Some of his best Spike-induced orgasms:
Evening, in a well-lit chain store parking lot, isolated from nearby cars but in view of shoppers coming and going. Classic car-parked blow job, Spike disappearing below the horizon of the dash like a street hooker and sucking him off. After a few hair-raising minutes, Xander flings his head back and becomes so loud and encouraging he wouldn't have noticed if small children or cops had been knocking on his window. He's the one knocking on the glass when he comes, hard enough to crack it.
A creature they nickname the Acid-Wash Demon destroys Spike's boots and does some nasty damage to his feet. Spike is laid up healing for three days. When he's done, the two of them bookend the smaller couch and Xander massages Spike's feet with oil, a gift of Becca's. One of Spike's feet keeps wandering between Xander's legs with wicked intentions, and god, every part of him is clever, Xander thinks. Every part of him is sex. Spike has elegant feet, like a statue's, as if someone put artistry into making them, getting the twist of ankle just right, the veins and bones. And Xander lets himself be talked into taking his dick out, letting Spike work him over--ball and heel and arch of his foot--until Xander is shuddering like that time he stuck the screwdriver in the electrical socket.
Spankings, which Spike does dirty and good. He knows just how to give them without making Xander feel like a fool, which is something Anya failed at spectacularly the one time they tried it. Spike has done this before, and that takes Xander's mind places it does *not* want to go, because...Dru? *Angel*? Gyahhh. Vampire hands warm themselves on his ass; Spike has a few different methods of angling his blows--kind of sideways, or flat on--and Xander discovers he has a preference for the first. His dick drools and aches against Spike's thigh until he comes, rubbing himself off with hitches of breath and then throaty cries, his burning face smashed into the blankets. Sometimes Spike adds dirty, whispered words to their little tableau and Xander goes to a psychological place he never entirely gets used to. But it's deep, like a pain surfacing from his chest to become lighter; and it makes him realize how much he trusts Spike, so he asks for it. Sometimes.
The full-body dick rub, playful and a bit nasty: Xander straddling Spike and rubbing himself across Spike's face, neck, chest, painting him wherever it feels good to thrust. The way Spike lies there almost peacefully, the way he shifts, flexes, turns his head and jaw, murmurs approval with his eyes closed, makes Xander swell all over, inside and out.
Everything they do is good and hot and fun, never really awkward. Or when it does get a little awkward, it solves itself without fights or trauma. They don't often have bad sex. Spike doesn't make him feel lame. When someone gets called "easy" in a sex way, it's usually about sluttishness, but with Spike it's a different kind of true. He's apparently had enough sex in a hundred years that everything has run together, like tigers melting into butter, and he can be savage or unhurried or amused or taunting in *just* the right way, and maybe he's tailoring himself to match Xander's needs, so skillfully that Xander can't pin him on it, or maybe it's chemistry, synchronicity, that makes them want the same things at the same time.
Xander: "Were you always a good lover?"
Spike looks pleased to be complimented and says: "What--you think it comes without practice?"
Xander: "Isn't that the difference between a skill and a talent? It could be a natural talent, right? ...sucking someone off." He smiles, half kidding.
Spike's face is odd and intent and serious as he considers Xander. A small frown has etched itself between his brows: "Suppose so. Wouldn't know." Dry turn to his voice. "I was well trained."
They've touched on this before, and Xander has always been interested in hearing more details, harboring an illicit, naughty-boy thrill at the implications of this. Training. Even though the figure behind this mystery is Angel, their history fascinates him with a low-down dirty tickle.
But whether or not it's Spike bringing up the subject himself, he always answers Xander's questions with the assurance: *you don't want to know*. When he says that, Xander lets it drop. He can tell when Spike isn't interested in talking about something: his face closes down. Shades dropping in the windows, shop sign turned to closed.
Now, though, Xander feels that Spike has mentioned it one too many times. Maybe he *does* want to talk, and just needs to be pressed.
Xander: "So how exactly do you train someone to do...that."
Spike gazes at him, and says predictably: "Told you before. You don't want to know."
Xander looks at Spike's face and thinks of how Angelus probably hurt him; but then again--here and now--Spike seems completely untraumatized, matter of fact about it, as if he really is just thinking of Xander, like maybe Xander's too human or too young to hear such adult, vampire secrets.
