Um. Yes. Yes and then some. Please. It's my birthday (no, it really is) - feedback is an inexpensive but awesome gift. News:
This is my Fall for S/X entry for 2012. For some reason, I tend to use the season/event as an excuse to write standalone moments instead of things with actual plot - but... all three snippets are unusual categories for me to write in (Darkfic, Secret Lovers, and Ultimate Shmoop, respectively), so it was fun to play with. The first section is the only one that had a "draft" per-se, and if you're interested in seeing where it sprang from, you can find that draft here
. It's actually not a bad read.
Cold with the loud wet sway of the ocean beating in his head, back, forth, back, forth, and he realized it was his heart. Xander was always cold when he woke up, usually because he'd kicked the blankets off in the night, but there was no tangle of fuzzy fabric trapping his ankles, even when his feet strained to find it. Nothing but the chilly slide of sheets that didn't belong to him and the sharp headache that woke him. How…?
He opened his eyes to darkness. It was a moment of stillness and confusion that he longed for. Because he came to a few conclusions very quickly: He was cold in places he usually wore clothes. He didn’t actually remember getting into bed. Didn’t remember much at all – Cordelia, maybe? – shoving him into the janitor’s closet before biology because even after they were officially a couple, she liked the closeness of the dirty little cubbyhole. This was definitely not the janitor’s closet. This was… he didn’t know. Couldn’t see. His hands were stuck together and held above his head by something that pulled and ripped at the hair on his wrists. But he couldn’t see.
And he wasn’t alone. A dark chuckle broke through the fog, brought consciousness and painful awareness crashing back into his skull, and Xander tried to sit up, to protect himself where he was laid out, vulnerable and naked and splayed on his back, but he was stuck and squirming helplessly, lashing out with a foot. It was caught and held for just a moment in a hand that seemed warm and soft against his ankle, and pushed back down to the bed. “Stay.” Like he was a dog.
“What? No!” It was a reflex, thrashing harder, pulling until something creaked, and the skin on his arms felt like it was going to rip off to the elbow, but he didn’t go anywhere.
Caught again, and this time the grip was bruising, holding both of his ankles against the mattress and squeezing until he gasped. “Stay.” The voice said again, and his pounding head tried to throw up a name and a face to match, but in the dark and the confusion, it could have been anyone. Xander stayed, and the hands went away.
The scrape and whoosh of a match flared at his right – too bright, then melting into golden shadows cast from a single candle. It wasn’t light, it was a texture to the darkness, just enough to make out shapes and movement. “That’s better…” the voice said again, close enough to see now, and Xander felt his heart speed up, felt his lungs contract into tight knots, because he knew that face. “There’s a good boy….”
“Sp… Sp…” sputtering had never felt so literal before. “Sp…”
“Almost there, love.”
It was the term of endearment that pushed him over, “Spike!?”
The voice and the shape and the shadows contracted to a brutally sharp point in his mind, screaming at him “vampire! vampire!” which was too silly a word for what Spike was. Monster. Evil. The fingers he’d forgotten, the one’s that had been – oh god! – stroking gently over the bones in his ankles, tightened into a vice. He kicked and didn’t go anywhere. He bucked, pulling his hips and ribs and shoulders off the bed and making his broken head throb sick and dizzy and pulsing black with effort. And he didn’t go anywhere.
Steel flashed dull gray in the candle light – just a quick glint before it vanished and Xander didn’t even know what it was until it was kissing his throat, cold and sharp and so real his whole body froze and melted, muscle by muscle, back into the mattress.
“I thought we agreed you’d be still,” he heard Spike murmur as the vampire shifted, stretched his body out beside Xander’s and pressed against him, scratchy denim and weight. Xander was too busy trying to look under his own chin to care. “More afraid of this little thing than my chompers?” So close Xander could smell the whiskey on him. His body wouldn’t let him shrug, or nod, or shake, move at all. “Shouldn’t be.” The vampire told him conversationally, sprawled against his skin like a cat. A giant, drunk cat.
