kalpurna

BTVS, X/S

Spike helps out around the house. Slash, NC-17
(Originally written for the summer_of_spike, under a different pen name, and revised when I re-read it yesterday.)



Wet Paint

'This is the worst moment of my life.' And, God, was that the wrong thing to think; because it isn’t true, and now his disobedient mind flicks through his personal Scrapbook of Suck. Inevitably, in a sort of terrible slow motion mental car crash, he remembers the last time he saw Anya.

------flashback-----

“Xander, I’m sorry. You give pleasurable orgasms, and your penis is really unusually large, but we both know this relationship is going nowhere.”

Xander clenched his fists in his hair and tried to wrap his brain around the scene in front of him. Anya blinked up at him with those puzzled eyes, because she didn’t understand, she honestly didn’t understand what was wrong with this picture. The troll beside her took another long drag on his cigarette. Some weird little corner of Xander’s brain was smirking, because this guy was clearly righter for Anya than he ever was: a guy who seemed more irritated than embarrassed by being interrupted while in the process of fucking the girlfriend of the interrupter, if that sentence made any sense, nothing made any sense and holy shit what was he supposed to do with this.

She left town a few days later, although nobody knew she’d gone for a week after that.
Xander tried not to want to find her. To want her.

-----end flashback-----

Spike, slumped gracefully on the floor, stretches his arms up above his head. His fingers brush the ceiling of the tiny closet. Xander looks away. It’s bad enough that he’s stuck here for the indefinite future, waiting for Willow’s signal, but he just had to get stuck with a guy old enough to still think electricity was a pretty neat idea. Well-preserved, though. Maybe it’s the bleach.

Xander slams his head back against the wall of the closet – quietly, but hard enough that Spike looks quickly down from the ceiling and quirks an eyebrow. Then, like oil spreading on glass, Spike’s lips curl into a smirk.

“So, here we are, then. Trapped for the foreseeable future, with a frighteningly large supply of demon cleaning supplies, in the middle of a four dimensional frat house. And not a sodding thing to do; least, until our dear little friends, the White Hats, come charging to the defense of all that’s cuddly. And unless the Slayer has realized at last that I, while not cuddly, am shockingly gorgeous, we could be stuck here for a good. Long. While. With nothing to do but fester in a shoddily constructed closet. Unless, that is, we can find some way to amuse ourselves. Got any clever ideas, ducks?” and he leers blatantly at Xander.

It’s this little speech that launches the supreme mindfuck of trying to figure out if Spike is -coming on to him? What the fuck? - or just bored; or, and this is most likely, trying to needle him into throwing open the closet door and facing a horde of drunken demons rather than deal with the snark for one more minute.

Xander’s seriously considering it, too. But then he remembers the plan, and promising Buffy to stick to the plan, and, dammit. What in the multiverse made him promise to wait with the British undead? Couldn’t he have, you know, held the eye of newt while Willow opens this portal thingy? The plan (he thinks, anyway; but who knows what Giles is talking about half the time, anyway, besides Willow) was to send the demon infestation back to its home dimension. For which purpose Xander and his undead companion will be expected to jump out and drive fifty some-odd demons out of the house and into Buffy’s waiting axe. Also, there might have been shrimp. But he was a little unclear on that part. And that’s when he thinks, ‘This is the worst moment of my life’.

Fuck, he hates Spike.

--------

The closet really is unbelievably tiny, and, even with Xander squashed against the wall in furious heterosexual protest, it’s impossible for the two to avoid touching each other. Shifting his leg, Spike slides one foot down the outside of Xander’s thigh.

“Hey!” Xander levels a basilisk glare at Spike, who is predictably unaffected. Xander moves his foot and contrives to kick the vampire “accidentally” in the ribs. Spike looks up, and his eyes narrow dangerously for a moment. But then his expression shifts, intensifies, and he is leaning closer and eep! Personal space bubble! dragging his denim covered thigh across Xander’s lap.

He gasps for air.

But then the contact is gone, and Spike has just moved to sit closer to the door. Xander leans back again, and prays to a benevolent god (any benevolent god, he’s not picky) that Spike won’t notice how hard he is. 'Nervousness,' he tells himself, ‘adrenaline for the demon ass kickage about to happen, plus simple friction,’ not anything to do with the evil scary sexy vampire who is smirking down at his crotch: and apparently God is dead, because there is no way that Spike hasn’t noticed his erection.