"I do," Xander says. "What makes you think I'll freak out? Does my Hellmouth cred count for nothing? I've walked on the dark side, my friend--" And now he's playing it up for effect, a topping of extra cheese. "--I've seen the evil that lurks in the heart of men." He wants Spike to share his secrets. They're lying in bed on their sides, facing each other, close enough to touch, far away enough to talk. They're primed for secret sharing.
Spike is still serious, and his face has started to smooth itself out, leak away expression. "Xander--"
His name: a bad sign, and annoying. He says in exasperation, "Oh come *on*."
Spike, calmly: "Fine. You want to know how vampires train their kind? I was a bashful, tight-arsed little sod 'fore I was turned. Closest thing I'd had to sex was back-alley hand jobs and I prayed God's forgiveness after, for letting low women tempt me. Dru was my first, made sinning easy. Then she took me home to Daddy." He pauses. "I was all puffed with myself--worryin' his ankles, always a laugh to see if I could trip him up. But I was a pup, hardly worth his attention. Slapping me down now and then was as much trouble as he took, till I pissed him off enough to make it interesting for him. Spent a good year on me then." His tone is musing. "Darla's doing, really. Think it was a bet." His eyes flick to Xander. "Sex was just part of it." And then: "To keep a man from biting, you have to pull all his teeth out. Takes about a week for a vamp's to grow back if you feed him well. Longer if you starve him."
Xander's throat is tight and dry.
"'Course, the point was to break me in so well I could keep my teeth. Till he was sure I'd do anything he said 'fore he even said it." A smile without any pleasure, cold eyes above. "Once he got started, he wasn't in a hurry to stop. I was his workshop project. He broke me long before he lost interest, kept on to try out new things. I heeled like a good dog for him. He had this thing for dogs, trained them as well. Amazing what you can teach a dog to do if you--" Spike pauses. "You want I should stop?"
Xander nods, and it stops and he feels shaky and small--not small as a man, but small the way a human feels small when he realizes there's more in the darkness than just him. He wants to crouch down and hide away from things.
Later though, he gets angry in a way he hasn't gotten angry in years. Not since he first clashed with Angelus over Buffy. It's a smoldering, killing anger, it's as if he's operating some heavy power tool, the vibrations working deep into his bones. He battles it in his own workshop, cutting and sanding things, blasting noisily through wood, smashing and hammering and ripping until sometimes he's hard, a rageful hardness that he doesn't bring to Spike, but eases with his hand, rough jerks as he imagines killing Angel in different ways. Climaxing always on unspeakable violence.
It's not as if Spike hadn't been evil too. Make that a capital E: Evil. Obnoxious, sleazy, ruthless: a stalker, a manipulator, a guy who'd kidnap kids to serve his purposes, who'd killed slayers and thousands of people, cutting a bloody swathe across continents, his vampire face hard and ugly and empty of life. Xander had enjoyed Spike's humiliations and been indifferent to his feelings, the angst and bitterness of a monster.
Nothing makes sense. Xander can't make it scale out to justice. He's starting to see things differently--he's somehow been stuck with an idea of good and evil as an equation on the level of basic math, but it's not, it's beyond that, beyond even algebra, where you can fill in x's and y's as almost anything--it's like those equations in *Good Will Hunting*, those squiggles and shapes up there in the stratosphere of meaningless complexity. Down here on Xander's level, nothing is ever going to add up or factor out. He can't kill Angel. He'd once wanted to kill Spike. Now he feels about Spike the way he once did about Buffy, at the time he'd hated Spike.
It's enough to make a man cry. In private.
He builds Spike a desk. An elaborate, detailed, roll-top, pigeonholed desk, with a hand-rubbed varnish, styled like an antique but designed to take a computer.
For a while Xander has trouble getting it up in bed, now and then, but the problem passes off with time, and sex acquires another layer, a deeper patina. This complicates things that used to be purely fun, because it's a kind of intensity inside him that isn't going to go away. It's harsh and full of longing, trapped inside him, and he tries to get it out--through his mouth, with kisses all over Spike's twisting body, through his dick when he comes, through the planing movements of his hands over all that unmarked skin.
Xander hopes it's getting out of him and through to Spike. He doesn't have a lot of good words for it, but it's something he can do with his hands.