Written for fall_for_sx - my first time as a contributor. :)
Word Count: 3475
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Full disclaimer here.
Feedback: Oxygen to the flame. Concrit also highly welcome by email.
Many thanks to cordelianne and madame_meretrix for last-minute, splendiferous beta jobs. Also, thanks to entrenous88 who, lo those many moons ago, set me thinking about Spike and laundry.
Ironing Out The Kinks
Xander swung down the basement stairs half an hour early. Traffic had been good. So good that he wondered if the Sunnydale populace had gotten wind of an apocalypse that Buffy had somehow forgotten to mention to him.
Frantic scrambling noises and a crash came from behind his door, followed by an acrid, scorched smell.
He frowned, palmed the ever-present stake and kicked the door open. Spike was sprawled nonchalantly on the couch, apparently engrossed in a Simpsons rerun. He looked up, the epitome of boredom, and cocked an eyebrow at Xander. “Pretty dramatic entry. You playing cops and robbers again, Harris?”
Xander looked around. The coffee table had been pulled slightly out of place in a futile attempt to hide an iron-shaped burn mark on the carpet. Further inspection confirmed that the ironing board had been hastily thrown behind the couch, and Spike was sitting on a couple of shirts.
“You were ironing,” Xander stated. And saying it out loud didn’t help him believe it, or make it less funny. He managed not to laugh, but couldn’t help a tiny smirk. “The Big Bad was ironing. And then trying to hide it. Guess it really sucks not having minions anymore, huh?”
Caught, Spike went on the defensive. “Least I care what I look like. Least I don’t go out in – “ he cast a derogatory glance at Xander’s outfit, eyebrow raised – “beige jackets, for fuck’s sake. Or,” he raised a finger, “rumpled Hawaiian sporting last week’s pizza sauce.”
Xander flushed. “That was a totally necessary trip to the grocery store, when everything else was in the wash! Didn’t hear you complaining about my shirt when I was restocking the Weetabix supply. And it was the middle of the night. I was hardly gonna run into anyone who cared what the hell I had on.”
Spike turned back to the TV. “Never know, mate. All those advice columns, romance tips, ‘Find Love In The Frozen Food Aisle’... No girl is gonna take a second look after the first look screams, ‘This guy is a slob who doesn’t value himself.’ No matter how sexy the body under the awful wardrobe.”
Sexy? Xander was momentarily thrown off but rallied to reply, “Sure, Dr Phil. Aren’t those same romance columns always going on about how it’s what’s on the inside that counts? And my insides are highly desira – you know what? Forget I said that.” He repocketed the stake, wandered over to the fridge and stared thoughtfully into it, hoping something vaguely edible might materialize.
“Image is important, Harris. Buffy knows that. You don’t see her out slaying in ratty old sweatpants.”
Xander opened his mouth, then shut it again. He had to admit, he’d occasionally thought that Buffy might be more comfortable if she didn’t insist on wearing her latest outfits on patrol. However, these thoughts had generally been quickly stamped on by a more basic part of his brain, which asked if he’d really prefer that Buffy not do roundhouse kicks in miniskirts.
It had never occurred to him that the Slayer might have an image to live up to. Was “must be beautiful, cool and in touch with the latest trends” part of the job description? Had there ever been an ugly Slayer? Maybe looks were part of the Calling criteria.
Hold on, did that mean that witty banter with the soon-to-be-staked was also part of the contract? Was that a pre-existing personality thing, or something you got handed along with the super-strength?
Spike carried on, oblivious to Xander’s musings. Xander decided that beer was a good start to the evening, retrieved a couple, and tuned in again to hear Spike say in all seriousness, “…you knew you were being eaten by somebody important. That kind of thing matters.”
“What?!” Xander pulled back the beer he’d been holding out to Spike, earning a serious growl and flash of golden eyes. “People did not feel… proud about being your late-night snack!”
Spike looked at him with disdain. “Was different then. Lives were shorter. We were more… visible. People went out after dark, they knew they risked ending up as vampire food. Didn’t pretend nothing was wrong, like the idiots round here.” He rose, walked – no, stalked – over to Xander and snatched his beer. “Least when me or Angel got them, they knew they were… special. Chosen. Nummy treat for the aristocracy, not Spaghetti-Os for the minions.”
Xander ignored the warm tingle that curled inside him when Spike said “nummy.” He backed away slowly, humouring the deranged vamp, and sat heavily on the sofa. Unfortunately, Spike followed and sat way too close, leaning in and looking intently at Xander.
“You know what I mean. You’ve seen enough fledges, minions – morons who haven’t even bothered to wash the dirt off yet. That night Angel offered you to me – you must have realized you were dealing with the Big Bad? Someone who knew how to dress for the hunt?”
“You think I noticed what you were wearing? You seriously think I’d have cared? Sorry, but your sartorial skills were overshadowed by the fact you were going to kill me!”
