every single thing The Big Bad owns or has stolen. And no, I don't care any more if it's childish.
I stalk across the room, bare as the day I was born, and hop up on his bed, ready for a good bouncing, and oh, that didn't come out like I wanted it to. Great, now I'm blushing.
A few good stomps and I stop. It's not as much fun as I thought, and being naked - ergo having nothing to protect your delicate pieces - doesn't do a lot for the joy of playing Trampoline. It could be worse. I could be a girl in this situation. Then again, if I were a girl in this situation, I'd either have enough sense to stay wet and happily risk pneumonia, or I'd already be neck-deep in the sheets with a certain blond vampi--and where the hell did that thought come from?!?
Bizarre. Weird. A Road Not To Be Trodden. Some good old fashioned snooping is in order to take my mind off that moment of insanity, I decide. Besides, maybe I'll find some kind of cloth that comes close to fitting me. I'll strip the sheets off the bed and go Toga if I have to, but now I'm curious about what he might have squirreled away in here, and hey, he's the one who sent me down here.
I peek under the bed.
And howl with laughter.
The Big Bad has a pair of reading glasses stashed under his bed, along with a copy of "Message in a Bottle".
Damn if that's not priceless blackmail material!
I sneak the glasses into my wet jeans pocket, and kick the book so far under the bed that he'll be cursing for hours trying to get it out. It's too close to the floor for even his skinny ass to wriggle under there.
So it's petty. I feel petty right now. Oh, so petty, I feel petty, and witty, and bright... Not singing "gay" here, folks, sorry; am so not gay. Even the sight of the bed in question, spread with invitingly rumpled red silk sheets, has absolutely no effect on...
Excuse me? Little Xan? Did anyone ask your opinion? I do not like the evil vampire, therefore you do not like his bed. Understand? I'll zip you, I swear I will.
Damn, I don't believe that just happened. I was hunkered over, trying to peek under his mattress to see how the hell he had the sheets tucked in, when I heard an - embarrassed? Couldn't be - cough from the top of the crypt.
Thank god the bed wasn't high enough to crack my head on, because I sure jumped hard enough. That, and the immediately following knowledge that my bare ass was waving around for all the world and - ugh - him to see got me scampering back out and covering myself as best as I could.
You know, if vampires could blush, I think he would have been. I don't know who was more shocked, him or me.
What baffles me is why he would have been shocked. Vampire, right? Seen it all, right?
He looked away, almost like he was determined not to look back. Um... why? Thank all the heavens, yes, but what? Am I that hard on the eyes? So I planted my hands on my hips, Little Xan half-waving a shy hello, and looked him in the - corner of the eyes, because he still wouldn't look down the ladder at me. "What do you want now, Spike?"
He cleared his throat. "Robe in the far end of the room," he mumbled. "Should be big enough. Too big for me, anyway. Put it on."
I raised my eyebrow. A robe, huh? Nice of him to tell me that before.
Anyway, with that piece of news, I go and find it. Black, of course, so I couldn't see it in the candlelit shadows before. Silk. Very pooftery. Looks like it might have been Angel's, and we are so not going there. But it does have this much to say for it - it's almost big enough for me, at least big enough to hide what needs hiding and tie in the front. "Thanks for nothing," I snark back up at him.
His head snaps back around and he stares down at me before gawping and turning his back! I can't believe this. "What're you grumbling about?" he barks. "Fits, don't it?"
"Just barely." I take a step or two. "Anything more than a mincing waltz and I'm going to be flashing the world."
"Then walk like a bleeding lady and get back up here!"
Oooh. I don't think either of us liked the way that one sounded. His shoulders stiffen. "Don't want you down there with my private stuff," he snarls. "So get!"
"Okay, okay, I'm getting. See me getting?"
Awfully draughty climbing those stairs. At least Little Xan doesn't like it either, and so that's one less thing to worry about. Still... I have an ugly feeling that there's going to be more to be terrified about before the nights over. You think?
Exactly how I figured it.
I wasn't even all the way up the ladder when I heard the sproiiiiiing of springs that have had just about all they can take, take a little more as he flung himself into the comfortable - the only - chair and started up a tape of Passions! How much is one man supposed to be able to take?
"Not that show," I whine. "Look, Spike, anything but that show. WWF. Sesame Street. A Yoko Ono Special on Lifetime. Anything else!"
"My telly, my choice, whelp," he says, acting bored.
"I hate Passions!"
"Tough shit." He lights up and settles back.