He felt himself swallow around the thick, gritty lump in his throat. “Then why use it?”
Spike shrugged and sat back on his haunches, a pretty, complicated maneuver that held the tip of the knife – still just scratching at the swell of Xander’s adam’s apple – steady steady steady. “Just like it. Can hear your heart go pitter-pat.”
It was, pounding in his throat so hard he was fighting not to gag on it. Strong and booming in his chest, but he was cold with sweat and sticky panic. The blade moved, dipped, drew away. Xander felt his lungs expand. His bravado tasted like tin. “Why am I here, Spike?”
“Why why why…” Spike moved, just a dramatic shadow slipping out of the pathetic candle light, but Xander still felt his fingers, cold and strong, trailing down the outside of his thigh, circling around to the bare soles of his feet. “Humans always want to know why. Why’d I take their daughter? Their mother? … their son. It’s fun, Xander. Fun.”
Somehow it was worse that Spike knew his name. Made it personal. Made him so much more naked.
“What… do you want?”
“Much better question.” A line of fire ripped itself across the top of his foot – Spike’s knife? His teeth? – Xander heard himself hiss because, jeez! that stung, and Spike’s cool tongue followed it, soothing, catching the blood that gathered there and it sparkled like lightning on his bones. Spike hadn’t answered him.
“Get the fuck off me!” Only the vampire’s grip on his feet kept him from kicking him in the teeth.
“Mmm. No. Don’t think I will.”
Xander resorted to snark. Adrenaline and the self-preservation instincts of the average dodo bird running his mouth before his brain had a chance to second-guess him. But if Spike was talking, he wasn’t eating. And if he wasn’t eating, Xander wasn’t dying. That was the plan then. “Fun, huh?” Stupid stupid stupid. “I notice your usual playmate isn’t here…?”
The snarl that broke over his skin made his guts lurch. “No.” It came out bitten off with sharp precision. So tense the word almost crackled. “She’s not.”
Cowed, Xander swallowed hard, and Spike resumed his inspection of the cut he’d made, turning Xander’s ankle back and forth and leaving a circle of forget-me-not bruises where his fingers were. He nodded, almost like he was satisfied.
Another line of fire opened itself up on the inside of his opposite foot, stinging hot, and this time he could see it in the vague candle light, dripping black against the pale gray sheen of his skin. “Fuck!” it was just a whisper as Spike slipped back into his mask of drunken geniality, licking, then sucking in a poppy-flower-spread of stinging warmth at the line his knife left. “Fucking… shit!”
“God, you taste….”
Changing the topic. Now. “What… happened?” Spike’s blue-eyed stare was sharp and inquisitive. His mouth was still on Xander’s skin. He blurted the rest of the question, “With Dru. What happened to Dru?”
“None of your business.” The vampire muttered grumpily, pouting, and Xander knew how to do scared. He knew rabbit-fear and bowel-dropping panic in the face of big teeth and a low growl, but pouting wasn’t usually in the evil monster playbook, and he could only stare.
Another swipe at Xander’s still sluggishly bleeding foot, and Spike’s face came away smeared with copper rust and a self-satisfied smirk. “Plan’s changed anyway.”
His heart couldn’t take much more of this, finding a new reason to hammer against his ribs with every shift in Spike’s mood. He was an impossibly inconsistent drunk. “What um… what is the plan?”
“Now now. Wouldn’t do to ruin the surprise.”
He threw his trump card early, “Buffy’s gonna find me. She’ll kick your ass. Again.”
This didn’t get the expected rise. None of the roaring megalomaniacal declarations of superiority he’d come to expect from the evil set. Not so much as a glower. Spike just shrugged, cocked an eyebrow like he didn’t care, and that was scarier than anything. “Maybe.”
