By Jane St Clair
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Spoilers: bitty background one for "Fool for Love"
Pairing: Spike/Xander (Spike/Angelus, Spike/Dru)
Summary: Spike on basements and bruises.
Disclaimer: Joss' boys. And I'll allow that he plays with them beautifully. I wouldn't ever suggest that they're mine. But if I take them out, don't make a penny on it, and return them on time, without ever claiming they're mine, no one would mind, right?
Sex disclaimer: Never ever have I ever done it on the hood of an SUV overlooking the millennium New Year's celebrations, making slow, sweet love under the fireworks.
Sex warning: Achtung! There's (arrrrgh!) het content herein. Not a lot, but some. And there are a couple of bloodplay scenes, so if that squicks you, begone.
In spite of the spoiler warning, this takes place back in the salad days of Xander's basement.
After an evening of "Fool for Love," I'm still wired on Spike-with-eyeliner. Oh baby.
Spike gets to lie on the floor for a long time, thinking about exactly which parts of him hurt. While the world gradually sorts itself out again and those nasty, sharp lights stop flashing behind his eyes, and the blood running into his mouth clots, and he's able to spit it out. Thinking that of all the blood in the world, the foulest has to be your own, when it's cold like that. Thinking that he's cold.
Which is an odd thought for a vampire, but maybe it happens to all of them sometimes. When they're naked on the floor of some particularly wretched Amsterdam cellar, pretending they're not crying.
He can hear Dru upstairs. The swirl of her skirts across the carpeted floor. It amazes him how much he loves her. Someone told him once that things without souls couldn't love anything, but he doesn't know what else to call this constant awareness of her. He knows what she sounds like, coming down a flight of stairs, standing still in a room, taking that first, almost-alien breath that means she's going to speak. At some point, she'll come down the stairs, and it might be nice if he'd pulled himself together again before that. Maybe got dressed, maybe washed the blood off his thighs.
Angelus is a sick bastard. He likes his perversions to stay in the house, which is most likely why he objects to Spike's more spectacular tortures, but there's no question that he's the master once the blinds are pulled. It's an education. One in which he mostly gets smacked with the books instead of read to from them, but still. There were even a couple of good moments, like when Angelus bent over him and licked away the smear from Spike's bloody nose, almost-warm skin against his, and that truly spectacular tongue. Very clean wool coat against Spike's naked skin.
Of course, what came after really doesn't bear thinking about, but that's only to be expected. He's been told all the stories in which Drusilla chose him, out of all the mortals in London, but he knows it isn't true. It has to be Angelus who chose him; it's just that the girls probably don't realize it. Because, in spite of his best efforts to toughen up, Spike looks like them. Soft, rumpled hair, huge eyes, tangle of white, naked limbs on the floor at Angelus' feet. That last one especially. The boss man likes 'em naked and cowering.
The first time he pissed Angelus off, he couldn't walk for three days after. Drusilla didn't find him until the second one. At the time, he wasn't even grateful to see her. As long as he was alone, he could at least cry. It didn't quite go with his image, but he thought maybe he deserved to be able to. Nobody who'd spent that many hours bent over a stonemason's table getting fucked up the ass by a master vampire should have to make himself presentable for his lady just yet.
But she'd only knelt beside him, a big swirl of skirts that ended in white-soft hands, and pulled him into her lap. Crooned over him and rocked him and sang nonsense. Then bent and licked the blood off him. While he laid on the slack cloth of her skirt, she curled around him, ran her tongue along the inside of one bruised thigh and massaged the cold blood pooling just under the surface. Cleaned the too-white skin gently, working her way up. Finally reached his still-aching hips and laid for a second with her cheek against one buttock, then nipped him gently and continued her cleanup.
It wasn't a Dru he'd seen before, but as she was licking his scrotum, he wasn't going to complain. Whimper like a girl, maybe, but she took it as a compliment.
Later, she brought down blankets and bedded down with him, and they just laid quietly together until he was strong enough to rise.
He'd only adored her before; he loved her afterward. And her understood that he'd used up all the pity she had for him that night. She was prepared to weep over him while he suffered once. The next time, she was just as likely to go looking for a knight more worthy of her.
He pulls himself up and leans against the table. Stares into the mirror that doesn't reflect back and laughs. The hysteria is there, just under the surface. Fuck him, just like a woman.
Oh. Ha ha. Very funny.
Screaming with laughter by that time, and groping for his clothes. The cold blood in the corners of his mouth dissolves as he moves, and resorbs into his system. He's hungry, though. Greedy bastard, Darla's love, and he eats while he fucks. An absolute bloody pig.