You know, he's still not looking at me. And you know what, he's not even really concentrating on the story. I think he's afraid of even catching a glimpse of my reflection in the black screen, and that's why he's got that crap going. I can tell he doesn't care because this episode doesn't have Timmy in it, and no, I will not tell you how I know that.
He won't look at me. This is weird. No, this is bizarre.
Damn, Spike. Will you either jump my bones or stop acting like you're terrified of it?
2 So He's Not So Bad for a Pain in the Ass
I did not just think that! Did those demons we fought tonight sling some kind of mojo on me? Some gay-making, horny-inducing, me-wanna-have-vampire Big Ugly Pixie Dust?
Grand old time I'm having, here. Fuck, I'm bored.
He won't even let me wander around and look at his stuff. "Sit!" he barks, like I'm some kind of dog, while he smokes cigarette after cigarette and refuses to look at me.
This is really starting to get on my nerves.
All that I can do is look around, because I refuse to look at Passions. You know, it's not so bad, really, for what used to be a grave. He's got a few things here and there - the rug, the chair, and enough candles for three or four Catholic churches, all lit.
So why are vamps into candles, anyway? I can understand not being able to wire their lairs, but he obviously managed it: witness the TV and the mini-fridge for his blood. But all this fire around, when fire + vamp = toasty dustiness? You'd think they'd have heard of flood lanterns and battery-powered lamps by now.
And you ever wonder how come a vampire's candles don't seem to go out?
I wonder how long it takes to light all those in the first place?
I'm having this mental image of Spike with his Zippo, spending a couple of hours lighting all these bastards one by one and cursing when they won't catch. It makes me giggle, which earns me a glare.
That was a different kind of glare. That... smoldered. At least he looked at me, but ye gods... that was a look like I've never seen from Spike. I don't think I understand it.
I just don't want to understand it.
I'll think about me. 'Kay? Me and my problems. I'm cold. I'm almost naked. I'm here with a vampire who is acting (even more) schizophrenic (than usual). And I'm -
Horny. Okay, I'll admit it. I. Am. Horny.
Damn Spike, anyway. Damn his crypt-from-a-bad-romance-novel, his satin sheets, his candles, his music, and him for all of this.
He's looking at me out of the corner of his eye, an unreadable expression on his face. "What's eatin' you, pet?" he asks, almost mildly.
I go for the easy way out. "I'm bored," I whine. "Passions on the TV, a cold floor, and no munchies - no, I do not want any blood - all these make for a Xander highly uninterested in being here."
"Ummph." He tilts his head to listen to the rain still pounding down outside. "Not going far, though, are you?"
"I can't believe you don't have an umbrella in all this crap!"
"Don't need one, do I?" He smirks - away from me. "Not afraid of getting wet, me."
That stings. "I'm not afraid!" I snap. "I just don't want to finish up what's turning out to be a glorious evening with a case of bronchitis, thanks."
Slight brow wrinkle. "You prone to that?"
"Sometimes," I admit. "When I was younger. Besides, you've got to admit, any time some funky new disease comes to Sunnydale, who comes down with it? Me. Funny-syphilis-guy here. If I go out in rain like that, I swear I'll end up on a respirator."
He chokes back a chuckle. "Can't have that, can we, nummy? Sick blood doesn't taste so well, and if I get hungry -"
"Stow it, Fangless," I snap. "In the know that you don't have any bite."
"I can bite!" he retorts, sounding wounded. "Just... don't want to. Don't fancy a migraine myself."
"So neither of us is going anywhere," I sulk. "And if you're just going to sit there, then I'm going to be bored. Bored, bored, bored -"
"Bloody hell, whelp!" OK, that finally got a reaction. He's up out of the chair and rummaging in a chest. "You're bored? Fine, we'll play a game."
I laugh before I can help myself. "A game? You? And me?"
I whoop even harder when I see what he's got. "Monopoly and Scrabble?"
Again, if vampires could blush... but he can scowl. "Not mine, they aren't, they belong to a demon friend of mine. Total softy, but he gave 'em to me for collateral in a game of kitten poker."
Kitten poker? I so don't want to know.
But board games, huh? I'm pretty much an undisputed master unless Wills is playing. "Alright, Biteless," I say, arranging myself cross-legged and carefully arranging the robe to cover all my strategic bits. "You're on."
He sits down in front of me and for this first time, ever so briefly, meets my eyes. "Am I, then?"
And now why should that make my heart speed up and my throat go dry?
I hate Monopoly.
I hate vampires who refuse to trade Park Place for all four railroads even when they know you've got Boardwalk.