Dread rushed into his belly, cold and inevitable as water swirling at the bottom of a leaky boat, filling him up until he sank. His heart slowed down in the eerie calm as Spike went about his work, painstakingly carving lines and stinging golden sparks of pain up his legs in a pattern only he could know. Crawling up his body, ankles and calves and thighs, getting blood-sticky, heavier and heavier as he moved with slow precision. And it didn’t hurt exactly – he’d caught worse off the football team after that crack he’d made about coach spending a little too much time with his “special players” – but the football team was never so meticulous. They never took so long, and didn’t hum with concentration and satisfaction, the actions of a man who was so sure he wouldn’t be interrupted, slow and patient and utterly, terrifyingly relaxed.
He was huffing air in through his nose, every new bloody line a sharp gasp. Jesus he hoped someone would show up before Spike got bored. Before he started cutting things off - because this he could deal with. It hurt, but it didn’t hurt. If he could just lay still. If he could just keep his mouth shut, stay quiet and strong and not give Spike any bright ideas before Buffy, could save the day – or Giles, or hell, even Angel, he wasn’t picky. If he could just hold out he’d survive this. She’d rescue him, and blush, and Spike would be nothing but a gritty memory – another Herbert – and they’d never talk about this incident again.
If Buffy showed up. If she realized he was missing. And Xander really hoped that Spike didn’t know something he didn’t. Because there were too many unknowns, too many variables, like when? And why did his head hurt so much? And how long had he been out? What had Spike done to him? And where was he doing it? Too many questions that he chewed over in his mind, clenching his teeth in impatient discomfort until his jaw ached. How long had he been here? Hours? Days? And he couldn’t ask. Refused. Spike liked questions. And Xander suspected that he’d live longer if he could just keep his curiosity in check.
Later. A long, slow stretch of time that had no name, hours or minutes drawn out and magma-deceptive, Spike got to his hips – way too close and way too naked for this situation – Xander’s balls tried to make a permanent retreat into his body cavity, and he squeaked – surprised, indignant, horrified despite Spike’s unnerving patience, the horrible strange intimacy – when the vampire’s mouth sealed over one of his hipbones, sucking up a bruise before drawing the blade through it. And he could see it more clearly, see Spike more clearly as he drew closer to the wax-clotted candle, crawling up his chest to lay across his ribs – see that it was a razor, and that Spike had the dark circles of a three-day bender drawing shadows on his cheekbones.
He jumped, body humming with tension, when Spike’s teeth, blunt and human, scraped over the new score that underlined his nipple – hellishly uncomfortable on top of the pain when the vampire – Spike – licked there – jumped, but didn’t go anywhere because the vampire’s body absorbed the effort, holding him down, the weight of him – bone and cotton grating on his skin – scraping every stinging scratch and wound, making it shiny and new. And his collar bone, split open and spilling red down the line of his shoulder and towards the sheets. So close to his neck he could feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest again, panic and harsh breath which Spike seemed to enjoy because he was laying on him, treating him like a giant mattress, warm and feeling the pulse like it was his own. Too close, too close. And Xander realized he was trapped – more trapped – surrendered himself to helplessness by playing for time. And now he really wasn’t going anywhere. Possibly ever.
That was about when the vampire wriggled a hand between them and started petting his naked cock.
Xander shrieked, fighting, bucking up and squirming and trying like hell to kick his legs free the way he hadn’t been when there was a straight razor near his skin: when panicked urgency met resentful, then near-tranquil passivity. Because somehow the steel was scarier than the teeth, colder. But he’d damned himself by not throwing himself at it.
“Stay still!” Spike snarled brokenly, contented reverie interrupted by Xander’s sudden struggling. Breathing hard again, pulling helplessly on his wrists and elbows to bring them down, bring his knees up, protect himself – somehow, even uselessly – from Spike’s attention.
“Get off me! Get off me! Get off me!” A prayer, maybe. Screaming because this was wrong, this was fucked up and horrible and wrong and the still place he’d found in his head was gone. And it twisted his stomach knots while Spike stroked his cock to mutinous hardness.
“STAY FUCKING STILL!”
