Lattice and Pearls
It looks like lace, from a distance. The boy tells them it’s sunburn, the hint of shine peaking out from his unbuttoned collar the cream he uses to cure it. That’s why he can’t touch it, he says, can’t pick off the lace-web or dull the gloss so he looks more normal. They compliment him on his ability to ignore the sting and itch, never once even marring the patterns, but Spike knows better. Knows why the boy never picks at it, never lets any of the so-helpful girls try and take care of him, the way they want.
Don’t need to, do they, not with Spike there to make it all better.
He comes home from work and kneels at Spike’s feet, head down, chest out to show that it’s still there. Spike can play with it, run his hands through skin still damp even after so many hours at work, smooth away the patterns until there’s nothing but whorls of golden skin and soft, downy-smooth hair.
It’s nearly ritual now, though it wasn’t ever supposed to be. Stepping back when he’s tired of the stillness. Waiting as Xander unbuttons the fly Spike won’t exchange for a zipper. Taking him out. There’s a cadence Spike can’t identify, a beat he can’t follow, but when Xander’s mouth smooths over the tip of his cock, hot and sweet the way he likes it, he doesn’t much care. His hands are already in Xander’s hair, grown long since Spike likes something to hold, pulling hard enough that strands come out. Xander never makes a sound, just sucks and licks until Spike hard and groaning, riding into his mouth without care or consideration.
He croons as he moves, words like slut and whore and bitch the sweetest endearments, dripping with honey to hide the sting of muscles forced open to accept something too big, too hard. Hot breath skitters over his belly, gusts frantic for air, but there’s never a complaint. Xander works while Spike calls him a cocksucking slut, a bottom bitch who needs it, can’t fucking live without a man taking him, but he stops when Spike loses the insults. Holds his mouth open like a good boy while Spike fucks over his tongue, not doing anything, not needing to do anything but take it the way Spike tells him to.
Spike’s calling him precious, now. Sweetheart, beloved, darling, and mine. Mine, mine, mine.
Sometimes Spike grips too hard, Xander choking and gasping, desperate and despairing while come fountains in his mouth. Not today, though. Today Spike lets go when he feels it, thunder and lightning stabbing down through his spine, pushing Xander’s head back and watching.
Snow on sand and waves of sable, dripping down over a panting, apple red mouth.
Soft and sated, Spike waits while he’s buttoned back up, idly tracing through the liquid cooling on Xander’s face. His boy is sweaty with need, and now it’s time for Spike to do his part. Takes Xander back to bed, rubs his jaw till its back in place, Xander moaning like his dick’s being seen to, eyes wide and grateful as a child’s. Such a pretty thing, his boy, do anything for a kind touch, a soft word. Specially if the harder ones come later.
Feeds him from his own hand, baby bird creeling for dinner, always so happy when there’s a bit of blood to salt the meal. Nurses at him, sometimes, safe enough in his health that Spike can just lie there, shallow cut along his shaft making the sucking doubly good. Boy loves to nurse, makes Spike think thoughts about what his mum may or may not’ve done. Makes him want to remind the boy of lessons he hasn’t been taught, how to say please and thank you like a good boy, bright red welts a stinging reminder for days afterwards. He’ll rub off on those welts, boy strapped down and helpless, groaning at the pain of Spike’s dick, driving over and over where it hurts most.
He doesn’t like to let the boy shower. Does, but only when there’s work that day. Presses him against the wall and rubs him, soap slick and slippery between them. Spike loves the way Xander’s body stands up to his, muscles accepting each thrust and blow, holding steady. Xander only trembles when Spike jerks him off, which he does every few days. Lets the milky whiteness mix in with the suds, indistinguishable except for the scent.
Xander’s marked again before he takes one foot out the door. No matter what they’ve done or if someone’s around, Xander knows he doesn’t go outside without kneeling again, naked and dry and waiting. Doesn’t suck in the mornings, just tilts back his head and poses while Spike jerks himself off. Like bloody David, he is, muscles and skin and so delicate, despite the rough-and-tumble frame. So emotionally fragile. It’s why Spike won’t let him go out without a bit of Spike on him, wet and silky. It’s a reminder and warning all at once, holds Xander together long enough until Spike can do the holding.
’Cause nothing’s allowed to touch his boy but Spike. Nothing.
They go out sometimes. Not to the Bronze, with music like candy corn, sticky sweet that makes you sick after more than two or three. Plus, could run into Xander’s friends there, and not even Xander likes that so much lately. They don’t talk about demonic possession or spells or blackmail anymore, but Spike knows they’re still thinking it, waiting for the tiniest crack to crowbar their way through. He doesn’t know what Xander thinks, really, but the boy says it’s uncomfortable and that his chums are wrong, and Spike’s okay with accepting that. Not good at dissembling, his boy, except when it really matters—and Spike knows better than to look for a sharp stake to gut him.
Demon bars, demon clubs, sometimes even to L.A for normal clubs, where two men in supple black leather, shirts of mesh so fine they’re almost see-through, don’t get sneered at. Boy likes the demon bars the best, though it takes Spike a while to understand why. Demons have grabby hands, especially for someone’s pet human, part challenge part hostile take over all wrapped up in slime, greed, and lust. Xander hides close to Spike’s back, scrunching down to try and keep a few inches and about a stone difference in weight from exceeding the lines of Spike’s lithe form. Doesn’t work but half the time, and by the time they’re at the bar, there are bruises that Spike did not put there, marring the golden tones Spike makes the boy sun himself to keep.