I hate having to say "Pretty please, Spikey" to get the banker to loan me another 5 K's in play money.
I hate Scrabble.
I hate being surprised that Spike can whip my ass at Scrabble. I mean, we're both rough guys. I expected he'd come out with words like "and", "but", and "cat", such as are my specialties. But no, Mr "Andromedan", Mr. "Buttinski", and Mr. "Catatonic", not to mention Mr. seven-letter "anthropomorphic". I really hate that one.
I hate his little victory dance.
(I hate thinking that it's really cute.)
I hate playing poker.
I hate turning the color of a strawberry when certain said vampire quirks his eyebrow and suggests strip poker.
I hate the way he howls with laughter at that.
I hate the way the bastard bluffs when I've got a flush and I REALLY hate the way he folds when I've got a pair of twos!
I hate Spike.
Just shoot me now.
I owe Spike $6,000 (god help me if he ever decides to collect - he'll probably take it out in blood, literally, stolen from the Red Cross or the butcher's). I also owe him a litter of kittens, and somehow - still not sure how - I owe Clem, whoever that is, a brand-spanking-new Monopoly and Scrabble set. Something about my kicking the boards across the room and "denting" them. Like they weren't battered already.
Spike's chuckling like the ass that he is, leaning back and lighting up. His T-shirt stretches tight over his chest when he does that, outlining every single muscle and plane of his taut tummy. It dips just before it enters the band of his jeans, where -
Gaaah! Bad Xander. Bad, bad Xander! No naughty thoughts about the vampire. It's not allowed to wonder what might be underneath that zipper. Little Xan's mighty interested in knowing, but for once in my life I'm more interested in ignoring him than not.
I am not having naughty gay thoughts about the evil vampire.
I am not.
Just shoot me. Please?
3 He Might Be A Pain in the Ass, But He's My Pain in the Ass
Maybe this is my karma coming back to bite me in the ass. I mean, after all that I've said about vampires, and as much as I've done to Spike, maybe this is my just punishment. The wheels of fate go round and round, round and round, round and round...
I could handle that. I test the idea on myself. Karma. Bad Karma. Payback. It fits.
So why does it give me such a happy to be thinking naughtywickedbad and oh, yes, gay thoughts about Spike?
I mean, I thought karma was all about now it sucks, now it doesn't... oooh, imagery...
::shakes head hard::
Little Xan's getting awfully pepped up here. I'm not sure how much longer I can hide it. Vampire senses and all that. And boy, do I ever want to hide it, because I really don't think I can handle all this right now. I mean, all I bargained for tonight was some bitching because Bleachboy had to sleep tied up in a chair in my un-comfy-cozy hellhole basement. And more bitching because I'd be trying to sleep a few feet away, knowing that he'd be staring at me until I manage to drop off. Aching for a nice little session of spank-the-monkey but not daring because -
Hang on. Come to think of it, don't I feel like that a lot whenever I'm babysitting Spike?
Can't be. Has to be because Anya refused to sleep over when he's there. I'm all for refusing that option forever. Absolutely no sex with the vampire in the room - don't want to give him ideas.
So maybe it is karma. We're back to that again.
But bad karma shouldn't feel this good.
And since when does it feel so good to be so bad?
That's got to be it. That's all it can be. Anya's gone, and I'm lonely. So lonely that any warm - well, okay, living - okay, mobile body will do, especially one like Spike's.
I'm not blind. Not-gay aside, I can admit he's delicious - no - just easy on the eyes. Ice-blond hair, eyes the color of blueberry Popsicles, skin like snow, and so long and lean and just dangerous enough that -
Lust. Gotta be just-lust, plain and simple. I'm lonely and horny enough to bang anything.
God, that's pathetic.
Masturbation. Ooh, that would be good right about now. Beat the meat, spank the monkey, choke the chicken, address the bishop, capture the one-eyed trouser snake, pinch the Grinch, whatever you call it, I wanna do it and I wanna do it now.
Trouble is, I'm stuck in a crypt with a rapidly catatonic vamp.
You'd think that would cool me down.
Damn if it doesn't make me hotter.
Stop thinking about Spike!
Think about getting it off. Oh, yeah. Relief. Sweet relief. That would be so good.
Where would be the best place? Mmmm... maybe a tub full of nice hot water. It's cold in here. Yeah, a full tub, with bubbles even. My hand could slip beneath the water and finally answer my cock's steadily urgent call. Stroke up and down, play with the sac a little, thinking about Anya and how she used to writhe and wriggle beneath me. I can almost hear her, calling me: "Xan-pet... don't stop... fuck me raw, fuck me hard, fuck me now. Oh, bloody hell, Xan!"