“GET OFF ME!”
A hand in his hair wrenched his head to the side, pushing his face into his arm, but the other hand still moved, still held him and squeezed until Xander grunted – pain pain pain and nausea like a bone-deep bruise spread up towards his guts.
“Stop moving.” It was growled into his ear, but he didn’t have to be told, sinking back towards stillness if Spike would just fucking let go. A whine boiled out through his nose, high and trapped in his own skin, and the hold loosened, slid back to nimble fingers petting, soothing. Xander fought not to puke. “You gonna be good?”
“Get off me.” The acid in his throat made it hoarse, resigned.
he hand in his hair shook him. “Look.”
What Xander saw was mostly his own arm, bulging huge and squashing the vision in his left eye, but past his arm, and past the edge of the mattress, a few feet away near a black wall of shadow, was a shape. Naked and small and bound with silver slashes of duct tape that glistened sickly in the glow his eyes were only just adjusting to was Willow. She didn’t look conscious – she didn’t look alive – but she was there. Just as vulnerable and helpless as he was, bent knees and elbows hiding the curves of her breasts and a long clot of something dark framing the hollow of her eyes. He froze.
“Yeah.” He saw. His best friend – his Willow. And there was a vague memory of her somewhere in his head – a chemistry set, a sunshine canary feather – his Willow since the last time they were both naked together and so young it meant nothing. He couldn’t ask. “Is she alive?”
“Long as you’re good for me.”
“Buffy’s gonna kill you.” He whispered, distantly observing his best friend of fifteen years while the fight drained out of him completely. He believed it wholeheartedly. Believed it so fully that it unfolded in his head – her rage, her beauty and ferocity and, in the end, the efficiency of the jab that punctured the heart. White and cold and full of vengeance because he was going to die here. He hoped Willow didn’t have to. “Buffy is going to kill you.”
“Gonna be good for me?” Spike didn’t hear him – was blind to what Xander was seeing in the shape on the floor, too busy stroking over the delicate barrier of skin at Xander’s throat. Too busy leaning into him to whisper filth in his ear. “I don’t mind if you’re not. You know what I’ll do to her if you’re not? Wouldn’t kill you, precious. Let you watch, maybe. Lay her right here. Right on top of you, all naked and scared. Fuck her raw and bloody. Bet you’d like it.”
“No.” The horror of that image supplanted the one of Buffy – the comforting thought of the avenging angel was crushed by one of Willow while Spike painted her with words. Crying, sobbing against him and he would be helpless – was helpless – to move or free her or stop any of it. He hated to see her cry. He couldn’t stand to look at her anymore, crying in his head, and turned back to Spike. “No. Don’t touch her. Please don’t . Please don’t hurt her.”
“Her skin is soft, Xander. Bet you’d fucking love it, her tits bouncin’ on you, all warm, s’what you wanted, isn’t it?” Spike was enjoying the idea, stripping Xander’s cock with one rough hand that was painful and ugly and bringing his rebellious flesh back to aching stiffness. Spike was lost in it, rubbing and thrusting and poisoning Xander’s brain until his mind was screaming for silence, and his body was screaming for fiction, but his mouth wasn't uttering a sound. Still. Because he’d be good, he’d be good… “Maybe I’ll fuck her pretty ass too. Drive her pussy into your face. Give you your first taste of fresh-cracked cunt, all hot and sweet and full of my spunk. Try so hard to lick her clean…” Erase what’s sullying her but he wouldn’t be able to, because Spike would be in there deep, own her, like he’ll own Xander unless Xander’s a good boy. Such a good boy.
“Don’t have to be good, precious…” Hard and desperate forever, Spike’s forever with his body at complete odds with his brain under the vampire’s clever fingers. And he’d be screaming with horror if he could drag any air into his lungs, if he didn’t think Spike would make good on his promises, and Christ he hoped Willow couldn’t hear a word of this, whispered silkily in his ear, making him still, and frozen, and trembling inside like jelly. “We can play with her, Sweetheart. Make her our toy…”
He felt himself crying. Fighting to ignore hips that wanted to thrust, fighting not to gag or shriek or come out of his skin. Because Spike would win…“Why this? Why not just kill us?”
