My first foray into the wide world of Buffy. Yikes. And it's all [info]janedavitt's fault for supplying me with all the crack ummm...I mean fic recs. Oh, and Lit Gal's fault for writing Beautiful Broken, because that's the story that sucked me in. And I guess it's also Xander's fault, too, for breaking so beautifully.  I can't forget to blame [info]ozsaur either, because if it weren't for her asking me to write a rimming fic for Smut Day, this particular story would never have been written.

 In any event. Here it is. I hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC17
Warnings: None, unless you don't like rimming.
Spoilers: None
Synopsis: Spike ambushes Xander in the shower.
Word Count: 1600 words of pure Smut!
Disclaimer Don't own 'em - not making any money off 'em. Dern it.
Notes: Dedicated to [info]janedavitt and her wonderful friends, who turned me into the Spike/Xander fool I am today.



Writhe


by
Dustandroses


Xander writhed on the end of that wicked, wicked tongue. He shivered in the warm, moist air of the shower, his face burning in spite of the cool tile under his cheek. With his legs spread wide, back swayed, his ass poking out toward that incredible tongue, he could barely keep his footing. It would help if he could stop wriggling, but jeez, what was a guy supposed to do when there was a strong, agile tongue trying its damnedest to reach his prostate? He writhed. There was simply no other word for it.

Maybe there were other words, but from where he stood, writhing was the best word for the job, and he did it with abandon. Spike's nose and chin were pressed up tight between the cheeks of his ass, and if he had anything to say about it, they’d stay there until he collapsed, falling in a heap on the cool porcelain of the tub. Of course that could happen at any moment, given the fact that Spike had been at this for a long time already. He had no idea how long because his sense of time was totally screwed, probably due to the fact that Spike was about to make his head explode.

Both of them. He giggled. Yeah, alright. Maybe it wasn’t the most manly thing to do, but hey, if Spike was vampire enough to spend a good portion of his evening with his face between Xander’s cheeks, then Xander was man enough to admit that, under duress, he was occasionally known to giggle. And this qualified as duress by anyone’s definition. He thanked whatever powers that be that vampires didn’t need to breathe, because the only reason Spike had surfaced lately was to tell Xander to hold on tighter.

Xander had no trouble obeying that growled order. His grip on the shower curtain rod was tight enough to make his hand cramp and Xander took a quick moment to thank his lucky stars that he'd reinforced it after that time it had crashed down on them during a bout of rather athletic shower sex. Good thing he had too, because he needed the support, what with that amazing tongue doing the most amazing things to him.

He felt like his insides were melting, Spike's wicked tongue pulled the strength right out of him. His cock was so hard it ached. He'd been on the verge of coming for what felt like hours now. He'd get right up to the edge of no return and suddenly Spike would stop tonguing him and let go of his hip long enough to give his balls a sharp tug, just hard enough to kill his orgasm. Then he'd start over again. The bastard had learned a hell of a lot in more than a century of demonic unlife. He'd become an expert in the fine art of sexual torture. Xander's current predicament was living proof of that.

Spike had ambushed him in the shower, shoved Xander face first against the back wall then fallen to his knees. Smoothing his hands around the curves of Xander's butt, Spike's cool touch on his shower-heated ass felt like ice on flame. Spike's thumbs pried Xander's cheeks apart, the cool of his tongue teasing the hot ring of muscle. Xander’s flailing hand had caught at the shower rod, knees locked to stop them from buckling, the quivering in his thighs and calves expanding rapidly into the rest of his body as Spike’s tongue flickered and shimmied around and around like liquid silk.

Maybe it was the spiraling heat of mindless bliss that had started in his belly when Spike had first stepped into the shower that was causing his limbs to vibrate and twitch with Spike’s every thrust of his tongue. Because, hell. That tongue. That tongue was a miracle of nature. Swirling and teasing, curling and fluttering, slipping inside while Xander could do nothing but open himself up to the sensations that threatened to overwhelm him and just writhe.

Then Spike had begun to push in further and further, plunging his tongue deep inside. Pleasure cascaded through him, sensation building in unstoppable waves that made his cock ache more with each pulse of Spike's tongue inside him. That was when he started to shudder. Spike’s tongue thrust into the depths of his body, corkscrewing and rippling as Xander thrashed above him.