My eyes shoot open.
Last time I checked, Anya didn't have a British accent.
And she didn't have a cock that I'd swear I could almost feel grinding against mine.
Bastard! He's invaded my daydreams now!
I glance over at him. Still smoking. Still staring at nothing. Brooding. And he says he's nothing like Angel? Pfah!
At least he hasn't noticed. Not even that my breathing's quickened.
But what if he did? And what if he flung down that cigarette and came over here and with that wild look in his eyes, he knelt down and tossed open the robe and slid his mouth over my...
Oh, no, no, no, no, no...
Hello, Little Xan.
You're not going to go away this time, are you? Not even if I threaten to zip you?
Well, can't blame you. No zippers handy just now. And what wouldn't I give for one? Just to hide the body in, as it were.
Well, if you're going to be doing this, at least you're doing it right, even if you're thinking about naked Spike, and-- ungh! damn! Surge like that again and the skin's going to pop!
I can't help but twitch my robe open a little and peek. My eyes pop open. I've been bonking Anya for years, and was a past master at beating the meat before that, but I have never, and I mean never, seen myself this hard, this long. Little Xan has risen to amazing new heights, flush against my belly, and I can't help but be proud. Yeah, me! That's a hard-on that could star in porno!
Then I remember who it's... eek... who it's for...
I slap the robe and my mouth closed, but not fast enough to 1) hide the fact that there's already pre-cum dripping down to my groin, and 2) He Heard Me. My face burns bright red as I realize that he can probably smell me, too.
He takes a long drag on his cigarette, not looking at me. "Little problem there, pet?" he asks lazily, not a bit of concern in his voice.
"None of your business, Spike," I grit out. Shit. He doesn't have a bathroom, and I am so not going downstairs to wank off. It's still pouring outside. But if I don't get this taken care of and soon I'm going to come without even touching myself, and damn if I'm wasting an erection this good. If he would just...
... maybe drop his cigarette and come over here and open the robe with gentle fingers and fall to his knees, and take the purpled head of my cock in his mouth and suck and suck and...
Ohhhhhhhh shit! Almost. Managed to stop myself. Don't want to waste it. Especially not on a fantasy. If Anya were here I'd -
And Little Xan flags the tiniest bit at the thought!
Okay, okay, I know what you want! I give myself the tiniest stroke, and almost bite my lip in half. Never so good. Never so much sensation all at once.
Why? Where is all of this coming from?
The cigarette gets stubbed out, and another one lit immediately after. "Doesn't smell like nothing, pet," he said idly. "Doesn't sound like nothing. Got your willy up, do you?"
That should be like a bucket of ice water, but oddly enough it isn't.
"So?" I snarl. "Normal human response."
"Mmm." Deep drag on the cigarette, eyes staring blankly into the distance. "Response to what, then? Or should I say who? Thinking of slipping one to the demon bint? Woops, can't do that, she buggered off to East Nowhere to 'find herself', didn't she? What about Red? You fancy boning her and her pretty little bird 'till they can't walk straight? Maybe she's got you hot and bothered. Or Harmony. Heard her say a few things about you." He clutches his groin briefly, but there's nothing reflected in his eyes, not even an evil smirk. "Buffy?"
My stomach sinks. That's not nothing in his eyes. I've seen that before.
He's hurting, deep inside, and he's determined not to let it show.
Oh, god. Oh, god oh god oh god oh god. He wants me. Me. And he thinks there's no way on earth I'd want him. So he's got the Big Bad mask on to hide under. But from the bulge in his own jeans, and his uncomfortable shift once his hand moves, I can tell that his own friend wants to come out and play almost as bad as mine does.
And it's for me.
Think, Xander, think. Never got with the gay lovin' before. Have no idea what to do outside of what I've seen in those pornos Anya bought. Never thought about gay lovin' before. But Wills seems so happy. She said that a woman understood her like no man could.
Maybe a man would understand me like no woman could. Because he'd have been there, felt the same pain, known the same grief.
We won't think about the vampire part. That's just making it way too complicated.
I swallow around the pretzel that's developed in my throat. I would never be thinking this, but now that I'm looking for the sorrow in him I see it, etched so plain on every line of his face. Sorrow and yearning. For me.
Okay, Xander. If you're going to do this, do it right.
