for [info]fall_for_sx...

Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: R
Feedback: Suit yourself, just no permanent damage, k.
Disclaimer: Just playing with the pretty kittens. Unfortunately, they are not mine, but I will gladly groom and bathe them before sending them back home to Daddy (aka Joss/Mutant Enemy/et al).
Warnings/Squicks: Implied past NON-CON of a Spangelus nature.
Summary: It started life as a random thought; a good line to fit in a nice introspective Spikey moment, it met a friend, had a grope session, and multiplied.

AN: Yes, I know Spike was in the crypt before the Initiative. Blame my muse- I tried to convince her to fix it, but she just wouldn’t listen; she is a pushy, pushy creature, lol.



His Story


by
Cobalt Mystic


The number of times he’d been taken by Angelus he’d lost count of. And though it surely wasn’t his intent, those times were what made Spike such a caring lover. He’d decided long ago that no lover of his would ever feel misused- unless that was what they wanted. It was also what inspired his conviction that he would never bottom, at least not willingly, ever again.

Then he met Xander-fucking-Harris with his chocolate eyes, blinding smile, and ever present bouquet of innocence. He wanted the boy and his bastard of a Grandsire had known he would- that’s why he’d waved Xander in front of him like the red cape in front of a bull. Thankfully, he was smarter than your average bull and had more self-control.

Still, that first whiff had almost done him in and he dreamt of the boy sporadically after that- dreaming of the things he would do to the boy, the things he could teach and show him. When Angelus returned and he was stuck in that damnable chair, the dreams and the memory of his boy’s sweet scent were his only solace.

His deal with the Slayer meant he had to leave Sunnydale and his boy, but he had his Dark Princess, she was still his world. Then she left- muttering about kittens caring for her boy.

With his return to the ‘dale, the dreams of the dark-haired boy became a constant companion, haunting his days, just as the Slayer haunted his nights.

Once again the dreams and his boy’s scent were his only refuge, this time from the hell he went through at the hands of the Initiative. In his mind, the beautiful boy would smile at him and he’d feel the warmth of the sun flow over him like it would when he was a child laying in the grass of a London park. Sometimes the boy would speak to him, they’d talk about movies and music and even his secret passion- books. He’d try to explain subtext and plot-devices and styles to him. And sometimes he could forget the cold cell, forget the pain, forget the self-loathing, and just be with his boy.

When he escaped, it was his boy’s scent that drew him to the Slayer; the knowledge that his boy was one of her band that propelled him to ask for their help. And it was the boy’s unconcealed disdain and hatred that drove him to try to end his unlife.

When that failed, his rage became overwhelming. He was a Master Vampire; how dare this mortal human child make him feel this way- cause him to lose hope, lose focus. He would get the chip out, kill the Slayer, then slowly and meticulously torture the dark boy who smelled of innocence.

But he couldn’t.

Even though he’d made the deal with Adam, when the time came, he chose the boy- the boy whose eyes only looked at him with hate, the boy whose smiles were never turned on him, the boy who was turning his dead heart to stone.

The crypt was dank, desolate, and cold- it fit his mood and became his home. He still watched the boy. He still dreamt of him every day. But he became ever harder with the young human, hoping that maybe, somehow his heart would believe his mouth.

He knew he was lost when the tentacle like appendage came crashing towards his boy and he didn’t think before knocking the boy down and putting himself between the barbed arm and his boy.

Through the mind-splitting headache he got from knocking the boy to safety, he could feel the demon’s poison seeping into his body. Feeling himself succumb to nothingness, he turned rapidly blurring eyes to his boy- if the boy was safe, nothing else mattered. What he saw shocked him to the core; pain far greater than any the chip or the Initiative or even Angelus at his worst could inflict racked his form. Chocolate eyes burning with untold emotions lit a face contorted by fear and as he slipped into the waiting nothing he let himself believe he heard his boy call his name.

The next time he opened his eyes he found himself surrounded by warmth. The kind of warmth that comes from a living, human body being wrapped around you. He momentarily stiffened, sniffing the air as he did so. Fear, tears, and a scent he knew could only be in his mind- innocence, Xander.

He must have moaned or moved too much because the arms around him squeezed and a voice roughened by sleep and sadness commanded him to sleep.

