All About Spike

By Carolyn Claire

Xander's angry. He knows he's losing it, that he's being foolish, stupid, but he can't help it and that makes him angrier. He doesn't know why he baits Spike, why he follows him, gets in his face, pushes the envelope. He's spoiling for a fight, and Spike can't fight, can't hit him or even threaten to. Even Spike's words don't hurt; the put-downs, the scorn--Xander likes that. None of it makes any sense.

And now he's followed Spike down an alley he wouldn't go near in broad daylight, and Spike's holding him up against the wall, shouting in his face, calling him a stupid wanker and a lot of other things that ought to really piss him off, but don't. The alley is dark, and it smells bad, and Spike is dark, and he smells good. Xander gives back as good as he gets, knowing just what to say, what will hurt, provoke, where to twist the knife. Spike's jaw clenches, and his grip tightens on Xander's shoulder, pressure just short of pain.

Xander gasps, and his knees buckle a little.

Spike stops, goes still for a moment, and then he sort of smells him, moving in closer and inhaling, his eyes half-closed. Xander's breathing faster now, and prickles of fear, of heat, are warming his belly, making him twitch. Spike watches him, not speaking, and then his eyes change, going from cold and angry to cold and speculative. He looks down at Xander's mouth, his parted lips, and then swoops in and kisses him, hard, so that Xander's head knocks against the wall behind him. It hurts, but he likes it, and his heart hammers like a piledriver under Spike's hand. It ought to hurt Spike, too, but it doesn't, because he keeps on kissing him, grinding his lips into Xander's and Xander's head into the bricks. Spike's fingers digging into his shoulder hurt a little too, now, and the pain urges Xander's mouth open wider and makes his eyes roll back a little.

Spike body slams him against the wall, and he kicks Xander's feet apart, making room for himself between Xander's legs, and then he's pressing into him, rubbing against him, his groin crushing Xander's. Xander moans and goes from 0-60 in seconds, except he wasn't at 0 to begin with, more like 30, though he only realizes that now, as he grabs at Spike and wraps his arms around him, clenching leather in both fists.

Spike is chewing his throat and humping him hard, and it's rough and painful and he likes that, loves it; but it's not enough, not yet, so he leans in and bites Spike's neck. Spike throws his head back and roars, angry and feral and terrifying as he changes, and Xander screams, and it's enough, now. Fear and horror and self-loathing turbocharge his orgasm, pulling him outside of himself, so that he can see himself screaming and shaking in the vampire's arms like a victim, like someone dying--until the vampire stills and pulls away, turns and walks off down the alley.

Xander slips slowly down the wall to sit in the trash, blinking, dazed, and wonders what's happened to him.


It's not Xander's kind of place, or maybe it is, now. Spike's in it, and that seems to overcome any objections he might once have had to walking into a dive like this. It defines low, and dirty, and dangerous, and it's filled with types who'd as soon eat him as push him aside on their way to eating someone else. It's hard to tell the humans from the demons, the predators from the prey, although Xander is pretty sure that, where he's concerned, they're all predators. He's out of his league.

He props himself against a wall and tries to look as not-tasty as possible. That's not much of a stretch, since he's acquired this unshaven, hollow-eyed, haunted-junkie look. It's a sort of protective coloring he's developed while trailing after Spike, a natural side effect of lusting after a killer and hating himself for it. He's not at his most mouth-watering, these days.

Spike's near the bar, talking to something nearly human and creepily androgynous. Spike's smiling, preening--if he had hair to flip, it would be flipping. Xander's eyes burn holes in the side of his head. The pick-up is scanning the room coyly, oozing nonchalance, when it spots Xander looking, and smiles. After a few seconds, the smile fades. It says something to Spike, who glances over his shoulder at Xander, does a double-take, and scowls at him. Xander's heart trips and turns over--he's been spotted, finally. It shouldn't take long, now.

It takes no time at all. Spike's stomping across the room toward him, gathering amused or angry glances as he cuts a swath through the crowd. One hand wraps around the collar of his coat, and Spike's dragging him toward the door.

Not the direction Xander wants to go in. He's grabbing at things: chairs, support pillars, and a really big, ugly demon guy, inadvertently. This creates a situation, and Xander spends the next few minutes crouched under a table as bodies and furniture crash around him. Spike's in his element in a bar fight, a thing of ferocious beauty as he guts and flings and crushes. The occasional accidental swing at one of the few remaining, incredibly stupid humans slows him down a little, but not for long. Just another night in Hell's disco, all in all. Xander hopes Spike's having a good time.

When he's through, and there's nothing left standing that's offering much fight, Spike looks for him. Xander crawls out from his hiding place and slinks toward him, wrapped in defiance and attitude. Spike stares at him for a moment, his face unreadable, then takes him by the arm and leads him toward the back of the bar.

There's a filthy little card room back there, empty now thanks to tonight's impromptu entertainment, and Spike pulls him inside and bars the door behind them. He studies him for a moment, looking Xander up and down and chewing on his lower lip a little. Xander's trembling now, fear and impatience and anticipation roiling his empty stomach. It feels like a negotiation, or a standoff, and Xander's not going to back down. He stares back at Spike with eyes filled with brittle determination and raw need.

