Let's Talk About Sex
Behind Blue Eyes
The crypt was dark and eerily silent when Spike returned. It had never bothered him before, but now it did. The place had changed. It also seemed colder than before.
Everything was exactly the way they'd left it, down to the tape still sticking out of the VCR and the few remaining glass splinters that gleamed on the floor. Yet, something was missing.
Scowling, Spike picked up the whiskey bottles. Both were empty. Bugger.
He was restless. He was also still hard, and horny as hell. His mind kept rewinding to the moment when he'd held Xander's face between his hands, when they'd stared at each other in speculation.
He should've just grabbed the boy there and then and snogged him senseless. Should've ground and rubbed against that hot, hard body, letting the boy feel what he did to him, how hard he'd made him. Should've shoved his hands down those baggy pants and grabbed Xander's cock....
The boy had been ripe for the picking. His heartbeat, his smell and the heat of his body had betrayed him. He had been turned on. No doubt about it. Funny, how just a few months ago, Harris had wanted him dust - now, it looked like he wanted to bone him. Who'd have thought...?
Spike's cock twitched in his pants as his mind replayed the memory once more.
With a sigh, he flung himself into the old armchair. The upholstery was cold, room temperature, but when Spike closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, he could still pick up a lingering trace of Xander's scent. Oh yes. Slouching in his seat, Spike propped his head comfortably against the backrest, then spread his legs. His left hand wandered down to rub and knead his erection through the rough fabric of his pants. Meanwhile his right hand crept underneath his T-shirt, caressing his chest and slowly making its way to his left nipple.
How would Xander touch him? Roughly? Softly? Uncertainly? It was a shame Spike couldn't warm his hands somehow. Cold fingers inevitably reminded him of Dru, Darla, or Angel, which made this fantasy rather difficult to maintain....
He softly circled the nipple with his fingertip and felt it swell under his – no, Xander's! - touch. Xander, licking, and kissing, and stroking Spike's chest, tweaking the hardened nub almost painfully.... Yes, good... Now the other nipple. God, yes! Eyes squeezed shut, Spike arched into his own touch. When a loud moan escaped his lips, the sound reverberated from the naked crypt walls, hollow and bleak. A lonely sound, if ever there was one.
Dreary enough to still his hand. His eyes flicked open, letting in the harsh reality of a dank, filthy crypt full of cobwebs and other junk. A place of death, without warmth or laughter. The perfect buzzkill. Bugger.
Spike got up, turned the TV on, and zapped until he found a channel with a boring looking chick-flick, one that had a half-way decent musical score. He turned the volume down, until all that was left was a soothing murmur.
He got back to his chair and closed his eyes again. Yes, that was better. Now, where was I? Yes, Xander's mouth on his nipples, playing with them, tweaking and sucking, and teasing them with his tongue. Spike shoved his shirt upwards, moistened a finger with saliva, then flicked the wet fingertip against the hardening nipple, pretending it was Xander's tongue. Pretending that his own hands were busy elsewhere. Like gripping a shock of silky brown hair...
He hastily unbuckled his belt and went on to unbutton his pants, freeing his straining hardness from its confinement. Jutting proudly from its nest of dark blond curls, his cock was already moist at the tip. Wriggling his hips, Spike yanked down his skin-tight jeans until there was enough room for one hand to sneak past his hard-on and between his legs to firmly fondle his balls and stroke the sensitive region between his thighs. At the same time, the other hand closed around his erect shaft.
As Spike pleasured himself with slow, sure strokes, he imagined giving that hurtful pretty mouth something else to do than hurl insults at him, pictured Xander's lips surrounding him, moist and delicious, slowly sucking him off... oh, yes... Imagined plunging deeply into that warm, wet mouth, feeling the tip of his cock hit the roof of the boy's mouth with every single thrust....A single drop of pre-come appeared at the tip of his cock, and then another one.
Spike's breathing quickened into heavy panting. 120 years of undeath, and he was still unable to break with the habit of breathing when in the throes of passion. But who gave a fuck, when with each intake of breath he was able to taste Xander's musky scent. Spike's strokes became more urgent, his hand a blur. At the same time he bucked in his chair, jerking his hips, thrusting fiercely into his own slick fist, hard, and frantic.