“Oh, will you leave that alone? If I’d really been trying to kill you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!” Spike frowned. “Sartorial? You been reading ‘Improve Your Word Power’ again?”
“A small legacy of Sunnydale’s fine educational tradition – cramming for SATs. Don’t change the subject. You were so trying to kill me. The only reason you didn’t was ‘cause Joyce kicked your ass.”
Quirk of scarred eyebrow. Pitying look.
“Okay, and being rescued by Buffy’s mom was not my finest moment.”
They drank in silence for a few minutes.
“You can’t honestly think leather and peroxide constitute a serious fashion statement.”
Spike shrugged. “It’s all about style, Harris.”
“You call what you’re wearing style?”
“Everybody’s got an image. This one works for me. I’m comfortable in it, and it does what it needs to.”
Xander frowned and waved his second beer. “No, no. You don’t start sounding intelligent. You’re supposed to get angry with me for mocking your Billy Idol look. Sarcasm from you I can cope with. I’ve grown to expect and even cherish it. Don’t start with unexpected honesty. Unexpected things confuse and worry me.”
Spike leaned back, looking unusually relaxed and open. “I’ll say it again: image. You all assume that I’m an idiot, simply because you were born far too recently to have any sense of what punk was about.”
“No, we assume you’re an idiot because you hung out with Angelus and devised really stupid plans that never worked.”
“Not to mention getting caught by a bunch of goons and being their guinea pig. Oh! And dating Harmony? Did not improve your rep as a deep thinker.”
“Maybe not, but at least I looked good. Harm always ironed my shirts.”
Xander snorted some beer. “You trusted Harmony with something potentially flammable?”
“She’s not as dumb as she looks.” Xander just stared. Spike reconsidered. “Right, she is as dumb as she looks. Still, the Big Bad’s got to have someone looking after him.”
“Part of the image?”
“Yeah. You watch, when I get this chip out, first thing I’ll do –”, he broke off, frowned. “No, first thing, kill you all, bathe in blood, wreak havoc and violence, etc. Second thing, get a bunch of minions together and make them cater to my every whim. Have myself a bloody good time.”
Xander propped his feet on the coffee table and finished off his beer, unfazed.
Spike glared. “You could at least pretend to tremble in fear at the thought of me ripping your spine out.”
Xander smiled indulgently. “I think I’m getting the hang of this image concept.”
“Watch it,” Spike growled warningly.
“All bluster and noise, still pretending you’re the Big Bad. Ooh, look at me, I’m wearing leather! But here you are, Spike. Sitting in my loser basement, drinking my beer, waiting for Buffy – the Slayer that you failed to kill – to call. And then you’ll run out,” Xander gestured grandly, “to fight for truth, justice and apple pie.”
Spike snorted. “God, Harris, you really are an idiot. When I fight, it’s for blood, cigarettes, and sex.”
“Sex?” Xander spluttered.
Spike leered. “Sure. Fightin’s a real turn-on. All that adrenaline, fear, smell of blood in the air…” His eyes glazed over a little. “Best combination on earth. Fights end, but all that excitement doesn’t just – go away.”
He sighed deeply. “Wildest sex I ever had was after fights with Angelus.”
Spike appeared lost in happy memories.
Unbidden, the image of an aroused Spike stalked through Xander’s mind – eyes intent, mouth bruised from hard kisses, hips swinging purposefully. His heart began to pound. From fear, he hastily reassured himself. Scary, freaky, intense vampire. Turned-on Spike was not turning him on.
“Please tell me that you’re talking about showing Drusilla a good time, after Angel beat you up.” His voice came out more plaintive than he’d hoped for.
Spike’s gaze sharpened, turned on him. “Sometimes.” He licked his lips. “Angelus was wicked in a lot of good ways, though.”
The Spike in Xander’s mind was pinned against a wall, while a larger, dark-haired man twisted his arm cruelly behind his back, and ground against his ass. Imaginary Spike groaned, jerked his hips back – and Xander gasped as his cock filled instantly at the thought of Spike bucking beneath him.
He grimaced, fervently hoping the gasp came across as horror. “You and – god, Spike! I really don’t want to hear about depraved vampire sex. Either shut up, or get the hell out.”
He swung his feet down from the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on knees, trying to conceal the hard-on increasingly tenting his khakis. In the back of his mind, the tall dark-haired man yanked up Spike’s shirt, licking over taut muscles; Spike bent his neck in submission as the man bit his shoulder viciously.
“Still daylight. ‘M not going anywhere.”
Spike was still watching him intently. Xander began to squirm under the scrutiny, blush rising. He wanted to flee, but there was no way to get up without displaying the bulge in his pants. Imaginary Spike was sporting an equally impressive bulge, as he turned, dropped to his knees, and rubbed his cheek against the dark-haired man’s groin. Xander’s cock ached and throbbed in sympathy.