Babbling drunkenly, grinding the rough denim of his jeans against Xander’s hip, the one that was cut broke open and bled, hot and ripping pain over and over that fed into sick spikes of pleasure, spiraling low in his belly. “Why why why… Because I want to, Xander. Wanted her back, but you smelled so good. All guilt and lust and need wrapped up pretty in dark eyes. Want you… want that. Gonna be mine. Live for me, like this, all the time like this, needy, desperate dying… just mine and loyal and so sweet…” Hot gush of Spike’s orgasm and the teeth tearing into his neck, white-gold and fire that blinded him, and fuck he wanted to come, to scream, die, beg, while Spike left him on edge, sucked the end of worries right out of him in a haze of blissful agony.
And it was almost a relief when Spike bit him at last, when he sunk his teeth in, sharp enamel ripping him open and letting him out, and he was watching Willow while the world got a little darker, “That’s right… So good for me, sweet boy.” It all faded away, copper mouthed and eyeless, tender fingers petting over his ragged throat. That’s right… Swallow. Sweet boy. Sweet dreams… this was sleep. This was the quiet black peace of his warm bed, cradling him, drifting into nothing. Daddy’s here. And when you wake up, precious, we’ll play with the dolly…
The smooth loops of silk whispered around Xander’s wrists every time he moved. He rolled his fists, straining and tugging until there was a burn in his shoulder, warm and spreading down his spine. Not because he wanted to be free – just to feel it, just for the softness, secure and anchoring him face-down to the bed. They felt good. A perfect contrast to the deep rolling knuckles that ground the knots out of his back, hard and sharp and tearing groans of pleasure out of him.
He could get out – probably – if he wanted to – which he didn’t. Because Spike felt so good, forcing him to be selfish, to take and accept with hedonistic abandon while the vampire worked the kinks out of his shoulders and back, starting with this head, scraping blunt nails across his scalp and down the line of his neck, working him loose and pliable all the way down to the soles of his feet. Because what Spike wanted, Spike got – arguing was like cursing a rainstorm and he was going to be rained on no matter what. So on days like this, when Spike kissed him stupid, when he tied the long silk scarves to the rattling iron headboard, Xander just smiled and held out his wrists. Let Spike’s strong fingers pop his spine and turn him to jelly while his mouth followed, sucking up dark stains at the nape of his neck, his shoulders, the flare of skin and muscle where his hips melted into his back.
He felt himself humming, heard Spike’s dark chocolate chuckle ripple through him while he soaked up the attention and just enjoyed it. Xander lay free and calm, melting from the shoulders down, sighing as Spike reduced his calves to limp goo.
“Christ, I love your skin,” The vampire murmured into his shoulder blade. “Love to touch you,” he rumbled on, low and relaxed as Xander was, “Wish I could touch you. Tonight, there was chocolate… just a bit in the corner of your mouth…”
Something went click in Xander’s brain, “That’s why you were staring at me?”
“Wanted to lick it off.”
“Oh.” Quiet and tense, spoken in absolute earnest. Spike wasn’t trying to be sexy – not that he ever had to try – he’d just… he’d wanted… All of the tension that Spike had driven out with his clever fingers roiled around his shoulder blades as it sunk in, “In front of everyone?”
“Maybe?” There was a burr in Spike’s voice, just enough to let him know that he was serious. That it, just possibly, wasn’t one of the innumerable occasions that Spike fed him shit.
“What are you thinking?” Xander asked, shrill with surprise. He grimaced when the tone came back around to meet his ears. “That’s… that’s not how I meant that,” he backpedaled furiously, “that came out wrong.”