I'm already on my knees, so it's not much of an effort to shuffle over the carpet until I'm sitting back on my heels by his side. He glances down at me, startled, and I whip the robe open like a stripper. Little Xan jerks out to greet him, hot and hard and oh so ready. His mouth opens in a small 'o' of surprise, and if that isn't the cutest expression I've ever seen on Spike...
I reach out and lay one hand on his groin. The massive hardness underneath jumps. I wasn't wrong. "I'm thinking about you," I say, voice full of gravel. "Who are you thinking about, Spike?"
Now he swallows. His cigarette smolders forgotten in the ashtray while I wait, while his brain whirls in what dance I don't know. It's almost one long cylindrical ash teetering on the edge of the tray when he finally speaks.
I give him the smallest squeeze. "You want me, Spike?" My daring has me almost breathless with excitement. And... hope?
His eyes blaze up. "Fuck, yes!"
4 Um... Would You Be A Pain in... um?
"Please? Can I, then... please?"
I'm stroking him through his jeans, and my voice is shaking like it hasn't since my first time. When Faith teased me up and then rode me like I was one of those put-a-quarter-in-ponies at the supermarket. She knew every trick in the book and I was younger, it was my first time, and from the first second I sank into her folds the rocket launcher was ready to fire - but she wouldn't let me. 'Please' wasn't good enough. I had to beg, plead, whine, utterly humiliate myself before she'd let me come, and that was only after she'd had her jollies two or three times. Nice to know I could do that, but I wasn't too much into caring about it after but so long, you know? Please, please, please, I begged, and finally she let go and let me come.
And she acted like it was nothing. A bone tossed to a dog. She even pulled up and off so that I didn't come in her. I had a condom on. She was on the pill; I saw the pack tossed on her bedside table. She didn't have to worry about getting pregnant. She just didn't want any more of me. Not in her, not on her, not even beneath her.
And I was out the door less than five minutes after that, barely dressed and the sweat still cooling on my body.
How can any woman be that cruel? But idiot that I was, all I could think was - "I had sex! I can't believe I had sex!" Idiot. That wasn't sex. That was consensual rape.
That's why I'm afraid. Spike could toss me across the room if he really didn't want this (OK, his head would explode - ack, bad metaphor, but still), but he couldn't hurt me enough to get the idea across without almost killing himself. That's why I'm trembling, terrified. I don't know why I want this but I want it so, so badly that I'm about to burst. But I can't - I won't - not if he doesn't -
I think he sees that in my eyes. There's an answering burst of - something - no, I've seen this before and I was too stupid to recognize it - heat - lust - passion - and yes, wanting. He wants it, too. He wants me.
Thank you, god.
Quickie this is not going to be. I've never been with a man before, for one thing. Much less with a vampire. We're going nice and slow despite my hard-on that I could hammer nails with. If I don't go off like a geyser when he touches me -
Ohhhhhhh, oh, oh, he touched me! Not my cock. Just my face, and that's almost enough. One lean hand, the palm surprisingly soft, cupping my cheek. The ball of his thumb runs over my cheekbone, brushing my lashes, which flutter closed. It's cool, not cold, and it feels so very good. Comfort and the promise of consummation. He manages to get all of that across with just one sweeping touch. Damn, he's good.
"Will be good," he murmurs, his voice low and heavy with sex. "Be the best ever for you, pet. Ssh, shh now, don't shake so. 'Less -" and he sounds - different - a little amused, even a little more turned on - "less it's the thought of me that's got you trembling. That it? You want me that much?"
I can only swallow and nod.
"Your eyes," he says softly, "they're sparkling like stars. Dark stars."
Oh, god. I reach for his zipper, but one strong hand stops me. "No, pet," he whispers, "we do this right."
And he leans over, his face close to mine. Cool breath ghosting over my face. His lips touch my own, soft at first. His chilly tongue slips out and traces the line of my startled lips, dissolving invisible sugar stitches until I open for him. Strange how I was so ready for the sex but a kiss throws me for a complete loop. After a moment, though, I forget, because he is so talented with that tongue, and I figure it's time to show him I know a few tricks too. His quiet groan and another jump of the bulge beneath my hand tell me he's enjoying this.
One hand comes up to thread itself in my hair and pull me close, keep me from leaving him. Don't worry, Spike, I'm not going anywhere. Not when there's this. My arms are around his neck, then stroking down his back. Too many clothes. I can't feel his skin through them. I make a small, needy sound, and he lifts his face, lips kiss-swollen and eyes hazy with pleasure.
