Xander works with a level of distance that only Spike sees. Well, the others probably do too, if they're smart enough to look past the wide grin and the laughing eye he turns on the world, but Xander's pretty sure that no one looks too close at the man with one eye and his grins are taken as a manager's expected costume, like the suit and tie he loathes but wears every day.
But Spike sees. Spike sees a truly frightening amount, reminding Xander of times when Spike always had the sharp comment no one wanted to hear or the insidious insinuation that crept in the foundations of their well-plastered walls of denial like dry-rot or termites and left destruction in its wake. Xander isn't afraid of the observation anymore, but it still weirds him out completely when it isn't making him crazy.
"Keep the door open," Spike instruction. His voice is warm and low and smooth like the best espresso, the bite hidden until after you swallow your mouthful, coming over the telephone with a snake-charmer's skill. Xander is in his chair, door open to the whole wide world—well, busy office, anyway. People scurry on past him, trapped on the telephone with a gigolo he's going to be finding something to give as a bonus. Big, big bonus. "Open your pants, love."
"Spike! I am not opening my pants in the middle of my office with the door open and you know have those huge windows behind me, because I complain to you how much I hate them since I can't keep blinds over them because they always break and the plants never get enough light and—"
"Sh. Sh, sh, sh." It's the kind of quieting croon fathers make to fussy sons and daughters, masculine and paternal and encouraging, and it silences Xander faster than any curt order could. "Sh, love. Not gonna get you in trouble. Don't want you in trouble, do I? Love your wallet as much as I love your cock. Both thick and hard for me, aren't they? Are you hard, pet? Hard already for me? Love your cock, Xander. Love it in my mouth and in my ass, fill me up so good. Can you take it out, pet? Want you to touch it. Pretend it's me, pet, run your fingers all over your cock for me."
Xander wants to object, wants to curse Spike out for taking advantage of him like this because Spike knows that this voice can make Xander do just about damn anything. It's like aural crack cocaine, heroine injected through eardrum and it leaves Xander limp and helpless and dazedly obedient because each coaxing request is like another hit on the pipe. "Bastard," he whispers, voice rough with lust. "You're such a manipulative bastard."
"Shh," Spike admonishes, and he's still so gentle, persuasive, without the ironic twist that's so uniquely Spike. There's just warmth and honey-sweet need, tempered with a pinch of disapproval and correction, baked up into an irresistible cake. "Quietly, now, pet. Don't want others to see what you're doing. So naughty, you are, cock out and hard in your hands. Push away from the desk a bit. Don't want you to knock the pretty head against your keyboard drawer."
Spike doesn't ask him if he's done what he asked, because the mother fucker knows Xander's wrapped around his cock the way girls used to wrap him around their breasts. Xander's out, obscene against the dark of his slacks, and if he doesn't push away, he really would smack against the damned keyboard drawer.
"You've such a beautiful cock," Spike croons to him. "D'you like it when I nibble on the vein? Touch it for me, love. Trace it with your finger. So blue, it is, dark and pulsing. I love to feel it against me, giving me a pulse just for a little bit. That's right, pet, slow, steady touches. Just feel how strong your are through it. Could suck right there for hours, and have, haven't I? Knelt between your legs while you were flat out on the bed, worshiping you right there. But that's not all there is, oh no. You're so sensitive 'round your scar. Desecration, circumcising that cock, but I love the little hook it makes. Touch there, now, love. Feel the bump of it? Imagine me licking right there, pet. Point of my tongue finding each knot of skin, laving it. Does it feel good, pet? When I touch you there?"
Xander's eyes are starting to ache from staring so hard at the open doorway but he can't look away, can't shift to ease the growing cramp in his shoulder, because one hand's clutching the desk and the other is completely obedient to whatever Spike tells him to do. "Yeah."
"Tell me, pet. Tell me."
He whimpers, body shuddering hard as the gentle command speeds to vocal cords, faster than impulses from his brain can get there. "Yes, Spike. Feels good."
