S/X - Pandoraverse 5 - complete
Apr. 28th, 2003 07:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
estepheiaALATHEIA'S GIFT
PAIRING: Spike/Xander
RATING: NC-17
GENRE: Slash - angst and fluff served with gratuitous smut
SUMMARY: Set about 10 days after Philia’s Touch
SERIES: ‘Pandoraverse’ part 5: Pandora's Closet, Pyrrha's Find, Aurora's Light, Philia’s Touch.
SPOILERS: Set S7, some time after "Him"
DEDICATION: for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ladycat777, my S/X beta for her great help with this and for eliade as a thank you for “Subtleties”
This is the complete story, so you don't have to go back and look for previous parts. I made a few tiny changes to the sections I posted earlier, but you can safely scroll ahead. I marked the cuts in bold...
“If I said I wanted to tie you up, would you let me?” It’s a question that has been spooking around in Xander’s mind for some time now. He’s gazing at the naked vampire who is lying sprawled beside him – outwardly relaxed except for one perfect foot that’s languidly twitching in an inaudible rhythm the way a restless cat flicks its tail, when suddenly the words spill out. The foot stills.
Saturday morning. No work. No apocalypse. They’re still in bed, lazy and content, lips and fingers sticky and sweet from eating sugar-coated donuts for breakfast. Sex would be next on the agenda, then a shower.
For a moment Spike seems frozen. Then, locking eyes with Xander, he wordlessly offers his wrists. Several seconds pass in which neither man makes a move. Xander can feel his own pulse hammering in his throat. Finally, Spike slowly lifts his arms above his head and rests his hands on the pillow, wrists crossed as if bound. There’s an inscrutable look on his face.
Xander is not sure if he’s happy with that answer, even though it whacks him with an almost painful surge of arousal. Being tied up didn’t do much for him when Anya experimented with it, but the mental image of Spike straining against ropes or handcuffs is a different matter. “Why?” Xander asks, fascinated by the promptness with which Spike’s cock swells to hardness under his gaze.
Spike shrugs as if to say ‘Vampire. Kinky.’
“And then? What if I wanted to—” Xander stops. Tries again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks, aiming for sultry. He ends up sounding nervous.
“Up to you. That’s the whole point, innit.” Spike doesn’t move, seems indifferent but Xander is close enough to see the blue of his iris pushed aside by insatiable darkness.
Xander grabs Spike’s ankle. Watching Spike’s face, he lets his hand brush upwards, towards the knee, along the inner thigh, slowly, marveling at the unnatural smoothness. Muscles tense underneath his exploration and Spike breathes faster, his wrists still crossed above his head, even when Xander’s hand closes firmly around Spike’s hard-on. Xander loves it when Spike’s eyes widen at his touch, that thrilling moment of raw hunger before invariably the long dark lashes come down, shutting him out again.
Xander doesn’t like puzzles. Trying to figure out why Spike does what he does is not a top priority. But occasionally his curiosity stirs and he wonders how far he can go. Wonders whether there is a point where Spike will say no.
And then, inevitably, one thought leads to another. What is this to Spike? What does he want with him? Xander has no illusions. He’s lost the trim of his swim team days, is out of shape, with handles round his hips from too many snickers bars and extra-cheese topped pizzas, hasn’t lifted the weights in the closet for months, and at work he pushes pens instead of wheelbarrows. He’s got stamina, a nice dick and is very good with his hands. Past a certain point he has few inhibitions – thanks to Anya. But he’s twenty-two, never made it out of Sunnydale and probably never will. He’s dull and dependable, or trying to be.
So what does a vampire who’s traveled around the globe a few times, who’s been round the block - what’s he want with him?
Xander pumps Spike’s cock a few times, then lets go to continue his tactile journey across this addictive body, with its hard muscles, hard bones, and skin as sleek as silk. Upwards, over a taut stomach, ribs far too defined, and a chest so perfect it makes Spike look like a piece of art; except for the multitude of scars - so faint, they’re barely visible even from licking distance but Xander knows they’re there, can feel them under his lingering fingertips. Tiny imperfections - each with a tale to tell. Only Spike doesn’t share. He’ll offer his body, give it away freely, but never the stories.
There’s one scar Xander recognizes, more noticeable than most, like a dent in Spike’s armor. Xander remembers it from when it was still a seeping hole in undead flesh, glimpsed through a tear in a black bloodstained T-shirt, back when he and Giles dumped Spike back at his crypt. When was that? Two years ago? It’s a good scar, kind of like a medal carved into flesh, a reminder of how Spike stood up to a hell god. But the others? The cuts over his heart? Self-inflicted, according to Buffy. Xander has touched them before, skimmed over them without a second glance, but today they give him an unpleasant chill. What if—
Suddenly kicked out of the mood, Xander reaches up for Spike’s wrists, not to pin them there but to wrench them apart. Then he brusquely turns away and slumps back to stare at the ceiling. His dick is still hard, but his mind isn’t.
Spike sits up. “What?” There is about him the intense concentration of a well-trained dog waiting for a cue.