It's Spike who backs down. He sighs, and starts to unzip.

Xander's on his knees in front of him immediately, plucking frantically at Spike's belt, hindering more than helping, and Spike bats his hands away and finishes the job. Xander unzips, too, no bothersome underwear in his way as he pulls out his cock. Spike's is free now, too, and it bobs in front of his face, half-hard. Xander engulfs it with his mouth, taking it deep without teasing or subtlety, as he fists his own cock, pumping desperately. He wants it rough, and he gets it, and he feels his hair pulling out by the roots as Spike grips it.

It doesn't take either of them very long. When Spike pulls out, Xander's still sucking hard, not wanting to let go. Spike doesn't look at him as he adjusts and dresses, doesn't watch Xander wipe his hand on the leg of his jeans and climb shakily to his feet. They're on Spike's bike a minute later, home in five, and Spike's taillights are disappearing down the street seconds after that. Xander watches them recede until he can't see them anymore.

He walks into his darkened room, leans his head against the wall, and cries.


Xander has tried, but he can't develop a taste for blood. The cuts on the inside of his arm are healing poorly, itchy and ugly and wrong, which is how he feels, himself, a lot of the time. It might work better, stimulate some buried, primal hunger, if he could bite through the skin instead of cutting, but his teeth won't penetrate. It's frustrating.

He's eaten so little over the last week that real hunger ought to be motivating him by now, making even his own blood start to seem tasty and appealing, but that hasn't worked, either. He's just weak and tired from low blood sugar and low blood volume, so much of it wasted in pools in the sink or soaked into towels. He's almost out of towels, now.

He hasn't seen Spike for nearly a week, because Spike has gotten good at hiding from him, at not being where Xander expects him to be, avoiding his usual haunts. Xander suspects he's staying with a lover, another man or a woman, because Spike likes both, separately or together. He's learned a lot about Spike over the last few weeks. It's interesting, the way vampires will photograph but won't show up in mirrors. The science of undeath is fascinating.

Spike is fascinating, and Xander can't think about much else, though he's tried. He remembers Dracula, the whole thrall bit, and he's suspected something like that might be going on here, but, if so, Spike isn't taking advantage of his obvious success. Xander's his, totally his for the taking; he's demonstrated that repeatedly. Spike doesn't seem to care, or to feel anything besides annoyance. Not for him, anyway.

He's seen Xander watching, sometimes, or maybe he always does but only acknowledges him sometimes, and he'll stare back at him for a moment before turning away, eyes narrowed, jaw tight. Sometimes he relents, takes pity and takes Xander home on the back of his bike, giving Xander a few hopeful, desperate minutes to try to seduce him, his hands running up under Spike's T-shirt, crawling down over his crotch, as he clings to him from behind. Sometimes he dumps Xander at the curb, abandoning him like a sack of trash, and sometimes he follows him inside. Xander lives for those times.

It's like auditioning, every time, like a crucial interview for a dream job, or maybe a trial. He works hard at making it good for Spike, learning quickly how Spike likes to be sucked, likes to fuck, what brings out the demon, how much violence the chip will tolerate. If Xander does it first, hurts himself, then Spike can do it, too, without consequences. They take it a little farther each time. So far they haven't found a limit, and maybe there isn't one, where Xander is concerned. Maybe he wants it too much.

Spike doesn't seem to want it, though, looking more disgusted than satisfied each time he leaves. They never talk during those encounters, never touch outside of the act, and, the one time Xander broke down and cried in front of him, Spike had disappeared in a hurry. That was nearly a week ago, the last time Xander saw him.

It's cold in the cemetery, and getting colder, or maybe it's just him. Xander's coat is crumpled underneath him, cushioning him where he sits on the stone step, as he deepens the cut in his wrist. There's enough Xander left inside him to know that this sickness has to stop, but too little to believe that it ever will. He doesn't try to drink the blood that wells out and runs down his arm; there's no point, anymore.

He has a silly, teenaged fantasy that Spike will find him here, outside the crypt, come back for something he's forgotten, something he needs, and find Xander, who he's forgotten but doesn't need, dead on his doorstep. He'll be sorry then, cursing himself for a fool and holding Xander's pale, drained body in his arms, getting covered in his blood, maybe licking at it a little. The taste will bring back memories, and he'll cry, the way Xander is crying now.

He's drifting, everything growing distant, and he isn't cold anymore, except for the place where Spike's cool lips are pressed against his wrist, sucking powerfully, taking him inside--and it doesn't go that way, the fantasy, Spike doesn't find him until after he's dead. He can open his eyes just enough to see the blond head bowed over his arm, moonlight shining like a shroud around him, like a mist that envelops them both and hides Spike from his fading sight.

He smiles as his eyes flutter closed, knowing that, the next time he opens them, he'll finally appreciate the taste of blood.

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