Spike’s snort of contempt was followed by an expectant silence, but the soft hand on the small of his back hadn’t moved. Xander wished he could see him, if only to be met with the raised eyebrow of supercilious doom. “I meant… I mean… I meant, what are you thinking? Like… like… what’s on your mind, Spike?” Stammering. He hated stammering, and for the first time he felt completely self-conscious – exposed. He felt the defeated sigh all the way down to his belly button, “Talk to me.”
“Relax, Harris,” the voice was warm and amused, and Spike’s fingers started moving again, in slow, soft circles. Back, hip, thigh. “Just wonder what it would be like, is all; wanna be able to touch you… whenever… however…”
The not seeing thing was driving him crazy. His blue sheets weren't exactly expressive, so he wriggled, squirming against his own weight to push his legs under him and give himself a little wiggle room in the shoulders. He couldn't crane his neck far enough to see Spike’s face – it was too high, too far away - a mysterious and imposing god – but the line of his thigh and the crease of his hip were a comfort, solid as Spike’s voice softened in his musing. This was new. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“Ashamed of me, Xander?”
The glower was less effective with his ass waving in the air, but Xander tried it out anyway. “No,” he said hotly, “I am not ashamed of you. Jesus, Spike, where’s this coming from? I thought you liked things this way.”
“Do,” it was utterly unconvincing, and Xander squirmed in frustration; trapped and getting irritated.
“If you want to tell them, we’ll tell them. Hell, gimme a phone and I’ll call them now, but you’d better untie me before they show up at the door.”
Another snort, “Worried they’ll try to save you from the big bad?”
Shrugging was equally useless, “A little. Buffy doesn't handle surprises too well.”
There was another moment of contemplative silence while Spike’s hands moved over his skin, kneading the muscles of his thighs until he groaned; pain, lust, frustration, pleasure – it was a cocktail of sensation completely unique to the vampire. “You gonna let yourself be rescued?”
It was Xander’s turn to snort, hiding his bafflement at Spike’s apparent insecurity behind a cloud of derision. Not for Spike, really, how could he know? “No,” he felt himself huff with humor, remembering. “No. No rescues. The girls always freak out about my ‘inappropriate romantic interests,’” and what do you know – bunny ears worked just fine in restraints, “but that’s never stopped me before. They might do a bit of freaking out about the guy thing, and the undead thing, but believe me when I say you are not my first evil squeeze.”
“Evil, am I?” His voice dripped satisfaction.
“Yes!” Xander ached to lean back into the hands that were torturing him; light brushes against his skin, the occasional caress that was insubstantial as air. There and not there until he was desperate for a kind of relief – one or the other. “I can’t believe you’re making me have this conversation like this! I can’t even see you.”
Spike swatted him on the butt, apparently having made up his mind about where and how to touch – unable to resist the target. Xander squeaked. “Don’t want you to see me,” the vampire told him, swatting again and leaving a bloom of warmth in his wake that spread straight to his cock. “Wanna know what you think. Not what you think I wanna hear.”
“I think if you keep that up we’ll have to have a chat about setting the chip off in bed.”
Another smack, louder this time, and brighter – he felt himself moan, “Not about how much you like it, then?”
“Evil,” Xander confirmed pitifully, blushing fire-engine red from his scalp to his collarbones. “Absolutely evil.”
Spike resumed the feather-light touches, dancing up and down the line of his back, trailing breezy fingertips across his stinging cheeks and the unbearably sensitive patch of skin at the base of his spine that made him wriggle and lurch, skin tingling and buzzing for contact. “You saying you’d protect me?” he asked vaguely, clearly pre-occupied with making Xander’s bones want to leap out of his skin, “keep the Slayer off me? Make them see you’re safe?”
“Spiiiiiiiike,” it was a whine, high and breathless and frustrated while the vampire’s long fingers skated over his balls and up to brush the twitching ring of his hole – then back away. He’d done this to himself, he knew, opening himself up to these ministrations, but he could fix it. Spike could fix it, “God touch me. Please, Spike? For real, touch me for real?”