“Sorry. I don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“Made you hard,” Spike points out and were this a perfect world, Spike would smirk and his hand would be there, between his legs, making his point all the—harder. But it’s not a perfect world and Spike doesn’t touch him unless Xander tells him to. Spike never makes the first move. For a while, Xander enjoyed that, being the one in control. But now? The longer this thing lasts the more he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. What does Spike want with him?
“Look, if it’s something I said or did—” Spike begins uncertainly, but Xander doesn’t stay to hear the rest. He scrambles out of bed and rushes out of the room like a culprit fleeing the scene of crime.
The bathroom door closes behind him with a hurried bang and Xander stands there, panting, hands gripping the sink so tight his knuckles are white, the cold porcelain pressing against his bare thighs, forehead resting against the unyielding mirror, eyes closed.
It’s quite simple really, making a horrid kind of sense, considering their past history. It’s stupid, twisted and quite insane, which means it fits Spike to a tee: What if Spike is still doing it, hurting himself, looking for—for punishment? What if Xander *is* the punishment?
* * *
Part 5.2
At the bang of the bathroom door, Spike flinches. He sits on the bed, staring at light blue sheets that are rumpled from brilliant Friday night sex, smelling of lube, spunk and sweat.
What the fuck?
It doesn’t help that he should have seen it coming. Mortals. Now they screw you, now they don’t. With their short life spans one should think they’d know how to make up their sodding minds. Dealing with humans makes traveling with Drusilla and her headless dollies for a hundred years look like a walk in the park.
What’s it take?
A cold and viscous ache seeps into his chest, filling it with blackness, until it feels like it’s about to burst. He waits for something, anything to spark the blackness into white-hot murderous rage, but that reflex seems to be muted these days. Not a twinge. A few profanities are all he can muster and even they feel forced.
Spike snatches his pants off the floor and pulls them on, his movements jerky, then fumbles with zipper and button. His hands are shaking so much, it’s pathetic. He glares at them reproachfully. “Fucking nancy boy, you are.”
This is a right mess. Whatever has gotten into Xander, it’s bound to happen again and Spike’s not sure he can take another one of those sex-hate-sex-hate roller-coaster rides. Better get it over with now.
Pacing through the room, Spike collects the few bits and pieces that have managed to migrate into Xander’s bedroom - comb, paperback, his boots and a few items of clothing, tossing them on the bed. Then he grabs the whole lot and heads out of the room, just as the bathroom door opens and Xander comes out.
They both stop abruptly. The tattered copy of a Stephen King novel that crowns the armful of Spike’s possessions tumbles to the ground in a flurry of pages.
Xander’s jaw sets in an expression of grim determination. “I’ll do it,” he says and strides towards him. He bends down, picks up the fallen paperback and points it at Spike, almost accusingly. “You want me to tie you up, Spike? Fine, I will. And if you want to move out of the bedroom afterwards, you can. But for now? Put your stuff back.” Xander walks past him into the bedroom and returns the book to its place beside the bed, every line of his body radiating anger.
Spike silently wonders if this is the moment when things get ugly. Because sooner or later they always do. He doesn’t point out that it was Xander who brought up the whole bondage thing. He doesn’t even ask questions, he just takes a deep breath and does what he’s told.
* * *
Part 5.3
Not much later, Spike is lying face down, shower-damp and supine, spread-eagled with his wrists and ankles held firmly in place by slightly chafing leather thongs tied to the bedframe. Xander has done a surprisingly good job, tying the ropes just tight enough to make Spike feel like a strung guitar wire ready to be played, but not to the point of real discomfort. A few droplets of water are tickling down his skin as they follow the curves of his body. More drip from his wet hair to darken the clean sheets.
Xander crouches down next to the bed. There is an old-fashioned razor blade in his hand. Lifting Spike’s head by the hair until they’re eye-to-eye he asks harshly: “What would you like me to do, Spike? Cut you? Make you bleed? Fuck you dry?”
Spike just stares into a face that’s flushed with anger and something else. He feels a flutter of fear in his stomach; not the sick gut-churning kind – after all this is Xander Harris - but a delicious chill. Spike is already aroused, his stiff cock sandwiched between his hard belly and the sleek caress of new, indigo-blue satin sheets. When Xander touches the tip of the razor gently to his cheek, without breaking the skin, Spike braces himself for the pain, while inhaling Xander’s scent greedily.
“Answer me, Spike.”
“It’s not about what I want,” he finally says, wondering if Xander understands what he’s being offered.
“Yeah? You think I get my jollies from hurting you and you come running. What does that say about you?”
Spike doesn’t answer, just lowers his gaze. How is he supposed to explain that physical pain can bring as much solace as pleasure? His head is a scary place, loud and harsh, crammed full with scarlet images and high-pitched voices, even when he sleeps—but not when Xander’s cock is sliding into him or when Xander is holding him or when physical pain blots out the ache in his soul.
Abruptly, the blade is withdrawn. Xander lets go of Spike’s head and stomps away. When he comes back he’s brandishing a soft black scarf. He expertly ties it around Spike’s head, blindfolding him. Spike’s anticipation reaches a new level.
He can hear Xander move around in the room, then there’s the unmistakable sound of a lighter being worked and wicks sizzling as several candles are lit. The smell of hot wax and jasmine wafts into the air.
