All About Spike

Ennui
By phaelstya

Many thanks to _flaming_june_ and saussy for organizing. To magarettt for her input. To glossing for pawing at it, making approving noises, and for being just a damn fine (*slurps*) and generous human being. To zyre for being reassuring.

Title: Ennui (or as it will persist in my mind, "Take #485")
Rating: R to NC-17, I'm terrible at rating things.
Challenge: Spike/Xander, S4, Xander gives his first blowjob and Spike is pleasantly surprised.
For: green_luv. Hopefully, just hopefully she likes it.



Overhead the floorboards creak, a fresh wave of tears and vodka fumes hanging on the air as Hank Williams lurches into “It Just Don’t Matter Now” for the seventh time since noon. Spike respects misery; especially the gut-twisting kind that makes you wonder if getting out of bed really is worth it. But everyone has limits and Harris’s great sow of a mum pushed his three hours ago with Hank’s third spin on the turntable. Now at least he knows where the boy gets it from.

And then the phone rings. Again.

“Xander?” Pregnant pause of a woman not a woman, but an ex-demon who doesn’t always understand that when the machine picks up it means the boy isn’t home, like she’s out of phase with the mortal coil somehow. He can relate. “Xander? Are you there? We were supposed to have orgasms this afternoon. Call me when…” Another beep cuts her off and he hopes she doesn’t care enough to finish the thought. She’ll keep calling. He knows that much. As if the other half dozen messages had disappeared and she’s recording over the first one each time she rings. Uses the same words, of course. Words whose meaning he recognizes but hasn’t ever heard directed at him. He’s wanted them. Craved them so many times his head spins to think about it. Why he leers at everything that smells half decent. Because sex balms the ache a bit, makes not being otherwise needed more bearable. It’s something he excels at, crafting that burn in others, creating an illusion of need that strokes his ego with sharpened nails until it deflates and leaves him feeling even less substantial than when he began.

As the phone jangles merrily in its cradle and Hank winds up for spin number eight, Spike hears wood creak under his grip. His hands clench around the arms of the chair tight enough to strangle, and he quivers; lost, impotent, hating Harris, hating this basement, hating the thing in his head. Hating himself.

“Xander? I heard the beep and left a message, but you haven’t called back and I was wondering if…”

Bloody machine. Frustration drives him up, and he smashes a fist down before ripping the cord out of the wall and going to work on it with his boots until all that remains is a twisted smoking lump of wire and plastic.

Of course the boy would walk in to find him still hovering over the evidence. Fate of the damned and all. So he’s only mildly surprised to find Harris standing in the doorway wearing the dark look that makes Spike want to turn him just to see.

“Lemme guess, you got bored and decided to slay my answering machine.”

If nothing else, the past few months should have taught him the value of silence, but he has never been the studious type or even mildly prepared to accept blame. “Demon girl kept calling. And your mum’s been wandering around upstairs, drunk and blasting bloody Hank Williams for christssake. Should be thankful that’s the only damage.”

“This is my fault how?”

“Didn’t say it was.” He stops, considers for a minute. “But, come to think.”

Xander stops too, undershirt rucked up halfway, peeling yet another disgustingly loud uniform over his head. “Oh really?”

“What is it about you?” He watches the boy’s eyes narrow, his brow furrow with confusion as he tosses the shirt aside.

“Huh?”

“Nothing special to look at.”

“Hey!” Indignant, rightfully insulted and flushed. So easy to stir things up in this one. Like growly cake batter just waiting to be baked.

“Not rich or even the brightest bulb in the box. So, tell me. Why?”

“Like I know?” The tone tells. Boy doesn’t know, not really. But there’s a glimmer of something aching to be smudged clean. Or dirty.

“Humor me.” He waits, eyebrow quirked expectantly, watching the wheels turn as Harris crafts his comeback.

“Wouldn’t that make me morally bankrupt?”

“Probably. Do you care?”

“Warrior for goodness and light here, bub. I care. I care with lots of …caring.”

“Uh huh.” Silence. He takes it as a signal, toes the mangled remnants of answering machine with a shrug, then slouches into his chair sullenly, wondering how many bottles he’ll have to knock back to take the edge off.

“Sex.”

“What?”

“You asked. Why Anya stalks me?”

“Yeah?”

“Sex.”

The look on Harris’s face when he laughs outright beats any amount of Willie’s bathwater booze. Sex. Right then. Xander Harris the gigolo. In the boy’s bloody dreams.

“You asked.” Xander’s lip curls, plump and pouting, and he slumps on the couch. It makes the laughter worse.

“You go right on believing that. Me, I prefer to live in this reality.” Actually he’d much rather live in the one where he’d slaughtered every last Scooby in that alley behind the Bronze, worked out Dru’s cure, and then sailed off to parts unknown. But if he has his choice between this insanity and one where Harris possesses stunning sexual skills, he’ll take the former.

“Like you’re an authority on the subject.”

“I am.”

“This from the guy who couldn’t keep Harmony happy.”

He pounces and Xander stumbles, wide-eyed, vertebrae crushed against some random section of concrete block, Spike’s hands planted on either side of his head.

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you.”

Just words. He knows it as well as the boy does. But they’re laden, bound in emotions that roll heavy. Things that defy interruption. Things that require resolution.

