It's funny, the things you can ignore, avoid talking about, take for granted. They're in bed and Xander has several slick fingers buried in Spike, who is gripping the rails of the heavy iron headboard hard enough to pull them out of true again, and it's like he always has a camera trained on him instead of just Xander's focus, framing every look and move--chosen to walk the earth in eternal night because his face caught a vampire's eye, his survival odds aren't hurt by being pretty. No need for fancy vamp thralls to keep Xander fixated. Watching the twist of his arms and the tossing of his head and his agonized-ecstasied face working is like seeing a religion getting born.
The handcuffs--manacles, really--rattle against iron as Spike tries to find a grip to keep him anchored, as if he might lift off the bed otherwise. His hips are weightless, muscles tensed, pushing him up from the pillow beneath his ass, and he's gasping and then chokes as if he he's cutting off the word *god*. It snaps into a sob and Xander feels a hot spurt of pre-come slide from his own dick at the sound. Parts of him start to tremble and vibrate with the strain of waiting, making himself wait.
"Fuck yourself on me," he says in a husky strangled voice. Spike is. Then Xander can't wait, he drags his fingers out--Spike gasping *no* with a wild shudder--and shoves his cock in their place, demand flushing through his balls all the way up to the sticky head, and sex, the need to satisfy the ache under his skin, is like that time he had a cast on his arm, stifled, sweaty flesh and knitting bone, twinges of pain and that maddening itch that made him want to rip things off and use his teeth on himself. He wraps his hand around Spike's cock as he fucks him, jerks it and feels Spike clench around him and there's no doubt at this moment that Spike is desperate for Xander's cock, working himself on it, going offline whenever Xander hits him inside at a certain angle--his wild thrash freezing suddenly, his body an arc, even as his muscles tighten to keep Xander right there, *oh fuck, right there, love*. And Xander is big, and Spike likes that, has told him so with amazing expressions on his face, in every position, hands free to clench on his shoulders, or chained and punishing the headboard.
Xander likes to feel big, and does when he's inside Spike, thrusting, sliding toward home, because it's always so tight, and he's a master at dicking, it's just something he does well, no bullshit false modesty, he can bring Spike off without even touching him, even if he takes his hand away, can make him shout when he comes, cock tight against his belly, spattering himself with little white stripes as Xander finishes inside him.
What they don't talk about is how Spike is always the one getting dicked. They've had a total of two short conversations on the subject, one in New York that ended with Xander saying, "I don't really like it," and the one about losing his cherry, which was Spike's way of dropping a hint, offering--or more accurately letting him know in an indirect way that he wouldn't mind a reversal of fortune now and then. Xander had ignored it.
He's felt remarkably little guilt. He's fucked Spike in the kitchen against the counter, in the shower, bent over the bathroom sink, shoved across tables and armchairs and deck rails. Spike on his knees facing the headboard, on his hands and knees, on his belly with his ass lifted up, upright and slouching back, straddling Xander while he sits or lies back. Every way they could figure out, and it's always good. After the first few weeks Xander confessed that he never much liked "the whole ass thing" before Spike, and he meant giving it as much as receiving. He kept the conversation from diverting to questions of reciprocity by adding, "I want you all the fucking time, twenty-four seven, I just want to live with my dick in your ass...maybe I can get one of those headsets to take conference calls from bed, what do you think?" Spike had looked amused.
But now he's beginning to feel something else, which is...Spike's dick. He feels it against his thigh, or rubbing against his own, heated by friction, or filling his hand or his mouth, or nudging him from behind whenever Spike spoons him, and it's melting his brain. He's got to have more, he's got to have it *do* something to him. It's not enough when Spike thrusts between his thighs--almost enough, insane-making, but now he wants it to prod up and in. He thinks he does. Except he honestly hasn't liked being on the ass-end of things up to now. There's a grossness factor and there's discomfort and he's never come that way, nothing like the way Spike does, where if you just touch him inside he's gasping and ready to pop.
It's not hard to figure out that Spike would like to do him. It's the whole guy *thing*--you stick your dick in stuff and drain your brain cells off. That's what guys *do*, even if he himself had never been fully sold on it. So no question, he's been depriving Spike in a bad way.
I'm a bastard, Xander thinks.
Spike is spooned close behind him, slick and working between his thighs with amazing little twists and thrusts that drag his cockhead up behind Xander's nuts--tease and stroke and push and a wet little kiss of the head to his throbbing flesh. "Oh fuck," Xander says, gripping himself to keep from coming. Spike is tonguing his ear too. It's a circuit of moist, horny vampire.
Xander: "Why don't you...oh fuck." He spreads his thighs a bit and drives himself back, trying to direct and intensify that brushing heaviness. Tying to manipulate someone else's dick like that is like trying to work a paint brush with your teeth, or master chopsticks, but once in a while the pay-off is amazing.
Xander takes a deep breath: "Why don't you do me?"