Yet, something was missing. He didn't just want to fuck the boy, no, he wanted... wanted... Spike imagined touching Xander's cock, feeling its hardness and heat in his hand, feeling the evidence of Xander's want for him, his need... Oh, aren't you a needy boy! Oh god... yes! He wanted to hear Xander moan, and whimper, and beg for release, wanted Xander to want HIM. Come on, Xander, say it! Wanted to hear his name called out as he... came, hard, shivering with the sheer intensity of his release, as he rode the peaks of a long, drawn-out orgasm.
For a while Spike just lay there, panting, eyes closed. Unwilling to move or even let go of his softening cock. Listening to the background babble of the television but failing to draw any kind of comfort from it. If anything, the low-pitched laugh track made him feel even more lonely.
It was the cooling moisture on his skin that finally got him to move. He stood up, took off his T-shirt, used it to wipe the sticky come off his stomach and his prick, then tossed the crumpled piece of clothing to the floor, before buttoning up his pants.
He peered into Xander's cooler, on the off chance that the boy had brought a third bottle of booze. None left. Too bad. It would have been nice to get thoroughly plastered. With a shrug, Spike lit himself a cigarette instead, before he climbed down the ladder. Without bothering to take off his pants or boots, Spike stretched out on his huge four-poster bed. For a long time he just stared into the darkness, smoking several cigarettes in succession. Then, gradually, his breathing slowed down, until it stopped altogether. The melodious song of a thrush finally lulled him to sleep.
The cab ride home did very little to dull Xander's arousal, and listening to the radio only made things worse. Of all possible songs in the world it had to play "Behind Blue Eyes" by The Who. The lyrics inexorably dragged Xander's thoughts back to things better forgotten, things like the raw need in Spike's eyes. And when that song was followed by Frankie Goes To Hollywood and "Relax" it was too late to ask the driver to change stations. Xander's alcohol-addled imagination had made itself at home in the gutter.
His mind was obsessively replaying that wicked, sensuous moment, when Spike had languidly licked his fingers. It was the most erotic thing Xander had ever seen – and for someone living with a girl-friend who was happy to pole-dance for him dressed in lacy lingerie and suspender belts that was saying something. The image of Spike's agile tongue curling around his own fingers was impossible to get rid of. Whenever Xander pushed it out of his mind, it boomeranged back instantaneously to whack him with a breath-taking shiver down his spine. And when he accidentally drifted into a fantasy of the vampire's mouth and tongue touching him intimately, desire hit him like a sledgehammer.
This was so not good!
He paid the cab driver and stumbled into the apartment, after fumbling awkwardly with the lock.
Anya was fast asleep, as expected. Xander bent over her and tenderly brushed a strand of hair out of her lovely face. The bed was warm and inviting. Snuggling up to Anya seemed like a really good idea. But not yet. Xander was still too restless and disconcerted about what had happened - or not happened - between him and Spike.
He silently crept to the bathroom, where he squinted at his reflection in the mirror to investigate the cut at his brow. It was already healing. Good. The sticky, half-dried blood stain that covered his shoulder and reached down part of the sleeve was not so good.
Xander popped a few painkillers against the headache, then he quickly peeled off his clothes and stepped under the shower.
The hot water eased some of the tension from his body. As he was shampooing his hair, gently coaxing apart strands that had been caked together by dried blood, his mind began to drift into unforeseen directions. I wonder where Spike washes or showers... He grimaced. Okay, andhow had that peroxided pest managed to sneak into his thoughts again? Xander adjusted the water temperature. Colder was probably better.
Afterwards, he stepped to the sink to brush his teeth. He found himself wondering if Spike ever brushed his teeth, and whether he cleaned both sets. Maybe he was flossing his fangs in the shower at this very moment. Or not, since the crypt didn't seem to have running water... and what was it with this one-track mind of his? Why did all his thoughts unerringly gravitate Spike-wards? When Xander was so not interested in guys!
He dumped his blood stained clothes into the sink and turned on the cold tap. If Anya were to see the size of the stain she'd freak and ask him endless questions. Eventually he'd end up telling her about what had happened and the next day he'd probably read it in the Sunnydale paper. Anya and discretion didn't mix. And he so didn't want to talk to Buffy about this. What was it Buffy had said? "I'm not having sex with Spike, but I am beginning to think that you might be." Better not give that train of thought any extra fuel.