“Those were the days. Proper vampire days. Feed, fight…” Spike’s voice was dark and liquid, savouring the consonants. “Fuck.”
Imaginary Spike and real Spike had the same look now – hot, heavy-lidded gaze that set Xander’s skin tingling where it touched.
“Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like? Being a vampire?” He leaned in still closer. “Dru told me about you. She really fancied you. Wanted to turn you. You ever think about what you missed out on?” Spike licked his lips. “The pleasure. The freedom.”
Xander’s mouth opened but no words came.
“But then,” Spike went on, deadly serious. “You’ve got your own image. Don’t you? Harris the Vampire Hater.”
“You know all about image,” Spike’s voice poured over him, sweet, heavy and cloying as syrup. “Cracking jokes. Bringing donuts. Playing the straight, upstanding, vampire-hating do-gooder. Slayer never figured out why you hated Angel so much, did she?”
Xander numbly shook his head, though whether in agreement or denial, he couldn’t have said. Tendrils of panic were creeping through him.
“Shagging demon-girl, who’s so out of touch with human emotion that she doesn’t notice you’re just going through the motions. Doesn’t have a clue what really turns your crank.”
“Stop. I – stop. Please.”
“Tying me to that chair night after night, because I’m dangerous. Pretending it had nothing to do with how much you got off on it. I could hear you, you know, in the shower afterwards. Tossing off, moaning, oozing pheromones all over the place. Making me so fucking horny and I couldn’t even reach my dick. Had to just sit there, listening.”
Xander’s mind reeled. He’d had that effect on Spike?
Spike had gotten hard for him. Listened to him jerk off. Maybe even heard his name whispered into the water. He could have broken free of the ropes, joined Xander in the shower, water droplets beading on his eyelashes and running down that pale chest… “No,” he mumbled, looking down. “No?”
“Don’t lie, Xander,” snapped Spike. “Could smell it all over you.” He grabbed Xander’s chin, forcing it up, meeting his eyes. “Can smell it now.”
Xander tried to pull away but Spike was immovable. Xander blushed and squirmed, feeling heat staining his cheeks. His cock pulsed, leaking in his boxers, and Spike’s eyes flickered momentarily as he inhaled. “Mmm.”
So close. Xander stared at the shadows hollowing Spike’s cheeks. At the way his mouth moved, saying the impossible.
“Yours for the taking. You just have to admit it.”
“No, I don’t…” He knotted his hands together. “Spike, I can’t, I – ”
He met Spike’s eyes. The word was torn from his throat.
Spike still held his chin in an iron grip, but it was his gaze that kept Xander frozen in place, drowning in blue and lust and his own humiliation, as Spike leaned in and kissed him.
Xander whimpered and opened his lips to the first touch of Spike’s, inviting the vampire in as the last of his façade shattered. He let the shards fall. Image no longer mattered, with a reality this… unreal, and he couldn’t get enough of Spike’s mouth and taste and smell. He chased Spike’s tongue, pressed their mouths together harder, crushed his lips against Spike’s still-blunt teeth. Both hands came up to grab the vampire by the shirt and pull him over Xander’s body, as they collapsed backwards into the cushions.
Spike was – dear god, Spike was nibbling and biting all the way across his collarbones, up his neck to his jaw, and Xander made a promptly-forgotten mental note that his warning system was obviously on the fritz because this should have set off alarm bells like nothing else, this should have prompted him to kick the hello, vampire! across the room. It should not have made him whimper and pant and rut against Spike and shove his hands down the back of the vampire’s jeans to try and pull him impossibly closer.
Lips fused again, tongues tangling, mouths hot and cold and tasting of beer. Kisses so different from Cordy or Anya – vaguely reminiscent of Faith in the hunger and the power. Xander tilted his head for an even better angle and relinquished his death grip on Spike’s ass to tangle one hand in crunchy blond hair. Slower now, less frantic, learning and exploring.
Spike raised himself slightly on one elbow. Still kissing Xander, but undulating over him. Hard body rubbing against his, gliding over his raging erection. Xander moaned and bucked up, wordlessly begging for more pressure; Spike obliged, grinding down. His mouth moved to Xander’s ear, licking and blowing on sensitized skin along the way.
“You’re mine. You want to be mine. Gonna have you. Taste you. Taste all of you.” Scrape of teeth along his neck.
Overwhelming sensation and conflicting emotion crashed through Xander like a tsunami. He felt his balls tighten and fought it – he couldn’t come yet, not yet, oh god! – but as Spike reached down and gripped his cock through his pants, he spasmed and unloaded despite himself.
He hadn’t thought he could blush any more. He kept his eyes shut. “Ohh. Oh god. Sorry. I – sorry. God.”