I give him a gentle squeeze. "Please, Spike," I say, but it's not begging. It's asking if I can be his, even if it's only just for now.
"What d'you want, pet?" he asks in a voice like a lion's, low dark velvet.
"You. I want you. I want to have you and you to have me-"
And that does the trick. He presses his face to mine for one more searing kiss that almost makes me see stars and lights, then pulls away to leave me gasping.
He's standing, holding out a hand to me. Beautiful hand, chipped nail polish and all. Nail polish. I'd laugh if I weren't way too aroused. "Downstairs," he grates. "Come on, then. Hurry. Need you so bad, Xan. Need you in my bed. Need you in me-"
And oh, how I want to, but I almost don't dare. I don't think my legs are strong enough to make it down that narrow ladder. Why can't it be here, the floor isn't that cold, and -
A kiss, a gentle kiss. "Me first, then. I'll catch you if you fall. You trust me?"
And I do.
Stars are ricocheting inside my head. He did end up having to catch me after all when I slipped halfway down. Then again, he had put his hand on my ass to balance me and my brain almost exploded with the contact. But he caught me light and easy as a ballet dancer and set me on my feet. Really am gay tonight, aren't I?
He set me down so that we were face to face, and he's nuzzling into my neck, nipping and kissing soft little love bites. I never knew how erogenous that zone was for me. Now, do I ever. I don't want him to stop for years.
Until he moves a little closer and his erection bumps into mine.
Now I am seeing stars, and my sharp intake of breath seems to excite him more than ever before. "Want this, do you, Xan-pet?" he murmurs in my ear, nipping the lobe. "Want to feel this against you, skin on skin?"
I'm beyond words. All I can do is gasp and nod. He might be smirking, or genuinely smiling, but I feel his lips curve up as he puts my hands at the edges of his shirt. "Do it then, love," he asks, almost humbly. "Unwrap the prezzie."
I didn't know it would feel this good. And according to what I make out from his gasps between thrusts, this is just foreplay. His erection is grinding against my own, both gripped in one long-fingered fist, and he's thrusting us in time to the pounding of our hips.
It happened so fast. I had his shirts off, and slid the zipper down on his jeans, and Spike Jr. jumped out to meet me, almost at the level of my lips.
I didn't think. I just took him in my mouth.
He screamed; I swear, he screamed, but it was a good scream. "Bloody hell, Xan!" He fisted my hair while I licked and sucked like a mindless thing. So good. So long and cool, like a human Popsicle, and salty-sweet. The head was the best, my very own lollipop to suck and kiss, to dig my tongue into the little slit. He was almost howling every time I did that, so I decided to try and deep-throat him and see what happened. Almost managed it. I was pretty impressed.
Then - by accident - I swallowed.
He roared, and his game face flickered in and out. That must have blown his mind! I swallowed again. He rocked on his feet, and then the hands in my hair were dragging me up to meet him into another searing kiss. "No more," he mumbled against my lips, stroking me everywhere he could reach, while wriggling out of his jeans. "No more, or it'll be over 'fore it starts, pet. Don't want that. Want you. Want to be in you."
"Then do it, Fangless," I taunted him.
His eyes lit up with appreciation and pleasure. He nipped at my neck, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough that it sent me reeling - and took advantage of that to push me over onto, into the bed. And then he was on top of me, and this beautiful thing began...
He's got his fingers circling my hole, but he's hesitant, and I know why, and god, it grieves me. I'm aching to have him fill me, but I know he can't. I'm a virgin to this. No matter what he did, it would hurt, and that would fry his brain. He looks like he's ready to cry with frustration.
So even though I'm really, really nervous, I put one finger to his lips. "Ssssh." I say, then kiss him briefly before rolling him onto his back. I saw this move in one of Anya's movies, and boy do I hope I can manage it. I think he knows what I have in mind, because he throws his head back in laughter, joy, and abandon, and spreads for me sweet as a flower.
At first I'm trying to remember the steps, then I decide to forget that and do what comes naturally. A good coating of some lube that he just happened to have under his pillow - yeah, sure, you weren't hoping for this, Spike - and then stretching him gently, finger by finger, to prepare him for the real me. Little Xan isn't "little", after all. Crooking my finger to find the prostate until I hear the howl and feel the little nodule that tell me I've got it and then angling myself just so, with the head of my glistening, slicked cock at his entrance. Never done it before but it feels so natural, you know?