The stone clutched in Xander’s sweaty palm flashes blindingly, twice, and he blesses Willow’s timing as Spike kicks open the door.

And maybe Spike isn’t as cool as he likes to act either, because there is no quip.

----------

At the Bronze, after the battle. Buffy is dancing with a red haired guy from her Psych class. Nothing serious. There’s been nothing serious since Angel. At least she’s finally relaxing, though, dating for fun now, and not the clinging desperation of the Angel Rebound that drew her to jerks like Parker. Behind her, Xander is dancing with Willow, both of them still protective enough to want to keep an eye, and possibly a crossbow, trained on Buffy’s dates. But the guy seems nice enough, if a little boring, and boring is of the good for Buffy right now.

Xander lets his gaze wander, scoping out the crowd, because, hey, the Xan-Man’s single now. But everyone seems to be too young, or with someone, like that couple over there, by the column, and whoa. Is that even legal in a public place? He stares at them, hypnotized. And kinda turned on, actually. Until the man disentangles himself from the clinging brunette to belly up to the bar, and Xander sees his face. Spike’s face. Holy mother of fuck.

The song ends, and Xander lets Willow lead him back to the table. He orders a beer, not thinking about Spike, and drains the bottle. Not thinking about Spike. And the way that girl’s legs were wrapped around his waist. And the way his bleached hair is all ruffled up like dandelion-fluff, which is totally uninteresting, and – hey, here he is. Speak of the demon. Xander snaps out of it enough to give him the patented Harris ‘What-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-doing-sitting-at-our-table-you-undead-creep’ stare.

“Xander!” Willow is looking quizzical, and he realizes that it’s probably not the first time she’s said it. Hey, no one ever said the w.t.f.d.y.t.y.d.s.a.o.t.y.u.c.s. was easy.

Um. Unsurprisingly.

“Present!” he answers, getting a happy little smile for his attention.

“I just wanted to tell you that I found all this pretty left over blue paint in my garage, and I was thinking maybe you want to paint the apartment? Because, you know, a fresh start and all, it’s supposed to be really healthy when you, um, end, a...? Uhh, macadamia nut?” Willow desperately proffers a bowl. He grins. Even when she puts her foot in her mouth, it’s such a cute Willow-shaped foot. Besides, he’s nearly over Anya. He recovered from his shock to find that he wasn’t half as angsty as he thought he would be. Or should be. In fact, he was kind of glad he found out that he wasn’t in love with her this way – humiliation and all – instead of a few years down the road, when it would have been a lot more painful for everyone involved.

“Sounds great, Will. Hey, I’ll do it tomorrow, even, since the site is flooded. And you’ll help me, right?” Her face falls.

“Um, nooo. I can’t, Xan, really, I have so much work to do, and I’ve got to research this whole demon portal, shrimp world thing and find out where those things were coming from --”

“I’ll do it.” Their heads swivel as one, to stare at - Spike? Xander starts to giggle uncontrollably.
“Oi! I was bloody serious!” This sets him off again, harder this time, but -

“I think it’s a great idea.” Willow? Willow is betraying him to the dread forces of evil vampire painting?

“What? You can’t be – Will, you’re serious!” He gapes at her.

“Yes.” She nods her head decisively. “It’ll give you some help with the painting, and keep Spike out of everyone’s hair. And, plus, side benefit, you two can bond. I mean, hi! We’re all on the same team now! And the glaring thing is getting really annoying.” He opens his mouth to protest, but...

Oh no. Resolve face.

Spike smirks.

--------

Xander brandishes a paintbrush under Spike’s chiseled cheekbones. “If you,” he growls, “mess up my apartment in any way, or, or do anything creepy, you are going to be so very much deader than you already are.”

Spike looks injured, and puts his hand on his bare chest in a “Moi?” gesture that is pure, distilled bullshit. But Xander doesn’t rise to the bait, and eventually they settle into a rhythm of painting. Half the apartment is done, when Xander makes an overly grandiose gesture with his paintbrush, and whaps Spike on the arm.

Spike jumps, and opens his mouth in indignation, but thinks better of it and closes his jaw with an audible snap. Deliberately, he reaches out and paints a fat blue line across Xander’s chest. Xander is wearing only a pair of shorts, and Spike has stripped down to jeans, in the interest of preserving their clothes. Xander freezes in surprise, and he looks up to see Spike – smiling. Not smirking, for once, but a genuine, ear to ear grin that makes his blue eyes sparkle the same color as the paint. It’s completely infectious.