The mattress dips beneath Xander’s weight as he kneels between Spike’s legs, then crawls upwards. A warm wet tongue laps droplets of water off Spike’s lower back then wanders up his spine heading for that ticklish spot, right between the shoulder blades, causing Spike to shiver. It seems like a strange overture, but who is Spike to complain? He is straining to hear or smell what will happen next, nervousness and excitement combining headily with the comforting knowledge that bound like this he has very little leeway to bollix this up.
There’s motion between his legs as Xander shifts, then an unfamiliar rattling sound. Something soft and cool touches the back of his heel. It wanders upwards at a steady pace, following the curves of his leg to his ass. It’s a strange sensation, light and dry but other than that it feels like a big squishy tongue, and it’s not so much dragged over his skin but—
“Anya read about this in the Net, in one of her ‘better sex’ chat groups,” Xander says conversationally, maneuvering the unidentifiable softness upwards, across the planes of Spike’s back, along his outstretched arm and back, up and down the other arm, then south, footwards, but this time caressing the back of the other leg. Then he pauses. “So it’s probably an old hat for you.”
Spike exhales audibly and shakes his head emphatically.
The fact that Xander is capable of great patience and precision probably shouldn’t come as a big surprise, but after the urgent couplings of the last two weeks, it does. As the fluffy sensation rattles over every inch of his back, the insides of his legs, touching his balls and teasing his cheeks, Spike’s hands clench and unclench with his mounting need. Too soft, too good. Small breathy moans escape him, even though they make him sound like a pathetic puppy.
The mattress tilts again and the mysterious object is placed aside. There’s an expectant flutter in Spike’s stomach.
A sudden lemony tang reaches his nostrils and then hand-warm liquid drips onto Spike’s back. Moments later, strong hands are kneading the slick oil into Spike’s skin, massaging his back and shoulders. It seems Xander is putting most of his weight into the task, because Spike feels comfortably pinned, grounded. More oil, more rubbing and stroking – it’s soothing and arousing at the same time. When Xander’s hands reach his ass, Spike is straining against the ropes, trying to arch into the touch, then back down to drag his aching need against the bed, but the restraints render his movements pretty much ineffectual. Xander pours more oil into his hands, waits till the liquid has warmed and then massages Spike’s inner thighs, occasionally brushing lightly against his balls. “God, yes,” Spike moans into the pillow. “Yes, please.”
He can hear Xander’s breathing accelerate. It could be from exertion, but the heady smell of human arousal says it isn’t.
“Please what?” Xander’s voice is thick with tension.
Spike pants, trying very hard to fathom what Xander wants to hear but finding it impossible to think while his body is humming with pleasure and need. “Fuck me?” he gasps, hastily adding a “Please?” before holding his breath.
“No. Try again.”
Spike gasps with frustration. Still those warm hands continue to stroke and knead, moving to his ass. Firm circular movements that rhythmically – and almost unintentionally - tug his cheeks apart. Oil-slick fingers. There. Sliding between his cheeks. Oh God.
“Hurt me?” Spike tries, his voice wavering.
“No.” Angry. Hands are withdrawn. Suddenly bereft, Spike tenses, his whole body arches off the bed and the leather creaks harshly, then he slumps down again. He hears a whimper and barely recognizes his own voice. “Xander—”
He turns his head sideways, swallows, tries again. “Xander, please. Just tell me what—”
“No, you tell me!” Xander shouts. “What do you want? Is getting fucked by the glorified brick-layer your idea of penance? Tell me, Spike. Am I supposed to feel like hurting you? Cause if that’s what you want you’re A) going about it the wrong way and B) you can go find someone else.”
Stunned silence. A dozen replies tumble through Spike’s head, with ‘Are you suddenly gone daft?’ or ‘Shut up and fuck me already’ almost making it into spoken words.
“No. It—it’s not like that,” he finally manges, feeling strangely naked – which is ironic, considering that he’s lying here butt-naked, blind-folded and trussed up, but that’s never made him feel vulnerable before. Maybe it’s because he can’t see Xander’s face. “I like what you do to me. When you’re inside of me—” He swallows. “I need— Please.”
“Why? Why me?”
“Ironic, innit?” Spike laughs bitterly. “You and me, after all we’ve said to each other...”
When Xander stays silent, Spike takes the plunge. “There are times when I’m ready to gnaw my own arms off, like a sodding octopus. But not with you. Not anymore.”
For almost a minute Xander is silent, then the bed rocks as he changes position. Warm hands brush over Spike’s thighs again, then cup the cheeks of his ass, spreading them slightly. Spike nearly cries out because suddenly there’s a wet raspy tongue lapping at his balls. So good.
“How is that?” Xander asks after a moment. From the tone of his voice he’s smiling. His hot breath is tickling the sensitive skin between Spike’s legs.
“More?” comes the wobbly reply.
“Magic word?”
Spike grins. “Now!”
A slight chuckle and Xander’s tongue is back, this time traveling upwards at an excruciatingly slow pace that soon has Spike writhing with want.
“Do that, there, oh god, yes.”