"That's a good pet," Spike answers, the soothing praise reward enough to make Xander arch and groan. "Stroke yourself now. Soft and slow. Love to tease you. Make you glare up at me like I've done something terrible. I'm there now, aren't I? At work with you. Snug under your desk, dressed up in nothing more than a ribbon. Can you see me, pet? Hands coming up while your working, talking on the phone like a good worker bee. Want me to suck you, Xan? There where anybody can walk in and see you so hard and beautiful. Hard for me, aren't you, pet? Want me to suck that cock into my mouth, nurse it while you calm ruffled feathers and then go ruffle a few more for fun. Mouth so wet and soft round your cock, more holding than sucking. Touching you here and there with my tongue, random patterns that make you twitch. Do that for me, pet, won't you? Stroke like it's my mouth around you, fingers finding all the good spots I find with my tongue. Do that for me, love, yeah, just like that."
He isn't sure if it's the steady repetitions or just the word-picture Spike's creating or maybe it really is the thrill of possibly being caught. All he does know is that his cock is flushed with blood in his fist and he's about to make an unseemly mess in his pants very very soon. "Please," he begs, not sure what he's begging for. More, less, the chance to give in to the pressure rising in his balls, he'll take all of the above, Alex. Daily double? Sure, risk it all, because so long as Spike was talking, Xander would risk everything, do anything to hear more.
"Such a good boy for me," Spike praises and it's balm to his ragged, sparking nerves. "Want you to tug on it now, love. Can you do that for me? Palm around the head, squeezing with each pull. That's me again, love. Taking you into my throat and swallowing down around you the way only I can. Taking you deepest ever, mouth and throat working around you to make sure you're taking care of. Do you feel it? Tell me you feel it, pet."
"Such a good boy for me. Gonna give me a treat now, aren't you, pet? Let me taste it. So much till it runs out my mouth and down over my chin, wet and thick and that's all I need, Xan. Give me that, give me you, and I don't want anything else. Just let me have it, pet, let me taste it, fill me full of it till I can't hold anymore—"
He comes with a strangled cry, under the startled eyes of his administrative assistant, there to deliver the document Xander has to sign before he can go home for the day. She's blinking, searching for some rational explanation for why her boss is panting and flushed, left hand gripping the desk so hard there are going to be smudge marks the janitor will yell at them both for leaving—him for doing it, her for not chastising him for it. Xander pants and blinks, trying to focus and failing miserably. "Sneeze," he lies, left hand trembling as he transfers the phone from one ear or the other. "Just leave that, Jenean, I'll give it to you on my way out, okay? And close the door, please."
It's got to be screaming obvious, he may as well wave his wet right hand around and splatter everything just for proof, but Jenean just says, "Bless you," and leaves the stack of folders far enough away that she may actually have not seen Xander still clutching his exposed-but-for-the-edge-of-his-desk-cock.
The door closing is like a starter's pistol, leaving Xander slumped and trembling in his expensive leather executive's chair. "You bastard," he hisses. He's grinning and he knows Spike's going to hear it, but there are forms to observe in this and everything else. And Spike is a bastard. He admits that as often as he admits how damned good he is at his job—being whatever Xander wants him to be. Sometimes whatever Xander needs to him to be.
"Can fuck me for it to punish me," Spike says cheerfully.
"Fuck you?" He remembers at the last second to keep his shriek in whispered decibels. It's not possible to keep Spike a secret, but confirming that yes, Xander does have a private sex-bunny isn't something he's interested in doing. "I'll be lucky if I get up by next week, he who forgets that I'm not a randy bloody teenager anymore!"
Spike snickers but doesn't deny that this little humiliation of advancing age is a real possibility. Spike never insults him for it, though, and always manages to turn even reading in bed into an exercise of debauchery, one that thankfully lets his cock rest for a few precious hours. "Pants are in your bag, love. Sign your papers and come home. Your pressie from Leather Lust arrived today."
Xander's home in fifteen minutes flat.
