baudown

Title: And All Was Said (Part 7)
Author: baudown
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own them. Wish I did.
Summary: Xander's got a little something on the side. Alternate season 5ish where nothing whatsoever is happening to any other characters.
Feedback: Totally grateful for any you're willing to offer.

Parts 1-6 here: http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?user=baudown&keyword=And%20All%20Was%20Said&filter=all

Tonight, Xander's on his back, and Spike has been working him over for what seems like hours. Teasing him, torturing him, with his fingers and hands; his mouth and teeth and tongue. Making him buck and squirm. Bringing him right to the edge, then pulling him back; firing him up to a boil, and lowering him down to a simmer, again and again, until Xander's body is one heated, anxious, jangling nerve. Until he's begging. Until, finally, he wrenches away and begins to position himself, starts to raise up on his knees.

"No," he hears Spike say, and when he looks, it's Spike who's on his knees, elbows on the mattress, forearms reaching above his head, face buried in the pillow. Xander freezes for a moment, it hasn't clicked, until there's a muffled "please," and you don't have to ask him twice, nope, once is plenty. He scrambles into place, rests one hand on Spike's hip, and runs the other down the cleft of Spike's ass, and, oh, fuck, Spike is ready, he's already slicked himself up. He's slicked himself up before Xander got here, and the lewd, lovely image of Spike doing that, the idea of him wanting and waiting and preparing to get fucked -- to get fucked by Xander -- is the hottest thing imaginable. At least, until he actually pushes inside and feels all that strength closing around him. Until he starts to move.

And oh. Oh.

He's fucking Spike. Fucking him.

So tight, so tight, his dick feels huge inside, bigger and thicker and harder than it's ever felt before. Like a bludgeon, like a battering ram, opening Spike up, making Spike tremble with it. And okay, it's the first time he's done this, but he's got it, he's got it down, and -- ohhhh. Oh man, that's good. Good for Spike, too, because Xander hears, "Fuck, yeah. Fuck, like that, god, Xander, just like that. Oh, Christ, fuck me, don't stop, please." Curses and prayers in a steady, groaning stream that spur him on, thrusting harder, holding fast, fingers kneading bruises into Spike's bony hips.

Below him, the blur of a tossing blonde head. The muscles straining in Spike's neck, his shoulders, his arms. The frantic, backward motion as Spike works himself onto Xander's dick, like he can't get enough, but he'll kill himself trying. The hypnotic, slap-slap chorus of flesh against flesh. His dick, hard and wet, sinking into Spike's ass, which makes him squeeze his eyes shut, or he'll lose it, he can't. Twisting up, around, finding angles that force shocked, guttural noises from Spike's throat. Spike clenching around him with a fierce, filthy pressure, and that's what it feels like. Like every nerve in his body is firing, like he's on fire, like he's going to explode from a massive pleasure overload. Fucking Spike the way Spike fucks him, and he knows, he knows now, what that is. Fucking so he can touch Spike everywhere, to make Spike feel him everywhere. Fucking to get closer, as close as he can, to go so deep that Spike is all around him, like a second skin, like another self.

He wants to see Spike's face; he needs to; so he pulls Spike up against him, and Spike's face is rapturous, beautiful, changing under Xander's stroking fingers. Like he's straining for something, just out of reach, head thrashing, jaws snapping, still beautiful, beautiful; and Xander's reaching, too, for something nameless, or unnamed, beyond the flame of his spine, beyond his bow-strung muscles, beyond his beating heart, his blood, his flesh. So close, almost touching, almost there, and his hand is on Spike's dick, feverish and fast, and --

"Come with me, come with me, Spike."

And Spike does, Spike's body ripples and pulses around him, and if that feeling could just go on, just go on, because he never guessed, never hoped, never, never even dreamed that giving and taking could be the same thing; and he thinks, Spike, oh Spike. And there are strangled cries and roaring, and he comes, passing himself into Spike's body as Spike spills into his hand

He's somewhere white, white, white for a while, and then he comes back to himself. Back in the crypt again, back in Spike's bed again, still inside Spike. He slips out, slowly, sighing, and collapses onto his back in a sweaty, wrung-out heap. Smiling up at the ceiling and thinking, wow. He never would have asked for this, not ever. He's fantasized about it, of course, in minute and lurid detail -- but in the same abstract way that he holds a lottery ticket in his hand and meticulously plans how he'll spend his millions. It's remarkable to him that Spike wanted this, wanted Xander like this; and he's joyful and sated; sleepy and spent. Most of all, though, he's profoundly grateful. But not just for tonight. Not only for this. And he doesn't say these things out loud, but he doesn't think he has to, because he's said them already, with his body. It's how they speak to each other, with their bodies, and it's better than words.

He drops his head to the side, toward Spike, and Spike is looking at him, his face human and soft and open. And Spike lifts up on one arm, and puts a hand on Xander's face, and kisses him.

That kiss is Spike's body speaking to him again, and he hears what it's saying, with perfect clarity. He knows, now, why they haven't kissed before. Because that kiss is Spike speaking about love, and what it says is too loud and too hard and Xander doesn’t want to listen.

It's a shitty thing to do, he knows it, it's awful, but Xander jerks away. And worse, he wipes a hand across his mouth. A shredded sound rasps from Spike's throat, something raw and ugly, like he's swallowed ground glass; and for the briefest moment, he looks at Xander, hollow-eyed, barren, his face like a wound. Xander's cold, suddenly, but he's pouring sweat, and a panicked, warning voice in his head is screaming: don't do it, this is Spike, this is Spike! He wants to take it back, if he could just rewind those last seconds, but it's too late now, it's done. Spike's eyes have gone flat, and his face is a smooth, white mask, and it's business as usual, nothing to see here, folks, move it along. Spike swings around to sit on the edge of the bed, his back to Xander, and there's the clink and scrape of the lighter and the curling brown smell of tobacco.

"Gone half-past," Spike says. "Witching hour, nearly. Best shower and get home, before you're missed." His voice is even and unperturbed, betraying nothing. "There's clean towels," he adds, with mundane finality, and his head tilts back as he blows a stream of blue-gray smoke heavenward.

Part 8: http://baudown.livejournal.com/9687.html