Turns out, Xander has a practiced tongue. It also turns out that the leather thongs are strong enough but the bed frame isn’t, because as Spike thrashes around with Xander’s tongue pushing into him, there’s a loud crack as wood splinters. Both men pause for a moment, waiting for the bed to collapse but so far it holds.
“I think we need a new bed,” Xander mutters.
“See that you pick something a little more durable.”
“Uh-huh.” Xander shifts his weight experimentally. The bed tilts precariously. When he reaches for the lube the bed creaks. “Guess we better take this slow. Hear that, Spike? Try not to move so much.”
“You try lying still with a tongue up your arse.”
“Any time, Spike.”
Xander slicks himself and a moment later he is slowly pushing inside. And there it is again, that breathless moment of completion. Underneath him Spike is breathing a happy sigh. Xander covers him, lies on Spike’s lemon-scented oil-slick back like a warm heavy blanket. He gropes with one hand at Spike’s face and pushes off the blindfold. Then after a moment of hesitation he clasps Spike’s hand, the one that’s gotten free and threads his fingers through Spike’s.
And like that, with his cheek resting on Spike’s, he slides in and out, setting up a slow trot with shallow thrusts. Spurred on by the weird mix of endearments and profanities flowing from Spike, Xander slowly gathers speed and momentum, and in the end rides them both to a crushing finish, that leaves the bed in pieces and the two men spent but laughing on the floor.
“You definitely want metal for the next bed,” Spike tells him, drowsily, once the first mirth has abated. He feels well-fucked and his head is wonderfully quiet. A cigarette would be nice.
“And proper handcuffs,” Xander adds.
“That’s the spirit.” Spike props up his head. “So, what was that thing you used?”
Xander grins and fumbles among the debris of the bed, then triumphantly brandishes a paint roller. “It’s the lambskin,” he explains. “Cool, huh?”
Spike wordlessly hold out his hand. Xander passes him the paint roller and Spike touches the lambskin, twirls the cylinder, then trails it experimentally across Xander’s leg.
“What was that about octopuses?” Xander asks.
“They say octopuses eat their own arms when they get—” Spike stops, visibly embarrassed.
“Get what?”
“Lonely. Sad. Lovesick.”
Xander thinks of the Anya-shaped hole in his life and his apartment and nods
THE END
AN: The paint roller is great. Try it.
Oh, and Alatheia is a Greek goddess of truth.
(It's getting difficult to come up with fitting titles)
PAIRING: Spike/Xander
RATING: NC-17
GENRE: Slash - angst and fluff served with gratuitous smut
SUMMARY: Set about 10 days after Philia’s Touch
SERIES: ‘Pandoraverse’ part 5: Pandora's Closet, Pyrrha's Find, Aurora's Light, Philia’s Touch.
SPOILERS: Set S7, some time after "Him"
DEDICATION: for
ladycat777, my S/X beta for her great help with this and for eliade as a thank you for “Subtleties”This is the complete story, so you don't have to go back and look for previous parts. I made a few tiny changes to the sections I posted earlier, but you can safely scroll ahead. I marked the cuts in bold...
“If I said I wanted to tie you up, would you let me?” It’s a question that has been spooking around in Xander’s mind for some time now. He’s gazing at the naked vampire who is lying sprawled beside him – outwardly relaxed except for one perfect foot that’s languidly twitching in an inaudible rhythm the way a restless cat flicks its tail, when suddenly the words spill out. The foot stills.
Saturday morning. No work. No apocalypse. They’re still in bed, lazy and content, lips and fingers sticky and sweet from eating sugar-coated donuts for breakfast. Sex would be next on the agenda, then a shower.
For a moment Spike seems frozen. Then, locking eyes with Xander, he wordlessly offers his wrists. Several seconds pass in which neither man makes a move. Xander can feel his own pulse hammering in his throat. Finally, Spike slowly lifts his arms above his head and rests his hands on the pillow, wrists crossed as if bound. There’s an inscrutable look on his face.
Xander is not sure if he’s happy with that answer, even though it whacks him with an almost painful surge of arousal. Being tied up didn’t do much for him when Anya experimented with it, but the mental image of Spike straining against ropes or handcuffs is a different matter. “Why?” Xander asks, fascinated by the promptness with which Spike’s cock swells to hardness under his gaze.
Spike shrugs as if to say ‘Vampire. Kinky.’
“And then? What if I wanted to—” Xander stops. Tries again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks, aiming for sultry. He ends up sounding nervous.
“Up to you. That’s the whole point, innit.” Spike doesn’t move, seems indifferent but Xander is close enough to see the blue of his iris pushed aside by insatiable darkness.
Xander grabs Spike’s ankle. Watching Spike’s face, he lets his hand brush upwards, towards the knee, along the inner thigh, slowly, marveling at the unnatural smoothness. Muscles tense underneath his exploration and Spike breathes faster, his wrists still crossed above his head, even when Xander’s hand closes firmly around Spike’s hard-on. Xander loves it when Spike’s eyes widen at his touch, that thrilling moment of raw hunger before invariably the long dark lashes come down, shutting him out again.