He sprinkled detergent into the cold water, stirred to make the powder dissolve properly, then gave the stained shirt a vigorous rub. Immediately, the water turned rusty. Okay, everything under control here. Luckily he had lots of practice washing blood out of his clothes. With a bit of luck, his Anya-anniversary shirt would survive the night unblemished.he was relieved to note that his dick had gone soft again, lulled to sleep by this intentionally boring domestic activity.
See? He was not attracted to men. If he were, he'd have noticed by now. He wouldn't be into boobs, he'd be looking at guys, checking out their ass, right? Right? Time for an experiment. He'd just use his imagination, go through a few scenarios in his head, try them on for size, because while he was a hundred percent sure he wasn't into guys, it couldn't hurt to, you know, have proof or something. He had to know . Should he wait till his blood alcohol was down to naught point something? Nah, I'd never try this sober.
Xander closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself kissing and groping - Stop! No groping. Just kissing. - another man, daring himself to be aroused.
Hmm, let's see. Oz, nice guy, really cool, but no. Um,... Giles? Ew, no way! Riley, well, he's well-muscled, with fantastic arms, but that doesn't mean I want to make out with him. No definitely not. Ben? Not in a million years. Larry, no. Jonathon. no. Okay, see? Not gay. Totally not gay. Who else is there? Dracula, no no no, he doesn't count, because of that thrall thing. Okay, then there's Angel. Ew, let's not go there, although—. Wait... perhaps-not-totally-ew. But no. Xander shook his head. He hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, then plunged right into the next fantasy. Spike, yeah... Xander's eyes drifted shut, allowing his inner vision take over: Spike taking off his shirt to expose a lean, muscular chest, his nipples tantalizingly pert and rosy; Spike hooking a finger into the waistband of Xander's pants dragging him forward; Spike leaning forward to kiss him, while deftly undoing the zipper of Xander's pants.... Oh boy!
Xander shuddered and bucked reflexively, when a cold hand touched his dick, which was now very much awake again. It was like a jolt of electricity. He realised dimly that it was his own hand that was stroking his hot flesh, but in his mind's eye it was a strong pale hand, Spike's fist, that was wrapped around his rock-hard cock, pleasuring him.
Xander leaned against the bathroom wall, and began to pump in earnest. He heard himself groan, but the sound seemed to come from far away. In his fantasy soft lips joined strong fingers and Xander imagined himself thrusting into the vampire's cool wet mouth.
Oh wow, this was hot. Harder. Yes. His movements became more frantic. Wow, this feels good. He panted. "Suck me, yeah... I want... you...oh yeah...Spike...." He tensed in shock. Hearing himself hoarsely whisper the vampire's name jolted him out of his fantasy.
He let go, yanking back his hand as though he'd burnt himself. Part of him was horrified at the intensity of his arousal. Another part of him said Looks like you fancy another bloke. So what? Only, the voice had a British accent and sounded suspiciously like Spike, so that didn't count.
That's when the absurdity of the situation hit him. Here he was, more or less hiding in his own bathroom, fantasizing not just about another guy, with guy parts and everything, which was bad enough, but about an undead guy who'd kill him in a heartbeat if he weren't chipped. Spike had never made it a secret that he wanted to see Xander dead. Oh god! Why was Xander masturbating - something he hadn't done in almost two years - when his very desirable girlfriend was sleeping in the next room?
Why Spike? What did that bleached nuisance have that the others lacked? Unfortunately, that one was easy to answer: Bony ridges over his bestial eyes and exceptionally sharp teeth, that's what. Plus a history as a killer and unsavoury eating habits. Vampires were supposed to possess uncanny seductive powers, weren't they?
What about other vampires? Female ones. That blond one, Angel's sire? Didn't leave much of an impression. Harmony? Hasn't really improved in undeath. Drusilla? Ew, too ga-ga to be a turn on. He was running out of female vampires fast. But there were bound to be really attractive ones around somewhere. He just hadn't met them, that was all.
Xander glared at his persistent hard-on. 'Touch me,' it seemed to say, but he folded his arms in front of his chest, determined to ignore it. He was not going to jerk off fantasizing about Spike. No way! He'd go to bed and try to think of something boring. Like that chick flick, 'The Bridges of Madison County'. Yeah, that was a good turn off. Tomorrow, when he was more sober, and after a good night sleep, he'd plead temporary insanity and just get on with his life. Tomorrow I'll realize I'm totally. Not. Gay.
After all, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
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