baudown

Title: And All Was Said (Part 1)
Author: baudown
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own them. I would like to.
Summary: Xander's got a little something on the side. Alternate season 5ish where nothing whatsoever is happening to any other characters.
Feedback: YES, especially for this (see note)
Warnings: I don't think so, except as to long note to follow.
Note: So. When I started to write S/X last year, I assumed I'd be writing them some sex. At the time, I would hardly look at any S/X without at least an R rating (now, of course, I'll read about them shopping for a bathroom tiles if it's well-written). But somehow, I found it very difficult. Either it didn't seem to fit organically in the story, or if it did, I just didn't know how to do it. When I read sex scenes, I know what I don't like (the kind of laundry list of "He touched that, and it made him shiver. Then he touched that and it made him shudder) but it's harder to get a handle on why I like what I do. That is, what makes the sex scene good, hot, emotional, etc. And I've really struggled with this. I've tried to read as much as I can about sex-scene writing by authors I like and that sort of thing. So months ago, I sat down and just started writing something sex-centric as an exercise, but I kept abandoning it, and taking it out again, and abandoning it, ad nauseum. And it turned into this very, very long thing, which is pretty much all sex scenes held together by a thin membrane of something I wouldn't presume to call plot. I don't have a beta, and no one's read it, and I've been looking at it for so long that I have no perspective at all. I'm basically terrified to post it. So I decided to post the first part, before the sex gets heavy, hoping I'd get some feedback to see if I'm on the right track. And maybe someone would be willing to take a look at the rest? Anyway, if this note hasn't sent you running for the hills, here it is.

R28pu2
R28slash2

wka-yanni2013

And All Was Said

Thursday nights, the Magic Box stays open until midnight.

Thursday nights, Anya works late.

Thursday nights, Xander has sex with Spike.

Not that he ever says those words aloud -- "has sex with Spike" -- or even much thinks them. But that's what it is, what he's been doing, and it's no longer an aberration, but a firmly ensconced routine. Every Thursday night, his "poker night," as he's told Anya, guiltily, at first, and later, with surprising ease. She hasn't questioned him, or protested. "Male bonding is essential to healthy ego development," she says, and she must be quoting from one of her magazines. "Wager carefully!" she tells him, when he calls her at work to let her know he's leaving.

It starts, as things so often do on the Hellmouth, with a near-death experience. Xander's supposed to meet Buffy and Willow for patrol, and he's running late already, when Anya waylays him at the door. She's clearly gunning for a fight; it's something that's been happening lately, and the subject rarely varies: too much time with the girls, not enough time with her. And so he tries to be inconspicuous about checking his watch as she ticks off each item on her checklist of unmet needs, and spitballs phrases like "quality time," and "prioritize the relationship," and "life choices" at him.

Xander is only just beginning to recognize these episodes for what they are: signposts along a road, marking the shortening distance to a turn-off. To an exit. Things between them are unravelling, and though it's unacknowledged, it's sorely felt. Their responses to the situation are diametrically opposed, and speak to an essential difference between them: Xander pretends it isn’t happening, while Anya, in her frenzied, take-charge way, is bound and determined to fix it, dragging them through date nights, dancing lessons, desperate dialogues, like this one.

Tonight, he nods and murmurs and promises in a way that seems, temporarily, to appease her, because he manages to extricate himself in under twenty minutes -- a new record. Still, when he arrives at the cemetery gate, the girls are nowhere to be seen. He's a little annoyed -- at Anya for holding him up, at the girls for not waiting -- and maybe this distracts him, because by the time he notices the vampire, darting toward him from behind a dilapidated crypt, it's already too late. Xander reaches for his stake, but the demon is right there, knocking it from his hand, and he knows that this is bad, really, really bad. The vampire's got him by the arm, and somehow he twists out of its grip; but as he stumbles away he trips, landing on his back with the wind knocked out of him. There's a knee in his chest, and his head is wrenched up and to the side, and all he can think is, kill me, don't turn me.