Xander doesn’t like puzzles. Trying to figure out why Spike does what he does is not a top priority. But occasionally his curiosity stirs and he wonders how far he can go. Wonders whether there is a point where Spike will say no.
And then, inevitably, one thought leads to another. What is this to Spike? What does he want with him? Xander has no illusions. He’s lost the trim of his swim team days, is out of shape, with handles round his hips from too many snickers bars and extra-cheese topped pizzas, hasn’t lifted the weights in the closet for months, and at work he pushes pens instead of wheelbarrows. He’s got stamina, a nice dick and is very good with his hands. Past a certain point he has few inhibitions – thanks to Anya. But he’s twenty-two, never made it out of Sunnydale and probably never will. He’s dull and dependable, or trying to be.
So what does a vampire who’s traveled around the globe a few times, who’s been round the block - what’s he want with him?
Xander pumps Spike’s cock a few times, then lets go to continue his tactile journey across this addictive body, with its hard muscles, hard bones, and skin as sleek as silk. Upwards, over a taut stomach, ribs far too defined, and a chest so perfect it makes Spike look like a piece of art; except for the multitude of scars - so faint, they’re barely visible even from licking distance but Xander knows they’re there, can feel them under his lingering fingertips. Tiny imperfections - each with a tale to tell. Only Spike doesn’t share. He’ll offer his body, give it away freely, but never the stories.
There’s one scar Xander recognizes, more noticeable than most, like a dent in Spike’s armor. Xander remembers it from when it was still a seeping hole in undead flesh, glimpsed through a tear in a black bloodstained T-shirt, back when he and Giles dumped Spike back at his crypt. When was that? Two years ago? It’s a good scar, kind of like a medal carved into flesh, a reminder of how Spike stood up to a hell god. But the others? The cuts over his heart? Self-inflicted, according to Buffy. Xander has touched them before, skimmed over them without a second glance, but today they give him an unpleasant chill. What if—
Suddenly kicked out of the mood, Xander reaches up for Spike’s wrists, not to pin them there but to wrench them apart. Then he brusquely turns away and slumps back to stare at the ceiling. His dick is still hard, but his mind isn’t.
Spike sits up. “What?” There is about him the intense concentration of a well-trained dog waiting for a cue.
“Sorry. I don’t think this is such a great idea.”
“Made you hard,” Spike points out and were this a perfect world, Spike would smirk and his hand would be there, between his legs, making his point all the—harder. But it’s not a perfect world and Spike doesn’t touch him unless Xander tells him to. Spike never makes the first move. For a while, Xander enjoyed that, being the one in control. But now? The longer this thing lasts the more he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. What does Spike want with him?
“Look, if it’s something I said or did—” Spike begins uncertainly, but Xander doesn’t stay to hear the rest. He scrambles out of bed and rushes out of the room like a culprit fleeing the scene of crime.
The bathroom door closes behind him with a hurried bang and Xander stands there, panting, hands gripping the sink so tight his knuckles are white, the cold porcelain pressing against his bare thighs, forehead resting against the unyielding mirror, eyes closed.
It’s quite simple really, making a horrid kind of sense, considering their past history. It’s stupid, twisted and quite insane, which means it fits Spike to a tee: What if Spike is still doing it, hurting himself, looking for—for punishment? What if Xander *is* the punishment?
* * *
Part 5.2
At the bang of the bathroom door, Spike flinches. He sits on the bed, staring at light blue sheets that are rumpled from brilliant Friday night sex, smelling of lube, spunk and sweat.
What the fuck?
It doesn’t help that he should have seen it coming. Mortals. Now they screw you, now they don’t. With their short life spans one should think they’d know how to make up their sodding minds. Dealing with humans makes traveling with Drusilla and her headless dollies for a hundred years look like a walk in the park.
What’s it take?
A cold and viscous ache seeps into his chest, filling it with blackness, until it feels like it’s about to burst. He waits for something, anything to spark the blackness into white-hot murderous rage, but that reflex seems to be muted these days. Not a twinge. A few profanities are all he can muster and even they feel forced.
Spike snatches his pants off the floor and pulls them on, his movements jerky, then fumbles with zipper and button. His hands are shaking so much, it’s pathetic. He glares at them reproachfully. “Fucking nancy boy, you are.”
This is a right mess. Whatever has gotten into Xander, it’s bound to happen again and Spike’s not sure he can take another one of those sex-hate-sex-hate roller-coaster rides. Better get it over with now.
Pacing through the room, Spike collects the few bits and pieces that have managed to migrate into Xander’s bedroom - comb, paperback, his boots and a few items of clothing, tossing them on the bed. Then he grabs the whole lot and heads out of the room, just as the bathroom door opens and Xander comes out.
They both stop abruptly. The tattered copy of a Stephen King novel that crowns the armful of Spike’s possessions tumbles to the ground in a flurry of pages.
Xander’s jaw sets in an expression of grim determination. “I’ll do it,” he says and strides towards him. He bends down, picks up the fallen paperback and points it at Spike, almost accusingly. “You want me to tie you up, Spike? Fine, I will. And if you want to move out of the bedroom afterwards, you can. But for now? Put your stuff back.” Xander walks past him into the bedroom and returns the book to its place beside the bed, every line of his body radiating anger.