So Spike finds one or two of the offenders and tears ’em apart. When he comes back, boy’s eyes are black like Dru’s hair, shining with the things she saw, and Spike gets it.
It’s the anger Xander loves, possession turned to obsession, and Spike loves him for it, twisted heart fit to bursting. Knows Xander likes this little arrangement, could get out any time if he really wanted—but the proof, now, the proof is ambrosia wrapped up in a cock-ring, sweet and dirty at the same time.
Spike glares at any demon stupid enough to come close, flapping edges of his duster curled partially around Xander, kneeling at his feet. Shirt comes off quick enough, stains of Spike’s control visible to any demon with an eye or a nose. There’s always someone stupid enough to try anyway, and pretty soon even the demons with ears figure out that the human belongs to William the Bloody, and nobody touches him. Spike toys with Xander’s hair while he threatens, casual ownership written more in the way the boy lets him, head bent back at an unnatural angle so Spike can finger the silvery scar at the base of his throat. Pretty, pretty thing, meandering like a crooked little creek, and soon he’s trying to touch it from the inside out.
Boy takes it, wherever, whenever, dropping down, knees and jaw, the minute Spike looks at him right. He can feel how hot the boy is, trembling after only the first few minutes, breath going from rainforest damp to Sahara heat in seconds. Spike fucks his mouth hard, slamming past teeth and clenching muscles. It’s showing off, really, hips swiveling so the light shatters on leather, dazzling anyone who looks too hard. Each thrust powers the boy’s head into the bar-ledge, the knock reverberating down to his cock. The quiet moans do more, though, and not one of ’em is a sound of pain.
Spike paints over him: face, neck, belly, even managing to stain the crotch of Xander’s leathers. Heart-heavy beat of the music gives it class, and there’s even a bit of applause when he pulls the boy up, pours liquor down both their throats.
Spike dances like he fucks or fights, deadly and graceful even when he’s gone and lost to the music. Boy can’t do much, but Spike’s more about feel than appearances, and the boy knows how to move with him, body so attuned to Spike’s that he’s already pulling the instant Spike pushes. It’s like one of those bloody yin-yang symbols, and it’s as close to perfect as Spike needs or wants.
Kills a few more demons before they leave. The last one, a vamp with more balls than brains spills out into one of the alleys and there are parts flung everywhere before finally showering into dust. Gets worked up, like it always does, so Spike pushes the boy against the wall, pants yanked down so fast there are red marks lacking hair on hips and thighs. He rubs them while he works the boy open, watching the adam’s apple bob and tiny, muted groans that might’ve been screams a few years before, work their way free.
It’s Xander who talks this time, yes and more and fuck me, don’t stop fucking me. Spike likes to hear it, begging and pleading for what Xander’s gonna get whether he wants it or not. It makes Spike’s belly tingle in a way few else does, the boy sobbing out his name when Spike comes inside of him.
A noise makes them turn, Spike flashing yellow, the boy barely strong enough to cling to the wall. Buffy. Standing there with eyes gone horrified wide, deer run over by the damned headlights and the SUV they’re attached to. Nice crunching sound in his head, and Spike’s instantly hard again, flipping the duster out of the way.
His hips move languidly, pulling out almost completely so the glistening length of his cock is exposed to those widened eyes. Doesn’t talk, not yet, just fucks the boy who’d been her best friend, taking him slow and steady in a way that no rough fuck can ever compare. Xander’s babbling, acid on speed on crack-cocaine, words English only half the time, but the tone’s sharp and clear and the Slayer isn’t stupid. Her stake clatters to the ground, sound swallowed by the boy’s moans, and Spike realizes she’s staring at Xander’s cock. Damn near drooling over it.
It’s a pretty cock, even without foreskin to give it that proper look. The head’s big enough to choke some poor girl, vein dark and near to throbbing down it’s length. Bobs in time with Spike’s thrusts, and the Slayer’s eyes look like yo-yo’s, up and down, following each wide sway.
Well if it’s his boy’s cock that she wants. . .
Spike thrusts in deep, head pressed on the boy’s prostate, slowing down to a bare rocking of his hips, just enough to keep them both in the game. Takes Xander’s cock in his hand and starts playing with it. Gentle at first, stroke of a few fingers, a flick to make it bob like one of them stupid head-jiggling toys. Buffy’s head bobs with it, so he does it some more, laughing.
That snaps the Slayer out of her trance and she starts spewing her normal vile, promising she’ll find away to stop what they all, of course, know is wrong, since Xander—Xander—Xander wasn’t—
Mine. Doesn’t have to say it, not the way Xander’s pushing back against his cock, not even paying attention to the hand playing with his own. Spike lets go of the cock, running hands all over skin permeated with Spike’s scent, overpowering even the smell of Xander’s sweat. Mine. My bitch, my slut, my boy.
He lets Xander come that night, shooting against the brick wall he’s balanced against, while Buffy watches them. Spike can smell how wet she is from this little taste, and makes a point of showing up for the next scooby meeting, boy nestled deep in his lap. Rubs him while Willow averts her eyes and Giles glares death and threatens to kick them out. Won’t, though, since Buffy’s watching, entranced by white hands over too-tight denim. He knows the offer’s coming, knows if he told Xander to fuck her, the boy would.
But he doesn’t. Just smiles and strokes Xander’s dick some more, thinking about garbage and treasure.