That water’s running when Xander gets home. It’s a siren call of pitter-patter-splash and Xander follows it with his nose in the air and his eyes closed the way cartooned elves used to follow the scent of cookies. Or some twisted commercial from his childhood, and that’s the last thing Xander wants to be thinking about because the shower’s on.
And Spike’s inside it.
Xander used to have a shower curtain, folded plastic that used to mildew and get replaced biannually. Three days after Spike wandered back into his life, construction started on the new bathroom, because no way was Xander going to tolerate that moldy, translucent bit of streaked curtain between him and the vision inside the shower stall.
Sometimes when Xander comes home like this, he has to stop and stare and drool. It doesn’t matter that this is his, to be taken whenever he wants and eagerly provoked into the wanting. There’s an elegant beauty to Spike, an ethereal hint of something that floors Xander whenever he sees it.
Pale skin, smooth and kept mostly hairless when Xander discovered that yeah, he kinda liked that kink. Spike never objects to anything, just arranges for visits to salons and comes home baby smooth from the eyebrows down. Xander can spend hours running his hands over that fine skin, not a single prickle disturbing the sweep and rise and dip of Spike’s body. The bones are light, muscles dense, and nothing is too big except maybe his head, but that’s okay. Because it means his mouth is big and his tongue is long, and who care that he looks like a bobble-head doll sometimes.
Spike’s not tall, except when he’s being a blustery bastard, attitude a ten-foot tall carnival mask that makes him bigger then life. Also, when he’s naked. When that smooth, soft skin is exposed to every inch of Xander’s grasping gaze, he’s no longer a few inches shorter and a little skinnier then Xander. Now he’s a towering vision of the perfect combination of male and female, blended together into an irresistible package.
The water always makes him glisten, highlighting each ridge of muscle and bone. Surprisingly long legs, powerful muscles laying close and solid. Flat belly that’s as bumpy as an old-fashioned wash-board and Xander loves to tease Spike about that. No classic six-pack, no, but still muscular and solid and Xander worships each one regularly. Broad pecs that are tipped with dusky nipples that are extremely sensitive, leading up to a neck Xander loves, loves, loves to bite. It’s breathtakingly beautiful, and the constant wash of water only heightens each feature.
Xander wants to order him to go around naked all the time, but he knows he’ll get unreasonably jealous if he does, so the order stays on his tongue, etching like acid in between the taste buds. So this time he doesn’t stand and just watch. Because it’s his, all his, and daddy wants to play this time. Spike’s soaping his hair when Xander opens the clear glass door, smiling a welcome. Xander grins back, then shoves Spike against the wall, nipping and licking all over his neck—the fastest route to a hardened cock and a very pliable Spike. “Busy day?” Spike rumbles, fondly stroking Xander’s neck and back.
“Unbelievably.” The last few weeks have been hellish and Xander’s been fucking Spike harder and harder in response. “Where’s the slick?”
Spike groans as he’s bitten particularly hard. “All ready,” he pants. “Fuck me, love.”
Xander shakes his head and grins. “Nuh uh,” he says. The water’s soaking into Xander’s eyes, blinding him as he grabs the tube from it’s customary spot and pops it open. “Want you to fuck me, this time.”
He doesn’t notice that Spike’s gone rigid until he’s worked two fingers up inside himself and he thinks he’s ready. “Oh, for—” Grabbing Spike’s head down for a rough kiss that breaks the skin on both their lips, Xander shakes the too-big head in his hand until he’s sure he can hear something rattle. “It’s not the first time I’ve been fucked,” he says firmly.
But it’s the first time Spike has. He’ll top, sure, and loves it when Xander sucks on his cock so long his jaw pops loose and he’s on a liquid diet for a few days. But Xander’s butt is reserved for maybe a few fingers and never anything more. Xander doesn’t like the look in Spike’s eyes, so he persuades his lover to hold onto the hand-rails he had specially installed, never mind the looks from the construction workers who knew he was gay, since they were inhouse, and says, “Hold on.”