Spike silently wonders if this is the moment when things get ugly. Because sooner or later they always do. He doesn’t point out that it was Xander who brought up the whole bondage thing. He doesn’t even ask questions, he just takes a deep breath and does what he’s told.
* * *
Part 5.3
Not much later, Spike is lying face down, shower-damp and supine, spread-eagled with his wrists and ankles held firmly in place by slightly chafing leather thongs tied to the bedframe. Xander has done a surprisingly good job, tying the ropes just tight enough to make Spike feel like a strung guitar wire ready to be played, but not to the point of real discomfort. A few droplets of water are tickling down his skin as they follow the curves of his body. More drip from his wet hair to darken the clean sheets.
Xander crouches down next to the bed. There is an old-fashioned razor blade in his hand. Lifting Spike’s head by the hair until they’re eye-to-eye he asks harshly: “What would you like me to do, Spike? Cut you? Make you bleed? Fuck you dry?”
Spike just stares into a face that’s flushed with anger and something else. He feels a flutter of fear in his stomach; not the sick gut-churning kind – after all this is Xander Harris - but a delicious chill. Spike is already aroused, his stiff cock sandwiched between his hard belly and the sleek caress of new, indigo-blue satin sheets. When Xander touches the tip of the razor gently to his cheek, without breaking the skin, Spike braces himself for the pain, while inhaling Xander’s scent greedily.
“Answer me, Spike.”
“It’s not about what I want,” he finally says, wondering if Xander understands what he’s being offered.
“Yeah? You think I get my jollies from hurting you and you come running. What does that say about you?”
Spike doesn’t answer, just lowers his gaze. How is he supposed to explain that physical pain can bring as much solace as pleasure? His head is a scary place, loud and harsh, crammed full with scarlet images and high-pitched voices, even when he sleeps—but not when Xander’s cock is sliding into him or when Xander is holding him or when physical pain blots out the ache in his soul.
Abruptly, the blade is withdrawn. Xander lets go of Spike’s head and stomps away. When he comes back he’s brandishing a soft black scarf. He expertly ties it around Spike’s head, blindfolding him. Spike’s anticipation reaches a new level.
He can hear Xander move around in the room, then there’s the unmistakable sound of a lighter being worked and wicks sizzling as several candles are lit. The smell of hot wax and jasmine wafts into the air.
The mattress dips beneath Xander’s weight as he kneels between Spike’s legs, then crawls upwards. A warm wet tongue laps droplets of water off Spike’s lower back then wanders up his spine heading for that ticklish spot, right between the shoulder blades, causing Spike to shiver. It seems like a strange overture, but who is Spike to complain? He is straining to hear or smell what will happen next, nervousness and excitement combining headily with the comforting knowledge that bound like this he has very little leeway to bollix this up.
There’s motion between his legs as Xander shifts, then an unfamiliar rattling sound. Something soft and cool touches the back of his heel. It wanders upwards at a steady pace, following the curves of his leg to his ass. It’s a strange sensation, light and dry but other than that it feels like a big squishy tongue, and it’s not so much dragged over his skin but—
“Anya read about this in the Net, in one of her ‘better sex’ chat groups,” Xander says conversationally, maneuvering the unidentifiable softness upwards, across the planes of Spike’s back, along his outstretched arm and back, up and down the other arm, then south, footwards, but this time caressing the back of the other leg. Then he pauses. “So it’s probably an old hat for you.”
Spike exhales audibly and shakes his head emphatically.
The fact that Xander is capable of great patience and precision probably shouldn’t come as a big surprise, but after the urgent couplings of the last two weeks, it does. As the fluffy sensation rattles over every inch of his back, the insides of his legs, touching his balls and teasing his cheeks, Spike’s hands clench and unclench with his mounting need. Too soft, too good. Small breathy moans escape him, even though they make him sound like a pathetic puppy.
The mattress tilts again and the mysterious object is placed aside. There’s an expectant flutter in Spike’s stomach.
A sudden lemony tang reaches his nostrils and then hand-warm liquid drips onto Spike’s back. Moments later, strong hands are kneading the slick oil into Spike’s skin, massaging his back and shoulders. It seems Xander is putting most of his weight into the task, because Spike feels comfortably pinned, grounded. More oil, more rubbing and stroking – it’s soothing and arousing at the same time. When Xander’s hands reach his ass, Spike is straining against the ropes, trying to arch into the touch, then back down to drag his aching need against the bed, but the restraints render his movements pretty much ineffectual. Xander pours more oil into his hands, waits till the liquid has warmed and then massages Spike’s inner thighs, occasionally brushing lightly against his balls. “God, yes,” Spike moans into the pillow. “Yes, please.”
He can hear Xander’s breathing accelerate. It could be from exertion, but the heady smell of human arousal says it isn’t.
“Please what?” Xander’s voice is thick with tension.
Spike pants, trying very hard to fathom what Xander wants to hear but finding it impossible to think while his body is humming with pleasure and need. “Fuck me?” he gasps, hastily adding a “Please?” before holding his breath.
“No. Try again.”