No laughter, or cruel words, and Spike didn’t pull away. The hand shifted to his hip, soothing, petting. Xander eventually, fearfully cracked his eyes open.
Spike’s stare held none of the expected mockery. Just heat, and want, and something darker that Xander didn’t examine too closely. Spike wanted him. Him. His whole body shivered at the devouring look Spike was giving him.
“Don’t worry about it, pet.” That voice caressed him, even as Spike’s hands smoothed down his side and stroked back his hair. “I’ll take it as a compliment, yeah? Does my image a world of good,” wicked glint, “and takes the edge off a bit. Gives us time to enjoy this.”
His long fingers undid Xander’s khakis, ran under the waistband of his boxers. Xander canted his hips, and Spike shoved the sodden fabric of pants and underwear down and off his legs.
He bent towards Xander’s groin, drawing in a deep breath. Delicately, ever so neatly, his tongue began cleaning Xander’s sticky thighs. Xander shuddered in pleasured disbelief as Spike licked come from his legs and belly, nuzzling into the crease of his hips. His breathing sped up when Spike sucked one ball, then the other, into his mouth, circling and rolling them on his tongue. When Spike’s lips closed around his reawakening cock, he whimpered.
This time, the wave built more slowly, but as inexorably. Spike licked, sucked, and sweet Christ, deep-throated him until Xander barely knew his own name. Strong fingers held his hipbones, guided his motions, pulled him into that beautiful mouth. Xander was moaning continuously, writhing mindlessly and clenching the cushions, on the brink of spilling once again, when Spike finally pulled off.
Xander whined in protest. Spike chuckled.
“Could use a little attention here.”
Xander blushed yet again, and began to stammer an apology that died on his lips as he looked, really looked at Spike. Naked Spike – when had Spike lost his clothes? Beautiful, aroused, sexy, naked Spike. Eyes intent, and mouth flushed from hard kisses. Xander leaned in for another kiss and tasted himself in Spike’s mouth. Slightly wiggy, overwhelmingly exciting.
Spike’s cock was standing taut against his belly, the gleaming head fully uncovered. Xander tentatively reached out. He grasped it, stroking slowly, learning the feel of slightly loose, velvety skin sliding over the rigid shaft. Different than his own, and different angle holding it this way, but he knew what he liked and he started pumping, varying the pressure and speed of his strokes. Spike groaned and he took that as encouragement, working it faster, gliding his thumb over the slick head and flicking the bundle of nerves gently.
Spike snarled and grabbed his hand, pulling it away. Xander froze momentarily in embarrassment and fear, but then Spike was lacing their hands together above his head and nudging his knees apart. Xander relaxed – then tensed again in anticipation, as Spike settled between his legs, nestling his erection in the hollow of Xander’s hip, moving slowly and sweetly against him.
Gentle rocking rapidly turned into frenzied thrusting, as they both careened towards climax. Spike was muttering beautiful obscenities: oh you sweet fuck, you lovely boy, taste so good, big sweet cock, wanna fuck you, wanna bite you, make you come, come for me, fuck, come for me, Xander, come on… His eyes were closed; he was biting his lip, gasping for unneeded air. Skin slipping and sliding, cock rubbing his, sweat-slick and perfect – Xander felt the wave cresting. He accepted the inevitable, threw back his head and let orgasm break over him.
Spike buried his face in Xander’s neck, fucked harder and faster against him, frantic, growling, desperate. So close, muscles trembling.
Xander wrapped his arms around him.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let go.”
Spike’s whole body stiffened in Xander’s embrace, and then he was coming, yelling, shooting jet after jet between them.
They lay limp and satiated. Neither spoke or moved, until sweat dried and fluids cooled and clean-up became imperative. Spike silently climbed off and headed for the bathroom. Sounds of water running, and he returned, holding out a damp facecloth and dry towel. Xander nodded thanks, averting his eyes, and wiped himself off.
“So,” Spike flopped down and stretched out. “You gonna continue denying you noticed how sharp I looked, all those times I allegedly tried to kill you?”
Xander inspected the sofa cushions, muttered curses, and started scrubbing them with the facecloth. “You were doing your level best to kill me. And I may occasionally have noticed how hot you looked while doing so.”
He reached behind the sofa and pulled out the ironing board.
“So, Mr. Not-So-Bad. How ‘bout ironing my shirts? I’ve got a job interview tomorrow, and I need to impress. The Xand-man’s gotta look his best.”
“Don’t need shirt and tie to interview at Pizza Hut, Harris.”
Xander grinned. “Nope. Got an interview for a halfway decent job.”
Xander looked surprised. Spike bristled. “You need a better job to afford a better place. And if you expect me to stick around, you’ll get a better place. Got an image to uphold.”
“Pfft. Your image is shot to hell, buddy.”
“Still not ironing your shirts.”