Spike grips, automatically obedient, and Xander’s climbing onto Spike’s body, executing a maneuver he knows he can’t duplicate as he somehow manages not to slip on Spike’s slick body while he perches with only one hand, the other busily trying to line Spike’s cock up correctly.
When he finally manages and lowers himself down, Spike gives an almighty groan. “Fuck,” he whispers, blue eyes wide and dazed.
Xander kisses him. “Shut up, baby, and fuck me.”
* * * * *
That’s the first time Spike tops, but it’s not the last. He’ll drop by the office now, Xander counting the seconds since the sun sets on those nights he knows he’ll be working late. Spike saunters in, supremely comfortable in any settling, lazy-eyed and bored. Xander doesn’t even look up, focused on getting his work done so he’ll see his house before midnight, his bed before two, and he can’t afford the distractions.
Once, Spike played the lonely housewife, wanting a coring from her distant hubby. Complaining Xander left him for over ten hours already and he was desperate for a shag. But not since the shower when Spike fucked him until Xander turned into long lines of sizzling nerves and brainless mush in the best possible way. Since then, he’s come up with all kinds of things.
“Working late again?” Spike asks. “Stand up, then. Can keep reading that way.”
Okay, this is different from what Xander’s expecting—there’s no bad boy, no lead in. Just Spike pushing him forward so he can undo and drop Xander’s pants, coaxing him to lean his weight down onto his elbows.
“Keep reading,” Spike instructs when Xander twists to look at him questioningly. When Xander still doesn’t obey, Spike smiles sweetly. “Trust me, love. You’ll like it.”
There isn’t much Spike does to him that he doesn’t like, so Xander goes back to reading the paper printouts since he can’t read the computer screen easily for long, while his ass is fondled and his balls are cupped. It makes reading difficult, but Spike said read, and Xander’s willing to give it at least a try.
That is until the finger that’s working inside him disappears and Spike shoves in with one smooth thrust. He yells. Or moans. Something loudy and vaguely ow-y, because yes, that kinda hurt. But Spike’s there, turning his head back to the papers, hand sliding down to spread over the middle of his back, holding him hunched over in the perfect position. “Said read,” Spike says breathlessly. “Means read the damned papers and pretend I’m not here.”
Xander has no idea what’s going on, but the burn’s faded to something much, much nicer, and Spike starts to fuck him. Hard. There’s nothing sharing and sweet about this, not even the rough play they love to indulge in. It’s as if Xander isn’t even there and Spike’s just fucking to get his rocks off.
It’s unbelievably hot.
They manage to both keep up the pretense for another ten, fifteen minutes tops. Then Xander groans and shoves the papers away, resting his head and arms on the desk so he can thrust back into Spike’s pelvis. Spike chuckles, hands caressing down Xander’s skin to find the hot, heavy cock swinging against the blotter. “Like that, huh? Thought you might. Such a twisted thing you are.”
“Already knew I was a kinky bastard, Spike.”
Spike fucks him harder in response. He normally has to be coaxed into this, not comfortable bruising Xander in any situation, but this time he just pounds his way hard enough that Xander thinks his own hips are going to get displaced and he loves every. Single. Second of it.
When Spike grabs onto his body with both hands, he knows the vampire is close and that sends him over the edge. He screams hoarsely, single eye squeezed shut tight as he paints himself onto the desk and papers that can’t afford to be come stained and that’s probably a bad thing, but then Spike is yelling and filling him and Xander doesn’t give a damn about papers.
Which is good, since Spike collapses down onto him and the ones that aren’t stained are now smooshed.
“Better, love?” Spike asks after a while. “Looked like you needed that.”
Xander twists and turns enough that he can push his face up towards Spike’s, collecting the kiss that was waiting for him. “You’re brilliant. But I’m cramping.”
Spike laughs and they slither into Xander’s delux leather chair and Spike kisses him and massages his legs until they lie still. “Love?”