Spike gasps with frustration. Still those warm hands continue to stroke and knead, moving to his ass. Firm circular movements that rhythmically – and almost unintentionally - tug his cheeks apart. Oil-slick fingers. There. Sliding between his cheeks. Oh God.
“Hurt me?” Spike tries, his voice wavering.
“No.” Angry. Hands are withdrawn. Suddenly bereft, Spike tenses, his whole body arches off the bed and the leather creaks harshly, then he slumps down again. He hears a whimper and barely recognizes his own voice. “Xander—”
He turns his head sideways, swallows, tries again. “Xander, please. Just tell me what—”
“No, you tell me!” Xander shouts. “What do you want? Is getting fucked by the glorified brick-layer your idea of penance? Tell me, Spike. Am I supposed to feel like hurting you? Cause if that’s what you want you’re A) going about it the wrong way and B) you can go find someone else.”
Stunned silence. A dozen replies tumble through Spike’s head, with ‘Are you suddenly gone daft?’ or ‘Shut up and fuck me already’ almost making it into spoken words.
“No. It—it’s not like that,” he finally manges, feeling strangely naked – which is ironic, considering that he’s lying here butt-naked, blind-folded and trussed up, but that’s never made him feel vulnerable before. Maybe it’s because he can’t see Xander’s face. “I like what you do to me. When you’re inside of me—” He swallows. “I need— Please.”
“Why? Why me?”
“Ironic, innit?” Spike laughs bitterly. “You and me, after all we’ve said to each other...”
When Xander stays silent, Spike takes the plunge. “There are times when I’m ready to gnaw my own arms off, like a sodding octopus. But not with you. Not anymore.”
For almost a minute Xander is silent, then the bed rocks as he changes position. Warm hands brush over Spike’s thighs again, then cup the cheeks of his ass, spreading them slightly. Spike nearly cries out because suddenly there’s a wet raspy tongue lapping at his balls. So good.
“How is that?” Xander asks after a moment. From the tone of his voice he’s smiling. His hot breath is tickling the sensitive skin between Spike’s legs.
“More?” comes the wobbly reply.
“Magic word?”
Spike grins. “Now!”
A slight chuckle and Xander’s tongue is back, this time traveling upwards at an excruciatingly slow pace that soon has Spike writhing with want.
“Do that, there, oh god, yes.”
Turns out, Xander has a practiced tongue. It also turns out that the leather thongs are strong enough but the bed frame isn’t, because as Spike thrashes around with Xander’s tongue pushing into him, there’s a loud crack as wood splinters. Both men pause for a moment, waiting for the bed to collapse but so far it holds.
“I think we need a new bed,” Xander mutters.
“See that you pick something a little more durable.”
“Uh-huh.” Xander shifts his weight experimentally. The bed tilts precariously. When he reaches for the lube the bed creaks. “Guess we better take this slow. Hear that, Spike? Try not to move so much.”
“You try lying still with a tongue up your arse.”
“Any time, Spike.”
Xander slicks himself and a moment later he is slowly pushing inside. And there it is again, that breathless moment of completion. Underneath him Spike is breathing a happy sigh. Xander covers him, lies on Spike’s lemon-scented oil-slick back like a warm heavy blanket. He gropes with one hand at Spike’s face and pushes off the blindfold. Then after a moment of hesitation he clasps Spike’s hand, the one that’s gotten free and threads his fingers through Spike’s.
And like that, with his cheek resting on Spike’s, he slides in and out, setting up a slow trot with shallow thrusts. Spurred on by the weird mix of endearments and profanities flowing from Spike, Xander slowly gathers speed and momentum, and in the end rides them both to a crushing finish, that leaves the bed in pieces and the two men spent but laughing on the floor.
“You definitely want metal for the next bed,” Spike tells him, drowsily, once the first mirth has abated. He feels well-fucked and his head is wonderfully quiet. A cigarette would be nice.
“And proper handcuffs,” Xander adds.
“That’s the spirit.” Spike props up his head. “So, what was that thing you used?”
Xander grins and fumbles among the debris of the bed, then triumphantly brandishes a paint roller. “It’s the lambskin,” he explains. “Cool, huh?”
Spike wordlessly hold out his hand. Xander passes him the paint roller and Spike touches the lambskin, twirls the cylinder, then trails it experimentally across Xander’s leg.
“What was that about octopuses?” Xander asks.
“They say octopuses eat their own arms when they get—” Spike stops, visibly embarrassed.
“Get what?”
“Lonely. Sad. Lovesick.”
Xander thinks of the Anya-shaped hole in his life and his apartment and nods
THE END
AN: The paint roller is great. Try it.
Oh, and Alatheia is a Greek goddess of truth.
(It's getting difficult to come up with fitting titles)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Me lurves you muchly
Date: 2003-04-28 11:15 am (UTC)What I am actually trying to express is my most sincere gratitude--
Oh, bugger this. & :-P
Thank you for both writing the new installment (thus feeding my obsession) and combining it in this one file. Quite a nice service, indeed! You sure you're German? & ;-)
Re: Me lurves you muchly
Date: 2003-04-28 11:25 am (UTC)You sure you're German? & ;-)
*feels pulse, checks tongue in mirror* - yup.