Grinning wildly back at him, Xander smacks Spike in the abs with a wet splatter of blue. Soon, their painting session has degenerated into a full-on paint fight. Using unfair vamp strength, Spike disarms Xander, and wrestles him to the ground. He pins him quickly, and sits up, laughing, straddling Xander’s waist. The brunet reaches up to trace the blue streak that covers the scar in Spike’s eyebrow.

Suddenly, the laugh is gone from Spike’s eyes, leaving a strange intensity that makes Xander catch his breath and hold it. A cool thumb brushes across his lower lip, wiping off a drop of paint. He knows he should move, is going to, any second now, but Spike is leaning in and holy fucking shit. Shit shit shit. Spike is kissing Xander. And he should be, should feel something about this, this is somehow important, but his mind is oozing out his ears and there are firm soft lips on his and a tongue and who is this Xander guy anyway? And isn’t it more important that there is an unbelievable tongue situation happening here, and the kiss deepens. Xander tries to catch his breath, and draws closer, and bites Spike’s lip, and shoves his hand into fine blond hair. Spike strokes down his chest, through the slippery paint, rubbing little circles on his hard blue nipples. At this, Xander moans and bucks up against the other man, and rips his mouth away. They stare at each other. Xander is wild eyed and dazed. Spike’s eyelashes droop languorously above his bruised lips.

“This is – oh, fuck, this is so wrong, I – can’t think when you do that, oh god, no, don’t, stop, please, yes!” Spike finds Xander’s cock under the shorts, and wraps his slippery hand around it, brushing his thumb over the tip, and Xander prays wildly, with the part of his brain that still works, that the paint is non-toxic.

“Oh, God, Spike, yes, that’s, that’s amazing, I -- oh god oh god, stop, now, no, please, Spike...” Xander surfaces briefly, and taking advantage of the element of surprise manages to roll Spike over and pin his arms over his head. “Stop! Just, just a minute, Spike, wait.”

There is a flash of game face, eyes flickering golden for the smallest instant before Spike visibly gains control. He stares up at Xander with – what is that in his eyes? – obviously trying to think of some withering remark, a way of walking away from this with his dignity intact. But Xander leans in and sucks that pouting bottom lip in his mouth.

They lose the plot again for a few minutes. When Xander pulls himself upright, he can see on Spike’s pale skin the blue trail his hands have made, almost independent of his brain; there, up one bicep, circling his wrists, looping across his pale chest, moving down, down, to the hem of his jeans.

Xander scoots down Spike’s prostate body to where his erection strains against a button up fly, which is admittedly really cool and badass, but not so convenient at times like these. Part of him says, times like these? There will be more times? So, half to shut his brain up and half out of pure lust, Xander pops the top button on Spike’s fly. He licks the flesh exposed, lovely flat stomach, and pops the next button, and the next, trailing his tongue after his fingers, all the way down to... and of course Spike goes commando. Xander tentatively touches the head, because, another man’s dick? Not familiar territory. He wraps his hand around the base, and looks up to meet Spike’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do it, love, if you don’t want...” And somehow, that’s all it takes, and Xander wraps his lips around the head of Spike’s cock and sucks. He tries different things, things that Anya tried on him, or that he read about in the dirty magazines that are still under his mattress. He goes as deep as he can, traces the vein with his tongue, scrapes the head gently with his teeth...

It is almost a disappointment when Spike drags him up his body with, wow, superstrength. Almost. Until Spike is wrapping his hand around both their cocks, making a slippery wet blue tunnel of pure bliss. Xander bites his shoulder and pushes against him, faster now, digging his nails into Spike’s back until

he screams into Spike’s cool wet mouth and

comes

trembling and weak, shooting his seed across both their chests. Dimly, he feels Spike join him, cooler liquid mixing with his in the paint. He collapses, breathing hard.

-------

Xander wakes up alone on the couch. The whole apartment is finished, fresh paint smell everywhere. But he’s totally clean. Maybe he dreamed that? But no, he couldn’t possibly have dreamed that. He doesn’t have the imagination.

Slipping off his boxers, he walks towards the shower, determined to think about it later.

And only another observer, if any one had been there to see, would have noticed the small blue letters decorating his ass.

PROPERTY OF WM. THE BLOODY.
PAWS OFF.


The End