“Or what? You’ll scowl me to death? Funny. Really.”

“Or I might just make you eat your words.” Fear. Sharp, familiar, and heady. Shadows of something long-loved and recently departed. It amplifies the ache, that ragged, hungry, constant need that thrums just beneath the surface of his skin. One he can’t indulge. And it’s not until the boy starts wriggling that he realizes. Feels his head bob in time with Xander’s pulse, hips surging mindlessly with anticipation. Every molecule in his body calling out to feed, to take.

“Off.”

Still staring, he moistens his lips and smiles pure predator. “Don’t think so.” Maybe he can’t feed, glut himself on the sunshine and stink of the boy, but he can take. He’s had a century to practice and perfect.

“I mean it Spike, I’m late…” And the words drift into nothing as he mouths the boy’s collarbone, breathing in the musk and life of him. Needing an anchor and something, something to make him real. Knowing it’s time to craft.

Everything collapses to a point, a blinding strobe behind his eyelids and he shudders, as if to shake off the thirsts he can’t quench. But he wants this. This court jester with raw insides and clumsy gestures. Wants it so much he can taste the despair, see the victim in every shifty glance that skirts past him and every choked off moan that escapes the boy’s lips despite his efforts to push them down. Xander quivers, drawn taut and singing when Spike’s fingers slip, slide against warm bare skin at the base of his spine. Primed.

“Prove it. Show me an expert.” And even as the words pass his lips he regrets them, knows Harris isn’t the type and won’t rise to the bait. Knows that he’ll be left on his own with a fifth and his hand. That in ten seconds Xander will come to his senses, remember the chip, and lay him flat on the cracked cement. Part of him craves the pain. Other, more tender parts would rather get off and find oblivion at the bottom of a bottle.

His eyes close for half a second, scowl still draped on his lips, something darkly delicious stirring in his gut at having mastered Harris so easily, so effectively. But then there are hands fumbling at his fly. Large, warm fingers slip into his waistband, popping the buttons loose with practiced ease. Maybe he misjudged after all.

And it feels good to have someone touch him, not to hurt, not to make him bleed. Even if it is a dozy boychild he loathes. Beggars can’t be.

There’s hunger in Xander’s hands, the way he touches, the little noises he makes without knowing. Need. For love. For approval. To do right. To be appreciated. He had always known the boy was natural prey, but the raw submissive smolder in him, even as he undoubtedly curses himself for his actions, is something anyone can appreciate. Spike’s hands fall against the wall again, clutching, and he gives himself to it. Feels Xander shift and straddle, kneeling on the floor in front of him, prone, vulnerable. And as if that wasn’t enough to undo him, revulsion flashes on the boy’s face for a split second before the stony mask slips back in place.

Fingers wrap around his cock just so, tugging with the right amount of pressure and he stares, watches Xander work him over, by turns fascinated and frightened by this unexpected turn of events. Then those pouty lips close over the head and dark eyes flicker to meet his, alight with shades of lust and hatred. He spares a moment to think, wonders if this will ruin him, but when a warm tongue curls around his erection, he can’t find the will to care and cups his palm against the crown of Xander’s skull, urging him on even as he fights to keep the bile from rising.

It can’t last, considering. He’s gone too long not being the focus of this singular brand of skill. Xander’s heat, the sensation of lips drawn tight around him, one fist clasped just above his balls and the other kneading them through denim is too much. And the boy doesn’t move away, just keeps on lapping as Spike’s hips pitch forward and his fingers tangle in hair, painfully tight. Drinks down every drop greedily, making tiny mewling sounds that tingle up and down Spike’s spine.

He slouches and lolls bonelessly into the chair, eyes closed again, savoring. Hears the boy rock back on his heels and stand, shuffling blindly, awkwardly towards what passes as a kitchen in this dump. Then a rush of water, obnoxiously loud gargling and spit. Figures.

“Take it that means you enjoyed yourself, pet.” He turns his head so he can actually see the glare.

“I’m not your pet.” Not what he had expected. More intriguing than he’d thought. Words, unforgiving words, but ones conspicuously lacking denial.

“Sorry. Must have mistaken you for the bloke that had his mouth in unmentionable places not five minutes ago.” Xander snuffles and sips at the water again, rolling it over his tongue as he scrapes it clean with his teeth. Something churns in Spike’s gut, but he’s spent so long ignoring the little twinges he can’t even tell what.

“No mistake. Also, not happening again.”

“You think so, don’t you?”

“I know so.” Finality comes in the splash as Harris empties the rest of his glass down the drain and sets it aside with a harsh porcelain sounding clank.

“Right.”

“So all’s proven. No more cracks?” No point making promises he has no intention of keeping. Smoke screens and subject changes have kept him alive for this long.

“Who the hell taught you that?”

“No one.”

“Beg to differ. Even…forget it.” Something stops the scathing words at the tip of his tongue for reasons he’s not exactly eager to examine.

“It’s my thing. That was the first time I’ve…” Color rises in Xander’s cheeks, turning them a not-unattractive rosy hue and Spike fights the gawk he feels coming. “Look, don’t make a big deal. Never happened.”

Shouldn’t sting. Shouldn’t leave him feeling more lost, more desolate, more wretched. But then he never has been one for shouldn’t.

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