I wait and listen to him begging and pleading, knowing that I'll do this, that I'm just waiting until we're both insane for it, and then sinking in in one long, slow slide. We both of us howl this time, it feels so good - cool, slick, tight, perfect perfect perfect perfect
And he's not idle. I don't know how he can focus enough - my own eyes are almost crossed with the bliss and the tightness surrounding my cock - but he's got one hand on his own dick, stroking it, and the other hand is back at my hole. His long fingers snake in, and it doesn't hurt, it feels beyond good, especially when he hits that magic spot as well.
I pound into him, harder and harder. He gives a low, frustrated wail of pleasure/pain, and I know that he needs something to thrust against, so I lean my torso forward enough that he can push against the skin of my belly. A ragged moan of relief and he's doing just that, bucking and humping like a mad thing.
I'm saying something I can't make out, but he's chanting: "Need you, need you, need you, more, more, more, harder, harder, god, god, love you love you love you-"
I capture his lips in a kiss, and kisses have never been sweeter, even when I feel the slight sting of a fang and know that he's slipped into game face. It doesn't scare me, it just makes me feel even hotter, because I know I've made him feel so good that he's lost control.
The tiny taste of blood does him in. A theatrical, almost frightening high arch of his back, a yell that makes the candle flames vibrate, and I feel a flood of cool spunk flowing a river between our bodies. The sensation, the squeezing and pulsing of his inner muscles, is enough to drive me over the edge too, and I roar as well when I feel the amazingness of my own hot jizz flowing in, around, over, past me in his cool insides.
... oh, god...
... so good...
And then we're lying flat against each other, still in each other, flat on the mess of spilled seed, kissing, heated at first, then gentler and more tender until it's almost sweet. He sighs, his eyes flutter, and he lies his head back. One hand strokes my arm. "Beautiful Xander," he murmurs. "Sweet. Love you, Xander."
And he doesn't realize what a bombshell that is.
5 No Pain, Just Peace
Unbelievable. I still can't breathe. If I tried to stand I know I wouldn't make it. I don't think he would either from the looks of him. His eyes are so blue; they glow like an angel's. An angel who's been on a spree. That's so bizarre for someone I know is a demon. But he's just as beautiful as a Guardian.
If I start laughing I won't be able to stop, and then he'll do that delicious pout because he thinks I'm laughing at him, and... woops, sore body, been through a yummy mangler tonight and need to take a break - come on - no, don't come on - argh!
But Spike's my Guardian Angel. I get it now. And it's hilarious. And wonderful.
I reach up one gentle hand, still trembling finely, and stroke his cheek. He's blanched white still - if he was human, he'd be sweating and heaving for breath like me - but it's the same thing for him. I stroke his cheek and he arches into it, this enormous purr swelling up like a puma's.
Damn, that's endearing. He's still shocky from coming that hard but he loves me so much just my touch makes him react like that.
Victory over the Vampire! My thoughts backtrack just a little as he curls into my touch as if it's life, blood, the breath he no longer has. He breathed for just a little while, at the heat, the height of it, when he screamed and shouted and yelled my name so loud that any living or non-living neighbors are probably still sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up to cartoon-sized eyeballs, wondering just what the hell's going on in here tonight.
Then again, given the way I was shrieking "Spike" and "William the Bloody" and "Ride 'em, pony", they may be hiding UNDER their beds.
But it happened. We - I - did it. I made him come. Come like I can tell he hasn't in years, not with that idiot Harmony or even Buffy. Ew. Not going there. Yucky thoughts. Don't want them. Want to bask in the afterglow that is making love to Spike. And yes, I'm calling it making love, because there's no way that was something cheap as a one-night-stand or a quick buddy-fuck. I made love to the Big Bad and I made him come.
Me. The Zeppo.
But you know, that almost doesn't seem important (hey, I am male, hormones on legs here, it is pretty important) compared to what I just thought. Making love and my determination to call it that. Making love equals loving the make-ee. Do I love him?
Does he love me? Dumb question. I'm not bright, but I can tell, oh, I can tell that he does; he made that move lightning quick in his mind as he does everything else, and it took root in his heart fast as that.
He. Loves. Me. I can see it in his eyes. Feel it in his arms as he recovers faster - vampire stamina - and reaches for me, wanting, needing to hold me, soak up my heat and even my sweat and the mixed mess of our lovemaking that's mingled on my belly. Who would have thought Spike would be a cuddler?
I give him a gentle, huggy shake. "That was beautiful, William," I whisper to tease him, and earn an elbow in the ribs.
"Don't ever call me William," he whispers, fake-grouchy. "Nothing like that ponce."