Work. Work consumes him, overwhelms him, and Xander’s starting to drift back into that horrible place he was after Sunnydale and before Spike. The one where he was an asshole, knew he was, because that’s the only way he could survive. Layoffs and firings, his job now that he’s been given someone else’s responsibilities, and Xander hates that more than anything else. Telling someone who’s worked hard, done a good job, that the company has to let him go, here’s his check and yeah, look, there’s a guard to make sure you don’t do anything destructive on your way out the door that’s hitting you in the ass. Those are worse than the firings, because then—usually—they deserve being told to shove off.
He starts sleeping at work. Spike visits him sometimes, snarling at anyone who dares look side-long at the overworked man and his domesticated lover, who comes bearing food and drink and clean clothes whenever he thinks Xander needs it. The secretaries all love him, of course. Spike charms them as easily as the breathing he doesn’t do, leaving Xander gasping in his wake as his life is rearranged before his eyes.
He’s sitting at his desk, trying to make the figures in front of him stop blurring into one long string of numbers that says ‘loser’ and ‘asshole’ and other words Xander knows he wears on a sign around his neck. The atmosphere at work is tense and the pink-slip bearer is distrusted. Xander’s pretty sure he hates that the most, although this stupid sheet of stupid paper with stupid numbers for his stupid job is running a close second.
“Late.” The word is grumpy, tossed off of lips that don’t care while eyes wander the office around him.
Xander doesn’t bother looking up or asking how he got in, since it’s past ten thirty and the security guard should be on site. He probably is, wondering what that shadow is and if he’s seeing things. “Yeah. You knew that.”
“It’s the weekend now, love. Time for good little worker-bees to smell the flowers rather then just fuck ’em.”
“Is that a hint?” Xander’s pretty sure that even if he had time to be interested, he wouldn’t be able. Too many hours cramped at a desk, yelling, being yelled at, and way too many things on his brain to ever allow blood to flow south. “Because I already told you—”
“Shut up.” When Xander falls silent, mostly out of exhaustion, Spike nods. “Good. Now c’mere.”
Xander blinks at Spike, then back to his trusty computer. “In a minute, okay?”
“Save it,” Spike tells him. Xander clicks the little disk-icon because it’s habit and he knows better than not to when Spike tells him to do something important. Like grow the little goatee that makes him look so dashing, and okay, what the hell?
Spike smirks at him, holding the power-cord. “Saved it, didn’t you, love? Gonna take a while to boot back up, now. So come on. Take a break.”
He feels the anger, red and throbbing and so fierce it terrifies him behind his eye, waiting to be let free. He wants to let it go, wants to spew out all the things he kept in side the last week, month, quarter, because Spike is his and he’ll take all the crap Xander can’t shove down the throats of people who actually deserve it. But Spike doesn’t look like the one time he suggested Xander just do that. He looks annoyed. Like he’s waiting and Xander better get his arse moving.
It makes the anger vanish with a pop of exhaustion and an emotion Xander can’t—hasn’t ever been able to—name. He slumps down in his chair, for one precious instant as if he was going to cry. But then he straightens and hobbles over on numb feet to where Spike’s waiting.
There’s a small courtyard in the middle of the building. It’s totally incongruous, full of flowers and greenery that’s inappropriate for a building that houses a construction company, two different lawyer offices, and part of a health insurance company. But there it is, bathed in silver and velvet shadow, stems of grass waving in the soft breeze. Spike takes him there and sits him down on a blanket produced from no where at all.
“Quiet. Don’t talk.”
It’s a weird request, since Spike usually is okay with Xander’s talking, and Xander subsides with a click of teeth closing together. Spike’s fiddling with the plastic bag, murmuring to himself as he sets whatever it is up. Xander watches him for a moment, then tips his eye up to the sky. The stars are barely visible through haze and bright city lights, but he can make out a couple constellations still. He tries to remember what special significance Cassiopeia has on whether mer-demons will rise, not that it matters in a land-locked town. It keeps his mind busy without treading on things he knows he shouldn’t be thinking about and it lets him think about maybe, just maybe, untensing the muscle in his shoulders.