Leaves the shirt untucked, both because dishevelled is his look of the moment, and because the swirl of it helps hide that he's walking like an old man. Runs fingers through his hair and grins again at the unreflecting glass. Blood on his teeth, he thinks. One grin'll drive Angelus nuts. Nasty Mick poof won't do anything, though, not with Darla and Dru both in the room. And by the time he can pull himself together, Spike will be long gone, and he won't be back until he feels tough enough to start the next round.
He jumps the overturned couch on his way to the stairs. Then stops, turns back, and spits on it.
Thinking that he really doesn't like basements. Not really out of line, since he's viewing the current one from a really horrific kitchen chair, one that might have been new -- cheap, but new -- around 1956. White vinyl padding and chrome-tube frame. With bloody unpleasant ropes, some kind of synthetic, lashing him to it. Kinky, in its own way.
He can remember a really wonderful week in 1962 in Berlin that he and Dru spent, with him tied to a chair (albeit a much classier one) and her wielding that army knife with chilling precision. On his shoulders, on his calves, on his shoulder blades. Never deep enough to scar, but plenty of bright, hot hurt to keep his attention on her.
At the end of the week, she cut the first knot and left him to work loose. Stood naked and unearthly by the edge of their mattress while he got the ropes off and crawled over to her. Laid himself at her feet and kissed them. Licked her toes. Her ankles. Every vein that ran up her legs, and he knew all of them. A regular specialist in Grey's anatomy, him. Licked both hip bones and the rim of her pubic hair, and the tiny, sharp point of her clit, then crawled over her, laid himself out on the bed, and let her take him. In his lap, *on* him. Cutting her wrist open with that same knife and giving back what she'd taken.
He doesn't, somehow, think Xander's maybe up for that. But nostalgia's got its moments.
He's gotten good, again, at recognizing people by their footsteps upstairs. A light, uneven shuffle is Mrs. Harris. Staggering, nasty drunk is Mr Harris. Random, long strides are Uncle somebody-or-other, who's useless but will not be the first to go when Spike finally gets loose, really loose. He's had a lot of time to decide who that's going to be.
The big, quiet steps are young Master Harris, Xander himself. Like a big little boy creeping around and trying to get into the basement before anyone knows he's there.
It's him now, coming in and doing the creepy-slide over towards the fridge. Mother's in there, but maybe she's passed out. Or maybe Xander thinks she is, because into the lion's den he goes, and not as carefully as he should. Muffle of his voice, then a half-shriek that must be her, and a couple of quick steps Spike can't identify, then a human body slams against furniture. The creeping this time lasts longer, and it ends when the steps hit the stairs, and by now he can smell that it's Xander, and that he's bleeding.
"Wakey-wakey, evil dead!"
Spike flinches a little before he can help himself. Xander's almost too ebullient for vampire eardrums, especially when they're in eavesdropping mode. And he just shouldn't be. He should be miserable. The whole side of his face is red, and he's going to have a spectacular shiner in a few hours.
"Lovely family you have."
Xander gives him a dirty look. Starts to say something angry and doesn't. Walks across to the fridge and finds a blood bag, throws it to Spike cold.
"Nummy." Even cold is better than nothing, he supposes. Warm would be better. Microwaved with Wheetabix, and god but he misses Giles. A good Brit is hard to find, really, and the Watcher's got a few interesting skills that aren't too surprising, given that naughty rogue-warlock childhood of his. Close up, you can see a couple of scars where he had safety pins through his cheek.
What was he thinking? Oh. That warm blood is good. Warm blood. Warm Xander. Warm, thickening blood, just a couple of drops, at Xander's hairline. He tries to think of a combination of words that will persuade Xander to come over here and *just . bend . down* for a minute, but nothing comes to mind.
Having fed the Evil Thing, Xander's now apparently set on ignoring him. He's got his back to Spike, and the shirt's coming off. There's a nasty bruise there; he must have fell against the cupboard. Red, but turning purple. Another one snaking across his back and down under the waist of his pants.
"Interesting colouring there, mate."
"I --" Xander stops and recommences ignoring him. Spike knows what comes next. *I fell down the stairs.* *I ran my bike into a tree.* *I tried out for football. Lost. It was terrible. All these two-hundred-pound gorillas jumping on me. Don't you feel sorry for me, Wills?* And Willow, who carries around with her an apparently limitless supply of sympathy, will dole him out some. But it occurs to Xander sometime before he finishes the sentence, or even really starts it, that his current Will is William and not Willow, and now he's blushing. Scarlet all the way down to his jeans.