"Of course you're not," I say as I kiss his forehead gently.
Oh, he's just like his old self, no matter how hard he tries not to be. A beautiful little geek in wolf's clothing. William, and why? I can't get past the L-word. No, Xander, say it, even if it's not out loud - yet. Love.
Damn. I guess I do love him.
How did this happen? Why did it happen at all? And why didn't it happen at all - sooner?
We've missed so much time by hating each other.
If I'd only known - that this could happen. Would there have been an Anya? Hunh. For that matter, would there have been a Cordelia? Ampata, yes. Mummy-girl maybe, wanted to drain the life out of me, but if you overlook that minor detail - yowwwwzah!
So maybe I'm gay. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm bi. Maybe I'm not.
Maybe I'm just in love.
With a vampire, a mass-murderer.
Oh, screw it. He hasn't been that in years. He's not a killer anymore, no matter how hard he tries to be. A killer of demons, and isn't that all the better for us? Geez. They must hate him now. I never... I never thought about what he must have given up. Probably friends. Maybe old friends. To stay with us? And help us? Which he did willingly, most of the time.
He didn't need the money. We're surrounded with stacks of Pistols, Clash, Who and Siouxsie CD's that rise high in glossy pillars. At least sixty candles, I lost count around there (well, he was nibbling on my nipple, f'pete's sake, counting wasn't exactly on my mind just then!), silk sheets that whisper and glide against each other, and a good sturdy oak bed ( must have been vampire strength got that down here, let alone moved it at all. Oak's a heavy bitch.). No way Giles paid him enough for all this, unless he's not telling us something. Which I could believe. But this is all worth a fortune, more than I know Giles should have. So Spike has his own money. He didn't need the tidbits we doled out for his "help".
My cheeks burn and to hide my shame I bury my face in William's shoulder. Sweet-smelling shoulder, like soap and that talc for men, and just a little of my own sweat from earlier. I'm running through every swear word I know. How we must have humiliated him.
And yet he's here. In my arms. Loving me.
How the hell did I get so lucky as to win this prize?
X-stacy. X-static. How can he make me feel this way? No woman ever has. I have a scary notion that after this, no one lacking the necessary appendages will.
Whew... I have an ever scarier feeling - or is it blissful? - that those appendages include bleached blond hair, fangs, and well-broken-in Docs. No one else would be shaped or skilled enough to hit that magic spot so deep inside every time, and a plastic toy would so not be the same. No one else would have corded muscles that keep the chest from being flat, that are so blissful to trace and kiss and lick and nibble and - deep breath, Xander, just got done having sex with the evil vampire, and even with vampire stamina, give him a minute.
Wait. So that means I want to have sex with him again?
I do. I really, really do.
I want him to keep his eyes open so I can see them flicker from blue to gold. I want to keep my eyes wide open so that he can see mine go black with lust. And I want to see every grimace on his face, every writhe of that long, lean alabaster body when I sink into him. And I want to see him sink into me again; I want to watch this time. I never thought I'd love being fucked on my back so much. I never would let Anya play around like that - too much like Faith - and once I bought her the Kama Sutra, she was more than happy enough to try out other things.
Oh, my god, the Kama Sutra. The Sutra and Spike. I'm almost drooling, and Little Xan is doing his best. Limber as he is, there's probably a Sutra of Spike.
But there's one thing. Since Faith, I don't have sex with people I don't love. I even loved Anya a little bit, because even though she drove me insane she was endearing, like a puppy would be if you made it human - baffled and bewildered at the world, and needing someone to cling to and show affection for. And, well, there'd only been her since then. But there was the determination that built itself into me. I don't think I would have let go of that for one cool glance from those blue, blue eyes.
So. Mind-blowing sex. Gentle and sweet once you knock off his hard shell. Protective. Caring. A literal demon in the sack.
Do I love him?
Yeah, I guess I do love him.
I know I love him.
Real love. Forever love.
And now I'm crying. So what? He's kissing my tears away, and his clever hands are moving over and across and down and...
Check in with you later, inner self, I have better things to do right now.
Zzz's for the Zeppo. It's time for them. And for that skinny, bleached overgrown Dennis the Menace, Tigger on speed, hell on wheels and demon (in the sack) that I've got my arms wrapped around and his wrapped around me like a human-shaped teddy bear, purring away like a puma - dangerous, but willing - wanting - to be cuddled - by me .
He's not going anywhere. I won't let him.
And he doesn't want to leave. Ever.
Now how's that for a happy ending? You think?
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