He doesn't see Spike, but he hears him, one snarling "oi," and the sticking sound of the stake. And before Xander has time to wonder where Spike even came from, he's choking on a mouthful of dust, and Spike lands flat on top of him. There's confusion for a few seconds, before Xander coughs out a thanks and Spike begins to push himself up. But when he moves, his crotch brushes against Xander's.

It's obviously unintentional, an accident of proximity, and it shouldn't mean a thing, but Xander's body seems to think it does. What's more, it seems to be acting on its own, because his dick immediately starts to get hard, and his hips jump, and he's pressing himself with unmistakeable purpose into Spike. Spike looks baffled for a second, and then his eyes lose focus and fall shut as he rolls his hips and pushes back. Xander's only thought is, oh, fuck, yeah, before his brain catches up to the rest of him, and he gasps and pulls away.

He stands up, and his legs are shaking, all of him is shaking, and he turns his back to hide how hard he is. But it's a vain gesture, and he knows it. Spike's already seen it, Christ, he's felt it. And as Xander walks weavingly away, he can't help thinking that he's just blithely handed an ax to his own executioner.

He goes home and makes love to Anya, and it’s good, better than it’s been for a while; and he’s thinking of her the whole time, only of her. He tells himself, relieved, that the thing with Spike was an anomaly, a purely biological response, a mercifully brief betrayal by his body. Embarrassing, maybe, but not indicative of any sexual confusion on his part. Of being attracted to men. Of being attracted to Spike, of all people, if Spike can even be included in that category. He tells himself this, with real confidence and assurance. Still, the prospect of seeing Spike looms ominously, like the ax over the chopping block. Exposure is no mere threat, but a dismaying certainty; a question not of whether, but when.

Of course, it's just his luck that over the next week, Spike manages to be around...every...fucking...minute. Popping up when they're enjoying a night at the Bronze. Helping them take out a nest in the new construction down by the warehouses. Offering up inside information about incipient evil-doing, like a cat happily depositing a dead rat at its owner's feet. Xander's waiting it out with breath-holding dread, but to his uncomfortable confusion, the ax never falls. There's nothing: no humiliating disclosure in front of his friends; no devastating revelation to Anya; not even a private, self-satisfied smirk at him. If it’s a campaign to put him on edge and keep him there, it’s working.

But it doesn't take long for Xander to notice what it is that Spike's doing. And what Spike's doing is watching. Watching Xander, all the time. Directly, and out of the corners of his eyes. Frank, open stares, heavy-lidded gazes, blinking, sidelong glances. Tracking him, like prey, and Xander's not sure if this is what it feels like to be the object of Spike's animosity, or his affection. Or maybe they both feel the same. Vampire, after all. Hate and love not mutually exclusive. Or hate and lust, anyway, because if there's one thing that's certain, that Spike is making abundantly clear, it's that he wants Xander. As if that moment in the graveyard flipped some switch in him, turned him on, and he won't be turned off.

The problem is that the switch got flipped in Xander, too.

He tries to ignore it; and when he can't, he tries to deny it, and that doesn't work, either. He looks at Spike, and Spike looks at him, and his heart speeds up, and his skin gets hot, and his mouth goes desert dry. And he can tear his eyes away, but his dick is less cooperative. It hardens and rises and points toward Spike like it's a compass needle and Spike's due north.

Xander thinks that maybe it's some kind of mojo Spike's working. Willow could get to the bottom of it, probably, but he can't exactly consult with her; not about this. Merely imagining that conversation makes him sick with shame -- shame that would increase exponentially were she to determine that no spell's been cast. But whether it's magic, or he's just one screwed up bastard, it has to stop; and as unpleasant and mortifying as he knows it will be, this entails a conversation. An actual conversation, with Spike.

Spike's been a fixture at the Magic Box for most of the day, having agreed, with suspicious good cheer, to help Giles translate a series of Thaxis texts; and when he announces, his voice carrying conspicuously, that he's going upstairs to consult some lexicon or other, Xander follows.