It's an absolute pause, as if time stops ticking forward and the universe ceases spinning, and then--
Spike: "You sure?"
The rigidity of his body and his dick and the strain in his voice--not a growl, but some subharmonic note of tension that suggests the moment before game face--makes Xander realize how long he's made Spike wait, how badly the other man wants it. Probably wants to plunge inside him and howl and fuck him with rough, raging strokes.
Xander: "If you...you know I've never really liked it. But that's okay." He's not trying to be a martyr, but it's unnerving. Ass. Dick.
Spike: "You going to let me drive?"
Xander just manages to nod, and Spike slides his arm around him and thrusts again, three or four times, quickly, gasps and spills in the inseam of Xander's body. Just taking the edge off; Spike can raise wood on a dime.
The first time with Spike is like the first time. He's been almost apelike in his stupidity, he realizes--an epiphany that hits hard about seven minutes after Spike positions him face down on the bed, props a pillow under him, and begins tongue-fucking him, which is when Xander begins to shake all over and beg. He's actively discouraged this act before, though he's done it plenty often for Spike, licking his tidy vanilla-bean ass inside and out with no hesitation.
I am so dumb, he thinks dizzily, trying to climb out of his skin when Spike's tongue stabs him open--repetitively, obsessively--thick and long and clever and wet. He uses his tongue until Xander can't take it anymore, then two lubed fingers as he croons reassurances, and then his dick, which makes Xander sob. One slicked-up hand stays busy, keeping Xander stiff, driving him to the edge of climax and holding him there, and he's strong--vampire strong, duh--and lifts Xander up to his knees, sinks human teeth into his shoulder to pin him upright until Xander is driven to a good, new place that makes him snarl almost like Spike does, and his orgasm just about jumps out of him.
They lie together side by side on their backs, both of them nearly unconscious and unable to speak above a sedated murmur.
Spike: "So that was all right, then?"
Xander: "Shut up."
Spike: "Because they say it's not every bloke's cuppa tea."
Xander yawns, and then: "Bite. Me."
Spike: "Guess you'll not be wanting to do that again."
Xander smiles dopily at the ceiling, his eyes deeply closed. It's what they call a lazy smile: mostly on the inside because he's fucked himself to immobility, too wiped out even to widen his mouth.
His head sings to itself.
I will buy you a new life. Perfect, shiny and new.
Two days later he and Spike are at Willow's house, standing on the back porch as dinner preparations are being finished in the kitchen--women bustling, men hiding, traditional gender roles triumphing--and Xander stands behind Spike, arms wound around his, their hands clasped, and he butts his chin on Spike's shoulder as Spike slouches in that melting, accommodating way he has which seems to make him three inches shorter.
I didn't kill him, Xander thinks. He can hear Willow talking and laughing in the kitchen, and there's this momentary braid of then and now, everything looping together like a big bow around the present, and he's startled to realize how little he could have predicted if he'd put his mind to it years ago. It's not just the earth-shattering things, but the people and what they do to you. If he'd been any one of his more ordinary classmates, he could have pegged some tacks into the map of his life: graduation, college, job, marriage, maybe a move across country or a sudden career change throwing him a minor curve, but no major shockers, not like saving the world or setting up house with a more or less dead ex-killer whose hair smells of the same shampoo he uses. The same pillow.
Spike: "I can hear the little cogwheels grinding."
Xander, pretending to misunderstand: "Sorry. I'm kind of hungry."
Spike gives one of those grunted laughs that doesn't quite leave the throat. A few moments later says: "You move that hand any lower and I'm going to give the ladies a show."
Xander: "You won't believe who I heard from today." Spike hums an inquiry. "Anya. She's coming to visit. I mentioned the us thing. The you-and-I-same-bed thing."
Spike: "And what'd she say?" Slightest possible emphasis on the *she*.
Xander, raising the pitch of his voice just enough to mark the quote: "'My god, Xander. If I'd known you were going to have sex with him too, I'd never have felt so guilty. All that wasted energy!'" Spike snorts, and Xander goes on in a normal voice: "I'm not sure I want you two in the same room. I think she might try for a threesome."
Spike, sultry: "And that'd be bad how?"
Xander: "Trust me. You *so* don't want to go there."
Spike: "I think it's you, doesn't want to go there."
Xander, copping to it easily: "You've got me."
Spike's seductiveness is like a thin, silk veil across naked uncertainty: the practice of distraction and undertones. "Have I?"
Xander lets his mouth warm Spike's ear: "My wallet, my dick, my hands, my..." Heart. "...green and utter jealousy."
Lashes lowering, Spike curls out a smile for him. "Your orgasms."
"Yes. You're a good orgasm friend." A surge goes through him, a river rush of feeling like he's only ever felt for Willow, a strange but wonderful thing. His lips move to add with gentle redundancy: "My friend."
Then they're called to dinner, and they go.