"She's smaller than you."
"She's my *mom*." Long, pleading tone, as if her existence explained all of it. The blush is deeper, harder, and all of Xander's blood now must be resting just under his skin. Spike thinks how he's never seen Mrs Harris, but he has a good idea of how tiny she must be from the sound of her steps. Wonders how small Xander is in his own mind that she can hurt him so easily.
"Aw, c'mon. It's not like I can rip your throat out or anything."
"You'll forgive me if I don't trust you."
"Which one of us is tied up?"
"I keep forgetting." Xander walks over, stands close. An expanse of oddly masculine belly gets pushed up nearly to Spike's face. White skin and dark hair curling around Xander's navel. "What?"
Spike snakes his tongue out and trails it through that hair. Gets just a whiff of sweat and body-smell, but he can feel the blood just under Xander's skin. It would be so easy for him to vamp out and just nip and *fuck* his head hurts. Bugger it. He cants his head forward and flattens the tongue against stomach muscles that he can *feel* convulse against him.
"You're really sick, Spike."
"And yet you're the one keeping me tied up. Say no."
"No. You're out of your mind."
"I can't hurt you."
"Not the point. You're a vampire." Beat. "You're a *guy*."
Spike gives him his best baby-soft smile, the one that usually only works when his hair is washed out and hanging loose around his face, but it isn't too bad this time. The one that says, *I'm your bitch*.
Which must work, because the ropes are off his shoulders. Still around his wrists, actually, and more or less functioning as a leash, but as long as his shirt's off it's not really an issue. Because at least he's out of the chair, and sitting cross-legged on Xander's bed is the most comfortable he's been in weeks.
They're not even going to *discuss* the merits of Giles' bathtub.
Xander has picked up Spike's bound hands and is having a good, long look at the fingers. Looking for something vampire-ish, probably. Hideously long nails, or claws, or something. The nicotine stains can't be all that fascinating, though maybe the century or so of addiction they represent is enough to hold the boy's attention for now.
"Cigarettes give you cancer."
"You don't say. I'll put it at the top of my list of worries. Right next to the chip in my head and the nasty American boy who keeps me tied up on his bed."
"You'd rather be in the chair?"
"Now that you mention it . . ." He supposes that any answer he gave after that would be sufficiently cutting, but Xander hauls him suddenly forward, and without his hands to catch him he's down on knees and elbows before you can say Angelus. Gets a first-class view of the new-ish bulge in Xander's jeans. Nose against it. Thinking how much human erections smell like blood.
"You going to mope there all night?" Xander, whose hand is now firmly holding the back of Spike's head.
He's willing to bet that Xander was hoping for something exotic. Opening the fly with his teeth, maybe. Spike just opens his mouth and wraps it around as much of the still-clothed erection as he can. Mouths and chews gently. Xander above him whimpers in a not-very-masterly way and bucks against his mouth. Which hurts the teeth -- they're more sensitive than they look -- but sobeit.
Till Xander pushes him off and gives him a bare two feet of slack and says, "Strip." And Spike has to choke to keep from laughing out loud, it's really that ridiculous, the pup giving him orders, but it's fun enough to go with. Boots first, then the buttons on his jeans, then the long wriggle that involves actually peeling them off. Skin-tight's fantastic in every way except the dressing and undressing part. But it's got Xander fascinated, and that is, after all, what counts.
Once he's naked, he just sits back down, cross-legged again, and waits. Watches while the boy stands and unbuttons his jeans and lets them fall loose, then steps out of his boxers. He still has his socks on, and Spike can't help but think that Xander at this particular moment seems to have escaped from some particularly implausible blue movie. Until he's pulled down on his elbows again, and what with the angle and the chip in his head, *not* sucking isn't even really an option.
He wonders whether the government pansies had this in mind when they designed that particular little nasty bit of hardware. Not unlikely, all things considered.
Xander's sprawled and naked, happy for now with what's got to be the best blow-job of his young life, though maybe only because the princess Xander dated in high school never gave him one, and the demon he's currently attached to thinks oral sex is demeaning. This much Spike's figured out from his hours of eavesdropping. He's mostly locked in the furnace room while they go at it, but he doesn't need eyes to figure out the giving-it-to-get-it deal those two have going. And Spike knows this is better.
"Omigod. Spike . . ." Breathless little-boy voice while the hands push him off, up, over to straddle Xander's hips. No prep, then. Spike winces and tries not to show he's doing it. He'll heal, of course. Vampires do, but . . .