“C’mere.” Spike settles behind him, chest suddenly the most perfect back-rest. Xander’s ass presses against Spike’s groin, but it’s not sexual. It’s too comforting to be sexual, arms wrapping around his middle and petting him there. “Comfortable?”
Something twinges in his neck when he nods and a little bit of the pressure decreases. Yeah, he’s comfy. Spike’s here, and holding him, and he’s not gone from work, just taking a break. For a little, he can pretend that this is something they’d planned and wanted, just a time for the two of them. That the mountain of work in his office is gone, and this is his reward.
“Open up, Xan.” Something cold touches his lips and Xander automatically opens. Plastic glides across lips and tongue, then something wet and cold and sweet slides onto his tongue, spoon departing with the same smooth motion.
Whipped cream. Chocolate ice cream. Kaluha and fudge syrup.
He moans. Can’t help it as his favorite ice cream melts on his tongue before he swallows it down. “What did you—”
“Hush. Told you not to talk.” Spike prevents his arguing by placing another spoonful in his mouth and Xander pretty much gives up. There’s a hand roving over his body, petting and massaging as he’s feed the sweetest, bestest. most gooey treat that he won’t often allow himself. There’s marshmallows mixed in with the whipped cream, and bits of toffee, too. Xander’s purring by the fourth bite, sent to a place he can usually only get to after marathon sex or Spike’s determined interest.
When the cup’s scraped clean and Xander’s too tired and content to argue, his pants are opened. “Don’t talk,” Spike reminds him as his hands slip underneath two-day old boxers to caress Xander’s cock. “Don’t want to hear a word out of you, now. Just lie back. Know you’re comfortable. Stay comfy, love.”
Spike’s words are as gooey as fudge and keep his body just as delightfully leaden. He sweeps his hands back up to Xander’s chest, unbuttoning the starched white shirt and pushing it down Xander’s arm. “Stay still, love. Nice and still for me.” The words act as touchstones, grounding Xander as his body is touched and teased and. . .
And there’s that word again, the one Xander can’t acknowledge, not even a little.
“Missed this,” Spike whispers in his ear. “Warm and hard against me. Can’t sleep right without you anymore, love. Too cold. Bed’s too soft.” He starts massaging under Xander’s pecs, right where he’s just starting to swell with a gut. Not a bad one, really, but the muscles just aren’t as taut and hard as the abs he leans against. Spike doesn’t seem to mind, though, rubbing and soothing—somethingly.
“Gonna take you home, do you proper then. But that’s for later, love. This is just a reminder. A promise.” Lips brush under his ear as his hips and thighs are stroked underneath the fabric of his pants. Spike’s hands are strong, the fingers so sensitive to the slightest twitch or flinch. “Can promise you, can’t I?”
Xander nods, unable to give in to the moan in his chest. Please. He wants the promises so much. . .
“Want that, Xan. Want it so much.”
Xander nods again, gasping a little as his cock is fondled. “Want it, too,” he murmurs, breaking the no-talking rule, but this is too important. Spike’s starting to tense against his back and Xander doesn’t want that, not ever. Spike shouldn’t ever be tense except when he’s stretched out between his restraints, body bucking as he waits for permission to come. That’s good tension, the sweetest, and not anything at all to do with the tension right now. “Want. . .”
Spike hums against his ear, kissing him there again. “Good.” It’s like they’ve spoken for five hours, five days, hashed out the tiniest little details and now Spike’s content again, petting kitty that knows it’s owner is well trained in the care and keeping of said kitty. Xander feels breathless, wondering just what he’s said and what Spike’s agreeing to, and deciding—
That he doesn’t care. Because Spike’s kissing his mouth now, hands sure and certain over his cock and Xander lets go of every last bit of uncertainty in his mind and trusts Spike. Completely. And when he comes, messing his pants and Spike’s hand, and whatever security cameras are trained on them, he murmurs a soft, simple phrase.
And then Spike comes.