“Answer the question, Xander.”
Question? There had been a question? “Yes. Safe. You. Her. Me.” and maybe that hadn't been enough because Spike’s fingers trailed gently between his thighs, just drifting over the plane of his belly where it hung in the air, but not where he wanted, not where he needed those fingers to go. “Can’t hurt me. Even Buffy will see – can’t hurt me.”
“Won’t, Xander.” Spike paused long enough to lick a hard, wet stripe under his ass cheek, a silky wet counterpoint to the silk on his wrists and the suddenly iron hand that gripped his hip. He licked again, this time delving just a bit between Xander’s cheeks, producing a noise that was somewhere between dying groan and baby elephant. “Won’t hurt you, Xander. Wouldn't ‘cept in ways you like. You gonna tell the Slayer that? Tell her that you love it when I tie you down and make you beg for what I do to you?”
“Yesss!” He hissed, agreement, triumph when Spike finally shut up – finally got the message of his frantically thrusting hips and buried his face in Xander’s ass, licking and slurping at his center like he was a tootsie pop. Oh fuck. Oh fuck Spike’s evil-marvelous-hand fit around his cock, tight and cool and just calloused enough to scrape so nicely – raking his nerves with pleasure/pain as he rocked, back and forth, moaning like a whore at last. And Spike’s hands were busy, and his neck was probably cramping, and Xander didn't fucking care, hanging on a live wire until Spike jabbed him deep and slurped and squeezed and “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh yes, Spike! Spiiiiiike!” until Xander was dropping off the edge into a shattering white orgasm.
He came back slowly. Back from the quiet empty of heaving lungs and broken mind, to the familiar sensation of Spike grinding himself against his thigh, two fingers where the vampire’s tongue had been before, stroking and spreading. Gently. Gently enough that he the sated contentment stayed with him – that he stayed loose and mindless, the fingers a soothing pleasure, without the painful bolts of sensation that made his skin ache. Not yet.
“Gonna fuck me?” He slurred a bit, feeling Spike’s fingers, warm and comfortable, like a friend. Like he never wanted to let go.
“Yeah,” the vampire managed to sound calm, even casual despite driving his cock into the ridge of Xander’s muscle hard enough to rock his face into the pillow. He felt himself grinning stupidly. “Yeah, gonna fuck you.”
“We gonna tell the girls?”
“No.” He didn't even pause, casually wriggling in a third finger that burned and stung him in the nicest ways. “Like havin’ you to myself,” he elucidated, for once letting Xander in on the mystery of his brain. “Like lookin’ atcha, knowing what you taste like, knowin’ I have to wait… knowin’ every time you look at me you want it so damned bad…”
“Gonna fuck me?” He asked again, dark with urgency because suddenly… he wanted. Wanted to feel the vampire in him, for the rhythm that was scraping across his ass cheek to be in him – part of him. “Please?”
“Yeah.” The grin in Spike’s voice was palpable. Xander groaned as the fingers slipped out, one by one, took a deep fortifying breath as Spike lined up, “Yeah. And if you take it real sweet, if you’re good… maybe I’ll suck you off before I let you loose.… Yeah.”
Xander pulled at his tie again. For the millionth time. And usually it was Willow who tsked kindly and adjusted it for him, but this time it was Dawn, wrenching then smoothing it back into place before treating him to a hands-on-hips glower that said, “You touch it again and I’ll hurt you.” So he started fiddling with his cuffs instead. He couldn't help it. He was nervous, and formal wear always made him uncomfortable.
Music started, something light and pretty and classical, the kind of thing he wouldn't recognize even if you gave it a name like “The Awesome Song” and played it roughly three thousand times for him. Which told him that Spike had picked it, and it probably had history, and a pedigree, and numbers after it. It had a beat a man could walk to, at least.
“That’s my cue.” Dawn told him, shot him one last glare when he reached for the tie, and walked through the narrow wooden door away from the gatehouse.
