s/x fic
I realize that most of you on my friends list are going to find this right after the brilliance that is eliade's latest S/X snippet. I apologize in advance.

I was writing the other S/X. I was planning my fic for the Flashfic-athon. And then this jumped out of nowhere, smacked me around and made me its bitch. So here ya go.

ETA: Spoilers for S-7 Buffy up through "Storyteller", I think it is.

Edited again: We have a title. "The Spanish Inquisition". Lazuli shouldn't encourage me like that, don't you think? *g*



"What the hell are you doing?" Xander's voice is strained, incredulous and edgy. He's got no patience, no room for Spike in his apartment - in his bed - playing games with him yet again, he has no doubt. Fresh from the ER, too sore and worn out to even contemplate his usual spot on Buffy's couch, he's so very not in the mood for a head-fucked vampire who wants to fuck with his.

"Well, I was sleeping," comes the muffled reply from the mass of wild bleached curls on his pillow.

"Are you kidding me?" Xander lets the shoe he'd been about to drop dangle from his fingertips. Wonders if the soul would keep Spike from retaliating if Xander threw it at him. Probably not, he decides. Xander's got no doubt that Spike's got a mental list titled something like 'People I Can Fuck Up and Not Feel Bad About It' somewhere, and he's just as sure that he's on it, right behind every member (past and present) of the Initiative.

The blankets, his blankets, shift slightly, and now there's one sleepy blue eye glaring balefully at him. Oh, yeah, 'cause he's the bad guy here, disturbing the harmless innocent vampire's rest, right? "Was."

Xander sighs in exasperation and just barely resists the urge to pick up his shoe and hurl it anyway. "I wasn't questioning the 'sleeping' part, O Bane of My Existence. It was the 'in my bed' part I'm having problems with."

The eye blinks slowly. "You shagged in my bed, shouldn't I at least get to nap in yours?"

Xander tries not to wince. He mostly succeeds.

Amusement now in the blue, and Spike's voice is clearer, more awake. "'Course, maybe it's not the 'in your bed' part you're really having problems with, hey?" Xander can't see the expression on Spike's face but worry skitters up his spine anyway. Spike sits up then, the blankets puddling around his waist.

"Are you... are you naked? You're... god... you, you, you..." Xander's choking on indignation, shock and blood loss, and he learns the answer to his question when Spike - unfortunately, yes, naked - gets out of bed, comes over and starts pounding him on the back.

"Sorry, mate. Was just trying to help - didn't mean to give you convulsions."

"Help? Help? What help, where? How is you being naked in my bed help?"

Spike stops hitting him and shrugs, his eyebrows high. "You said you needed some help with the whole gay thing. That's a quote."

Xander gapes at him for a long moment and then closes his mouth with an almost audible snap. Thinks he finally understands the meaning of the word 'dumbfounded'. "No, that's a joke, Spike. The soul take away your sense of humor?"

Spike rolls his eyes, lips twisted disbelievingly. "Yeah, right. And you didn't throw me a coy little virgin-boy glance from under those long lashes of yours when the Slayer pointed out that you'd probably only start attracting male demons."

Xander's protest shrivels into something that in no way resembles a squeak when Spike steps close enough that Xander would be able to feel the body heat radiating from his naked body, if his naked body wasn't dead. "That's what you're gonna say next, right?"

Dry swallow, dry tongue run fruitlessly across drier lips, and all Xander can do is nod and think that he really should be moving away from the naked body now pressed against him. Now, soon, any time would be good, really. "I'm not gay," he protests thickly.

"'Course you're not," Spike murmurs, his voice muted because he's got his face pushed into the crook of Xander's neck.

Nope, Xander's not gay. He's not gasping, either, not dizzy with the feel of Spike's mouth moving wetly against his skin, raising the little hairs on the back of his neck. His hands are most definitely not twitching to slide themselves across the skin stretched smoothly across the sharp planes of Spike's hips. Not at all. And when Spike sucks an earlobe into his mouth, Xander only makes that noise because it tickles, and he doesn't like being tickled.

He's not sure what to ascribe the tiny shudders that zing through him when Spike starts unbuttoning his shirt to, although his rapidly-hardening cock has a suggestion or two to make. Xander's reaction is stripping Xander of his denial as deftly as Spike is stripping Xander out of his clothes, and he feels naked in more ways than one by the time his clothes are in a pile at the foot of his bed.

Spike lifts his mouth from where he's been busy blazing patterns Xander will feel for the rest of his life, and looks Xander in the eye. Long, searching look, and Xander wants so badly to look away, to run away, to say something that'll make Spike stop, make Spike never stop. He wants to ask why, but not really, because he knows Spike's just fucking with him, just seeing how far Xander's willing to let this little game go.

Xander's kind of curious himself. If you'd asked him half an hour ago, he'd have said 'nowhere', but the recent Anya-sex satisfied nothing, only left Xander hungry and desperate for hands on his skin, a mouth on his body, and someone sweaty and writhing underneath him, so he's not quite sure what the answer is at the moment. In fact, when Spike pulls Xander close, working his hips like a go-go dancer in a cage, one hand on his ass, the other slipping up to twist his nipple sharply - "Always thought you'd be the type to like a bit of pain with your fuck, pet", and oh, he's so not wrong - Xander's pretty damn sure he's forgotten the question.

His clothes, his denial and his resistance are all finally gone, and Xander's hands find their way across the pale, silky expanse of Spike's back and down to his ass. He's always been an ass guy, and it turns out that Spike's fits just fine into the palms of his hands. Spike's head fits neatly underneath Xander's chin, too, when he ducks his head and pushes until Xander's back is up against the wall.

They're gasping now, clutching at each other as they twist and thrust, suck, lick and bite in silence, neither one willing to admit to not knowing when this stopped being a mind-fuck and became something that'll be remembered and replayed in the middle of the night, in the middle of the day, alone and awake in their respective beds.

Spike comes first, which isn't what Xander expected - insert your own joke about supernatural stamina here - but he doesn't stop moving against Xander, and oddly enough, it's the feel of Spike's cock softening in the cool slickness on their bellies that ramps Xander up and sends him careening over the edge into his own orgasm.

Tomorrow there'll be angst and second-guesses, snark and sarcasm. But for now there's just Xander, wiping them both clean with the shirt he'd left on the floor, and Spike, uncharacteristically meek, following Xander to the bed and submitting to being pulled close and tucked in. Turns out the pillow's big enough for both of them.



Chapter two is here.