His cock was so sensitive to the waves of pleasure cresting through him that he had to push Spike’s hand away when he tried for a reach around, crying out – holding on desperately, trying to avoid the inevitable. Not yet. Not yet! He didn’t want this to be over, but he knew it had to happen, knew there was never any choice. Not since Spike had knelt down behind him in the shower and opened him wide, exposing him to a world of sensual pleasures he’d never known before.

Xander blinked when he felt the cool breeze as Spike pulled back just enough to take in a huge lungful of air, and wondered what the hell Spike was doing. Didn’t he know that breathing only got in the way of a really top notch rim job? And this was top notch. The toppest. Ever. He knew it, because Spike never did anything by half-measures. Xander's half-formed protest died when Spike's tongue surged deeper into his body, and suddenly it all made sense, because then - then Spike started to hum.

In some small part of his mind, he recognized the tune. Spike had sung it dozens of times, over and over again – Paul Anka and Frank Sinatra twisted into a battle hymn for every punk rocker that had survived the 70’s, and more than one who hadn’t. When Spike started to hum it was like a band of angels singing. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir of rimming vampire gods. It was – it was – he had no comparisons so finally he stopped trying.

He was too busy, anyway. Too busy jerking convulsively as the vibrations got louder, his orgasm overtaking him as he twitched and jerked and writhed, every nerve ending in his body throbbing to the pulse in his veins. He felt as if his skin was stretched too thin to hold the exquisite sensations overwhelming his body, like the pleasure he was feeling must be bursting out of his skin and flooding the room in white light. His knees buckled under him and he collapsed in a heap on the bottom of the tub, the cool porcelain easing the feverish state of his over-stimulated body.

He heard a wicked chuckle from above him as he closed his eyes - just for a moment - he was sure there was something he was supposed to be doing about now. But he felt boneless, hollowed out, and he wasn't sure he could stay awake one second longer.

The last thing he heard was a frustrated shout, a beloved voice raised in righteous indignation.

"Oi! No time for sleeping - we have unfinished business. You'd better not fall asleep on me, you bloody wanker!"


~*~*~*~*~


When Xander came to, he was dry and comfortable, wrapped up in a blanket, lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling above their bed. His body was amazingly languid, almost as if he was floating on air about a foot above the mattress. He looked around the room. He was alone. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He licked his lips, and tried again.

“Spike?” It might be a weak and quavery attempt, but yes, he had accomplished sound. There was a victory in there somewhere.

A blonde head poked in around the door jamb. “Back in the land of the living, are we then? ‘Bout bloody time.”

Spike’s smile was smug. Well, Xander couldn't possibly begrudge him that - after that performance, he had a right to be. He tried to think of something smart and sarcastic to say, but his brain cells were still shorted out. The snark was just going to have to wait until they’d recovered.

Spike crossed to the bed, bussing Xander soundly, his mouth tasting of toothpaste which was a relief considering where his mouth had just been.

“Be back in a mo, luv. Just a few minutes of the game left. Then we can get back to the fun stuff.”

“Fun stuff?”

“You owe me big, mate. I had to toss off all by my lonesome with no help from you. Not very sporting if you ask me. I suppose I could have fucked you anyway, conscious or not, but where’s the fun in that?  No fun at all if they don't struggle.” Spike raised his voice on his last words as he left the room, grumbling.

Xander just rolled his eyes. Spike wasn’t happy unless he was bitching. He sighed, starting to shake off the lassitude of a truly fantastic orgasm. Stretching luxuriously, he clasped his fingers behind his head, a satisfied grin on his face.

A snatch of song poked its way into Xander’s thoughts. The voice of Sid Vicious growled and cursed as it stalked its way through his frontal lobe. His grin got wider still when he realized why that particular song was on his mind. He picked up the thread of the tune, half humming it, half singing under his breath, his throat still raw from shouting out his orgasm.

“To think, I did all that, and may I say, not in a shy way…”

Spike’s voice echoed down the hall, brash and coarse, full of pride and a truly wicked sense of humor.

“Oh no, oh no not me, I did it my way!”




The End



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