Slick, hot fingers between his ass cheeks, and he's happy to just balance as best he can while Xander fingers him open. He tries not to look anything but satisfied. It's an indulgence, but that doesn't mean he has to give anything away to get it. He'll be giving it up soon enough anyway.
Like now, with the head of Xander's cock pressed up against him. Two tries to get it in, and another one before he can really thrust down. Whimper-hiss through his teeth that he can't quite swallow, but somehow he doesn't think Xander's attention is on him just at the moment. Both big dark eyes have rolled back and he's arched half-off the bed. There are a great many endorphins doing their magic little work on him just now.
So he waits until Xander relaxes, then starts rocking a bit. Letting the cock up him move in-out, back-and-forth with that little rearranging-your-guts-in-the-best-possible-way manoeuver. Enjoys the moment when it stops hurting like a mother and starts feeling *good*.
At some point, Xander started petting him, but Spike's not going to tell him to stop.
"I thought you were some kind of sub, but you aren't, are you?"
Clever, warm hands on his belly, rubbing over his hips. The cock in his ass is fantastic, hard and demanding and a little big, pushing the burn up into the rest of his body.
Xander keeps reciting happily in his best nature-special voice. "You're the king of the Beta-males. You couldn't manage being top dog if it was handed to you on a plate. But since you kinda get off on letting the Alpha hold you down, it's pretty good. You get off on it, don't you?"
"Don't," shift of Xander's hips and the cock in him surges sharply against his prostate, "oh fuck, kid yourself, mate. You're not Alpha."
"I know." Nasty crookedness to Xander's grin, and he's abruptly aware that Xander *does* know, and that it gets under his skin regularly. "But I'm fucking you."
And then howls, because Spike rocks forward then and plasters himself against Xander's chest with Xander's cock still straining in him. Shift of hips under him while Xander braces to thrust, then they get some kind of a rhythm going. *Up* in him, *back* into the shell of Xander's pelvis, *in* against that human-warm chest, where he can mouth to his heart's content as long as he never actually breaks the skin. Blush and bruises and sex-flush just underneath it, though, and he can taste blood in the sweat pooling between them.
Big hands on either side of his head. *No*, he doesn't like that. Too much like Angelus, who liked to insert lectures into their basement sessions, usually at moments when Spike couldn't raise his head anymore. Xander's fingers have hooked against him -- behind his ears, under his jaw -- and they're pulling him up. *No*, and he can't say it, for any one of a hundred reasons. Because the body under him is mortal, and mortals don't get to know when vampires are scared. Because nobody in this whole stinking town needs to know the details of what he and Angel've done in quiet hours. Because he's not sure that if he actually said it that Xander would listen, and being the chip-head that he is, there's no way to enforce *no* as a command.
Xander kisses him. Warm lips on his. Warm tongue in his mouth, human-living teeth tapping against Spike's dead ones. Xander's eyes are closed, but Spike's are wide open, and if Xander decides to sneak a peek, he's going to get some idea of what immortal terror looks like.
*Hard* up in him, and the jolt rubs their bodies together in a way that's bloody wonderful. Hard. Hard. Hard enough to hurt and he pushes up into the next kiss and rides Xander's orgasm out. Waits until the body under him is boneless before he tilts his head upward and carefully licks the congealed blood away from Xander's temple.
Human blood has this edge to it that all the pig's blood in the world won't replace. Even dried and cold, it's enough to send him over. White fire behind his eyes and between his legs and in that deep place that Xander's been striking. Oddly soft kiss in the midst of it that Xander lays on him.
A minute or so later Spike's thinking that children these days have no respect for the afterglow. He's out of bed, down on his knees and held there by the rope that's somehow been strung *under* the bedframe. Hands on the floor and his face turned upward.
Hot splash on his lips. Tongue, teeth, white fire. Xander's blood. Dripping from Xander's palm and falling too slow through the air to strike the fringes of his Spike's face. Brush of warm fingers along his jaw. The floor joists above them creak a little. He tilts his head.
"They're going upstairs." Xander, who can probably recognize each inhabitant of the house and their intentions for him in a split second. "'Night, Mom. 'Night, Dad."
Xander bends from the waist and kisses Spike's upturned mouth. The tongue that runs between his lips claims at least one blood drop back, and for a second Spike wonders if he should be worried. Likely not. It isn't *his* blood, after all. It's just Xander's, recycled and still warm. And as Xander's standing over him again with a knife, he's thinking maybe this has possibilities.