Xander was suddenly stricken by terror, trying to remember if he had a cue. Cause if he missed it, they’d have to start the whole thing over again, and Spike would kill him. Twice.
He couldn't remember. It had all gotten so big, and he couldn't keep the details straight in his head anymore. Color schemes and flowers and catering and people with gilded invitations and officiators and matching table linens and… it was all he could do to keep his tie on because he didn't exactly have the best track record with these things. When Buffy asked him if there was a plan for the grooms-maids' dresses – a hastily assembled word that made him twitch every time he heard it – he told her just to look pretty, and she always looked pretty, so he was okay with whatever. She’d given him that deeply pitying “Oh Xander” look, and that was when he totally lost control of things.
She drew up battle plans. A phrase that, despite their numerous attempts at cutesy re-writes, remained the same – and overnight there were orangey-peach blossoms, and chiffon, and doves (which were vetoed). He was rarely consulted for his opinion, and only ever heard about it when he was signing the checks. Spike kept him pleasantly distracted – a ground state that existed pre-engagement and, he hoped, post-nuptials – and the vampire never brought home magazines. Xander didn't care if he was walking into a camo-chic nightmare (arguably at odds with the violin music) provided he got to walk out again. And there weren't doves. No doves.
Someone poked him in the shoulder and Xander jumped about a foot in the air, but he realized that this was the cue and that he was basically paying a man to stand in a room for an hour and poke him at the right moment. The man was worth every penny because he gave Xander an indulgently encouraging smile, and didn't laugh too hard when he scurried to the door, resisting the urge to sneak out a window while he paused with his hand on the rough wood, took a deep, fortifying breath, and pushed into the warm, sweet evening air.
There was an aisle, and dozens of suddenly strange faces staring at him, and it took a soft cough from the professional nudger behind him to get him moving. He hadn't wanted to be walking down the aisle, adamant in his refusal to “be the girl,” even when Spike murmured hot in his hear about playing in the dress, white creamy silk and satin whispering against his thighs while Spike slid… this was not the time! But he bet Spike looked good in white, and if he played his cards right and didn't choke on his own tongue, he’d get to see it. Not that Spike was the girl either, but he had his own aisle, a compromise, which was a rarity.
Xander strained, trying to see over the heads of the standing guests and wishing the vampire wasn't so damned short, but all he got was the insipidly smiling sea of people in his way. He couldn't even tell if Spike was there. His heart was in his throat and he wanted to run. To get there faster in case the vampire had changed his mind, but Spike was a better man than he was, and he made himself be slow, walk with the music that was nothing like any wedding march he’d ever heard, and breathe. Breathing was important.
Later, he remembered being dimly surprised that there were no grenades. That everything was pretty and soft in the dusky glow of Willow’s conjured fairy lights and a carpet of flower petals crumpled under his feet. Later. Because he finally got his vision. Their eyes met before the narrow front row, and Xander felt something uncurl in him. Air was better, he pulled some into his lungs, the light was brighter and he saw Spike wink at him, twinkling blue and secretive and his. He winked back, a stupid thing to do with an eyepatch, but Spike knew, smiled, reached for his hand.
Love and relief and certainty filled him, set him free. Not that there was any doubt, not really, because Spike was Spike, even all polished up in a tux that made Xander want to peel the buttons off with his teeth. Still Spike, still the man he watched cartoons with and loved even in his sleep. He’d just needed to see him, be reminded that nothing was changing, that Spike was Spike and a wedding was a wedding and he only wanted one because he had the other. Forever. Regardless. And Spike had always been a gestures and symbols type. Xander couldn't look away from him, and he hoped he wasn't missing anything important because people were talking and all he could focus on were the callouses on Spike’s fingers and the shape of his mouth.
“Huh?” The guy at the podium was smiling, but it was a little tense. He waved an expectant tentacle, waiting on something, and Xander felt his face heat up and burst into mortified flame. “Oh! Yes. I do.”
Fortunately, Spike just laughed and kissed him.