Mind you, three years in London might have rubbed off a little.
Glad you like. Thanks for telling me.
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And 3 years-- wow. Could only spend one little year there. But may be back.
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Date: 2003-04-28 11:26 am (UTC)Thanks, Anna
It's flattering. :-D
It will take a while till I can write more, because I really really really have to get back to Perdition Catch my Soul before I get pelted with rotten fruit.
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Date: 2003-04-28 11:46 am (UTC)You ease the angst ... only to add to build it up again ...
“Lonely. Sad. Lovesick.”
Xander thinks of the Anya-shaped hole in his life and his apartment and nods
Reading this story is like being emotionally brought to the brink of climax, certain the resolution is near, and then eased back down again to build again to excruiating awareness ... Gah!
Yay Estepheia!
Thank you, Circe
See, I think of this series as Porn-with-fluff, but yeah, I agree, there's angst, too, if only to make the sweet moments more rewarding.
Glad you like it.
*bounces happily up and down*
Re: Thank you, Circe
Date: 2003-04-28 12:10 pm (UTC)Loving it.
Re: Thank you, Circe
Date: 2003-04-28 02:50 pm (UTC)Re: Thank you, Circe
Date: 2003-04-28 09:04 pm (UTC)Thanks, Saussy
Thank you, you really put it into a nutshell. That's what I'm aiming for. :-)
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Date: 2003-04-28 12:12 pm (UTC)I can’t tell you how much I love your writing style and your creativity.
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Date: 2003-04-28 02:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-28 02:29 pm (UTC)I love this series.
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How is your writing coming along?
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Date: 2003-04-28 05:07 pm (UTC)Another thing I'm really looking forward to is the next chapter of Perdition! Yay!
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Date: 2003-04-28 02:38 pm (UTC)Hey Ginny
And it's nice of you to come out of lurkerdom and tell me you like my stories. (I must admit, I never get tired of hearing that)
Cheers
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Date: 2003-04-28 03:07 pm (UTC)Guh. Love this. You've captured that lovely desperation that feels so good, and sounds a little silly.
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Date: 2003-04-29 01:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-28 03:20 pm (UTC)Spike doesn't answer, just lowers his gaze. How is he supposed to explain that physical pain can bring as much solace as pleasure? His head is a scary place, loud and harsh, crammed full with scarlet images and high-pitched voices, even when he sleeps-but not when Xander's cock is sliding into him or when Xander is holding him or when physical pain blots out the ache in his soul.
Beautifully written as always.
Oh, and Alatheia is a Greek goddess of truth.
Hee ... So funny that you gave it this title -- Alatheia is the greek spelling of my full first name, Althea :-)
Thanks, Tia
I'm kind of running out of fitting Greek names, at least the pronouncable ones...
Althea is a nice name.
Glad you enjoyed the story. Thanks for feedbacking, dear. *smooches*
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Date: 2003-04-28 04:51 pm (UTC)Thank you, Kristen
*bounces up and down*
If you started with Let's Talk About Sex you must be one of my most faithful readers. *Blush*
Re: Thank you, Kristen
Date: 2003-04-29 04:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-28 05:33 pm (UTC)And hey, all my rollers are too painty to be useful but I have a painter's mitt; a huge fingerless glove made out of the same stuff they do the rollers with. I never used it because I thought the patterns it left would be too uneven and I'd end up having to use the roller anyway, but I just might move it from the basement to the bedroom ;-)
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Date: 2003-04-28 10:40 pm (UTC)But I'd like to know if the mitt is nice, too. :-)
My husband found out about the paint roller in one of his chat rooms. It really is fabulous.
And as for the sweet ending, well, that's kind of Pandoraverse TM.
Cheers. *blows kiss*
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Date: 2003-04-29 03:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-29 04:25 am (UTC)Actually, it's the other way round. The husband thanks Spike and Xander. :-D
Seriously, reading and writing smut has improved our sex life tremendously. And that was TMI. Ooops.
*runs away and hides under desk*
paint mitts
Date: 2003-05-02 07:47 am (UTC)I tried the paint mitt. For some reason we'd switched the lights out and then got frisky but I'd cunningly put it in my bedside drawer a few days ago and then forgotten it. So I brought it up, got sceptical but not hostile agreement and tried it. In fact, he tried it on me first and mmm, yes, very nice, very soothing getting a back massage with one of them. With extra bits going on which fall into TMI.
Anyway, I decided it was his turn. He wasn't wild about it, wasn't anti but by this time was quite keen to move on to other things. So he reached up and flicked on the reading light. We both glanced down and there we were stark naked me wearing this gigantic pink fluffy mitt.
We cracked up. Totally. The kind of laughter that hurts, when the tears are pouring from your eyes and an eavesdropper might be forgiven for assuming you'd just been told your dog died or you were being tortured. Every time one of us got under control we'd glance at the mitt and off we'd go again...
It all ended well though, so yes, try the mitt but use the blindfold ::grin::
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Date: 2003-04-28 08:22 pm (UTC)Thanks, OtherCat
Feedback is always appreciated (and saved for times of depression).
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Date: 2003-04-29 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-04-29 07:32 am (UTC)