When he stirred the second time, it was to the feel of a warm, bare, male chest against his face and a steady heartbeat in his ear. This time as one arm hugged him closer, a tanned calloused hand traced his face. As the deliciously warm fingers fell away, he whimpered causing the heartbeat to jump. Instead of the fingers returning, they interlaced with his own drawing his hand up to be kissed.

He refused to look at the other man. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. He knew it had to be some form of hell and when he allowed himself to believe then the warmth, the caring, the safety, and, most importantly, the one holding him would be ripped away.

For long minutes, perhaps hours, he stayed still, watching the human’s chest rise and fall with his breath. Finally, when he had steeled his heart and he could no longer resist not knowing, he raised his eyes to see his bed mate.

Eyes he thought he’d never see again locked with his. Fathomless dark cocoa and endless crystal azure bore into each other, the deep pools of emotion sharing tales of passion and powerful feelings that would shame the likes of Byron and Shelley.

Now, here he was, two months later with his lover writhing beneath him with one thought pushing and pressing at his mind. He wanted, needed his boy to take him. Needed to be filled, stretched, and loved.

Gently, so, so gently, those strong calloused hands worked his flesh. Touching everywhere, but never lingering in one spot for long, getting his body used to being touched, being cared for. Fingers skitted up the inside of his legs to the wiry curls nestling his cock.

Involuntarily, he tensed. Telling himself this was his boy, NOT Angelus, but his boy, who loved him and wanted him, he managed to relax.

He needn’t have worried, his boy wasn’t finished with him, yet. The boy’s warm, pink tongue licked from the base of his hard-on to the tip; pausing to lap greedily at the drop of pre-cum leaking from it, before allowing his tongue to trail up well-defined abs settling on impossibly sensitive, erect nipples.

He gasped wantonly as his nipple was pinched and scraped by blunt human teeth. His hips arching upwards searching for friction that wasn’t there. His body was on fire, burning with desire, passion, want, and love. He pulled his legs up so his feet lay flat on the bed exposing himself more readily to his lover.

Slowly, starting just above the knee, his boy drew light circles along his thigh creeping ever closer to his long untouched hole.
With patience worthy of a saint, his boy kept up his ministrations, seemingly waiting for something.

When the soft, low purring began, his boy made his move, allowing his fingers to slip to his puckered opening.

He expected to feel pain. He expected to feel fear. He hadn’t expected to feel contentment.

His mind was drowning in sensation as his boy prepared him with surprising skill and not-even-remotely-surprising tenderness.

Finally, he felt his boy align himself with his stretched, slick hole. Questioning burnt-umber eyes full of concern, love, and longing looked into his as if seeking final confirmation. A nod of his head and he was being filled oh-so-slowly with fiery heat.

This, this was different. This was nothing like what Angelus had done to him. This was like coming home, like finding the one thing that made you feel whole. His Xander, inside him, made him feel whole.

After a moment, his boy began moving, pulling back, ever so slightly altering his angle, then pushing back in. On the third stroke, his world exploded.

It felt as if his brain was being pounded out his ears as his boy set a leisurely, mind-blowing pace of thrusts angled to hit that internal prima switch on every pass.

He writhed and moaned beneath his boy, his ability for coherent thought all but washed away by the waves of pleasure coursing through him. One thing, one pansy-assed nancyboy thing would make this moment perfect and send him over the edge. He wanted to taste his boy, feel their lips pressed tightly together, as tight as their bodies were interlocking now, and feel their tongues tangling, just as their fingers intertwined.

As if reading his mind, his beautiful boy leaned over him fusing their mouths together in a passionate, burning, and utterly wanton kiss.

He tried to cry out as ribbons of cool semen erupted between their bellies, but the sound was swallowed by his boy’s luscious mouth. He was still rolling with the aftershocks of his own release when he felt his lover’s orgasm overwhelm him.

In all his years, he’d never felt anything like it. The first stream of heat washing inside him was like a cleansing fire- stripping and destroying decades of pain and hate to leave, not-so-much innocence but, a blank page to be written on. And written on it was with each subsequent wave of his boy’s cum. This time it was a story of love, promise, caring, and belonging- it was their story.




The End







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