Spike's standing at the very back of the stacks. He's not looking at a book. He's looking at Xander. He's waiting.

Xander walks over, leaving a few safe feet between them. A no-fly zone. He takes a deep, steadying breath. "Listen," he begins.

It's only the one word that he's able to get out before Spike's hand shoots toward him, fingers closing tight as a manacle around Xander's wrist, yanking him forward. His other hand is between Xander's legs, touching him through his jeans in a way that makes Xander shudder and throw back his head. Baring his neck, like an invitation, personally addressed and hand-delivered, to a vampire. An invitation accepted, as Spike's flat, wet tongue licks a path from the hollow of Xander's throat, up and along the line of his jaw. Such shivery goodness that Xander's hips jerk forward, and then he's pushing, pushing, pushing into Spike's hand. Spike's mouth is on his neck, tasting him, hungry, and there's the slight scrape of teeth, sending a thrill through Xander that zings straight to his dick. He can't help it, he lets loose a tiny, breathy moan, and the heel of Spike's hand rubs harder against him.

Noise floats up from downstairs, Willow, chattering excitedly about something, and the sound snaps him out of it. He starts to pull away, but Spike still has him by the wrist and by the dick, and he won't let go.

"Don't," Spike says, low and rough, his lips at Xander's ear. "Gonna make it good for you. You'll see."

The tone of that voice, the feel of that mouth, the flavor of those words, and Xander's knees go weak, they literally go weak, and his legs start to buckle. Spike has to grab him under the arms to keep him upright, and Xander gets a hand to Spike's chest, shoving him away and reeling backward. Invitation revoked.

"Fuck, Spike," he says. He feels his heart stuttering crazily. "What the fuck?"

Vampires are cold-blooded, he knows this, but Spike's eyes glow like embers, and he seems to pulse with heat, with sex. Xander can't stop looking at Spike's hands, clenching and unclenching at his sides. Those hands were just on him, and he wants them there again, and he shakes his head, as if to banish the thought.

"What are you playing at, Harris?" Spike says. He's angry, it's obvious, it's practically shimmering off him, but his voice is even and controlled.

"Playing?" Xander says, the word rising to an effeminate squeak. He clears his throat. "Me? I'm the one who's playing?" He stabs his finger accusingly in Spike's direction. "You're doing this. It's one of those vampire trance things."

Spike stares at him, incredulity stiffening into scorn. "That what you're telling yourself? Make it easier for you?" He tsks, pityingly. "Don't do thrall. Never have." And then, preening, with a sly, annoying grin: "Always been able to rely on my good looks and charm."

The thing is, lying's just not one of the weapons in Spike's arsenal of evil. Oh, he tries it, now and again, but he's oddly transparent, and can never carry it off for long. Xander feels the truth hit him like a solid fist to the gut. Not a spell. Just him.

Spike rolls his eyes at Xander's pained expression. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he says. "Not asking for your bloody hand! You want something, I want something. It's simple."

Simple for Spike, maybe. Simple for a vampire. But not so simple when you're Xander Harris, who can't stand vampires, in general, and Spike, in particular. Who's involved with someone, seriously. Who's cheated once, in the past, and vowed never to do it again. Who's straight, or at least, thought he was. Who's never even thought about guys in that way. Hardly ever, anyway.

And yet, Spike isn't wrong. Xander does want something. He's hard, aching, standing there, watching Spike, hating himself for wanting it.

Spike takes a step closer. His eyes roam slowly down Xander's face, and up again. It makes something slither, treacherously, low in Xander's belly, and he expels a short, harsh breath. Spike crooks a summoning finger, and Xander leans in, swaying, mesmerized, but not by magic. Spike doesn't touch him, or even move. He doesn't say a word. They stand like that, face to face, inches from each other, for what seems like a long time, feeling the current that hums between them. And then, Spike steps back, and smiles, as if something's been settled.

Spike turns to go, and he's already halfway to the stairs before Xander hears his own horrified whisper: "Thursday. Thursday, she works late."

Part 2 here:http://baudown.livejournal.com/7716.html