Prompts from Kyrieane: mink.....banked fire.....season 5....first time after a long separation
Xander wasn't ever sure, afterward, how they got to the floor - how they got their clothes off. The mansion had been closed up for over a year - Spike had been gone for nearly that. Came back for a love-spell, found a doe-eyed boy instead, and stayed. Until the Initiative blew into town, and nothing and no-one was safe. But now - now...
*Spike's hands, cold on his shoulders, holding on to him because Xander is flying and falling and about to land flat on his ass, staring at his lover - at his love. At the person he's missed and mourned and cursed and cried over for months. Five letters in eleven months, and now he's here and Xander can't breathe, he can't breathe...*
"God - love - taste so good..." Spike is kissing him, kissing him, making his chest hitch for breath, making his jaw ache, but Xander doesn't care because he never, ever thought he'd have that taste in his mouth again; all iron and smoke and whiskey-sour, caramel-sweet. Never thought he'd feel that rolling, panther-thick muscle under the velvet skin. His breathes in, scent of leather and woodsmoke and dry grass, scent of lemon and that's Spike, that's Spike, and he digs one hand into the bunched sinews of Spike's thigh, and one into hair that he's let go to wheat-gold and curls. Kisses back and welcomes the ache, because the pain makes this real, like the other pain was real.
*Walking down the sidewalk, nearly noon. Skipping a class at UC Sunnydale because today...he's just feeling blue. Just missing Spike so much that he can't bear to see the love-birds on campus. Can't bear to make class-talk with Willow or commiserate with Buffy over the boyfriend du jour. They never knew - NEVER knew - that Spike had kidnapped him, trying to get to Willow. That Xander had been stubborn, and had fought, and had ended up listening and BEING listened to... Had ended up screaming at Spike about Jesse because Spike is the first vampire he'd ever actually talked to for more than a minute that wasn't Angel, and he'd SEEN - oh, he'd seen. Seen that Giles and Buffy and Angel were WRONG, and that Jesse hadn't been devoured by the demon, just forced to share. And that there had been a chance - oh, infinitely small, but a chance nevertheless, for things to have been different.
Three days later Spike had let him go home. A month later...they had been lovers. And now - now on a day when Xander just about can't stand to be alone for one more minute, there's a strange, floppy kind of demon, all tricked out in khakis and a pull-over Polo shirt, handing him a note with a nod and a smile and walking on. And Xander had unfolded the piece of heavy parchment and seen the words - three words. 'I'm home, love.' Everything had gone grey and then black - there had been a singing in his ears, a roaring rush of white-noise and he'd found himself on the sidewalk, a crossing guard and a bevy of ten-year-olds staring down at him. He'd shrugged it off, avoided their questions and gotten up and RAN, ran for Crawford Street and the house and Spike, Spike, Spike. Coming in, looking around frantically. Seeing two steamer-trunks open, spilling clothes and books and weapons over the floor. And a length of brown satin that had resolved to a blanket made of mink, and then Spike, there, touching him...*
"Spike - oh, there love, please - " Spike's mouth on his throat, licking and nipping and sucking - Spike's fingers on his ribs, across his nipple. Mouth like the petals of a flower, smooth and sweet and damp with moisture, tasting every bit of his skin. Xander's own mouth is hot and wet and wanting and he pulls Spike back to him again and again, to kiss him and beg him and curse him - to tell him 'love love love', over and over, making up for the grindingly lonely days and nights he's stumbled through.
Spike's skin is as soft as the mink that tickles across his back. It's warmed by the banked and glowing fire Spike has made in the hearth and feels hot on one side, cool on the other, and Xander can't help touching and touching - drinking Spike with his fingertips and his palms and his tongue - mapping the body like a blind man, every inch explored again and again.
"Can't imagine how I lived without this, love, how I lived without you...never again, never again..." Spike's hands cradle him and hold him close - Spike's hip juts into his and his thigh is between Xander's legs, slippery on the fur, pushing and twisting, rocking a slow rhythm that will take them through the day, into the night. One orgasm already, spread over the both of them, pearlescent fluid smeared thin on heaving bellies and dried to a crackling sheen. Rough edge to the smooth glide of cock on cock and Xander welcomes it, pushes up into it. Wanting every sense engaged, saturated - overwhelmed - because he's been starved for this for so long, been aching for it for so long.
"God - love you - please...please..." Xander is begging with voice and body - is opening himself wide, and wider - hips and jaw and eyes burning with a dull pain but that only makes it better, makes it more when Spike kisses his eyes closed, pushes himself down, forces Xander's jaw shut because he's kissing the thin skin underneath. Bruising all along his bones and Xander arches like a Halloween cat when Spike pushes in, spit and blood and come and the fire-melted mess that was a Cherry ChapStick easing the way.
It makes Xander laugh, when that too-sweet, chemical-edged scent comes to him - laugh and catch Spike to him hard, legs pulling him in, heels in the hollow of Spike's back, fists in his hair, Spike's smoke-and-dust breath on his cheek, Spikes lips sweet-sour with lemon drops and blood. His cock is transmuted, from chilled flesh to a staff of flame as long-quiescent muscles are pushed to their limit and past but Xander doesn't care, doesn't care. "Spike - god - inside me, want you inside me all day, please, please...ached for you..."
"Won't leave again, love, won't -" Spike whispers, his hands fisting up the mink and rubbing it on Xander's shoulders - pulling it up around them until they're cocooned in it, until the musky scent and heat and silken rasp are all that they are - until it's just the rhythm of body in body, and air scraping out of Xander's lungs, and formless words dropping over him like sweet rain. Spike's eyes are the sea in winter; bruise-blue, stormy, fathomless. Full of lust and love and sorrow, full of want. Xander bites Spike's lips - his collarbones and his chest - bites his throat and cries out as Spike thrusts hard and harder, juddering his flesh on his bones and making his heart skip and skip and skip. Xander can taste blood - can taste the burnt-sugar taint that is the demon, and the smoke-spice essence that is Spike's skin. He can't get enough - not enough of any of it and Spike is worrying the flesh of his throat and riding into him hard - straining his hips and making his spine burn over the skins that envelope them but it's what he wants, what Xander wants. He grinds up into the yielding rigidity of Spike's belly, sensation like nettles and ice shivering through him.
"Oh, more - please more, just - there, there, there -" Xander moans, and Spike obliges, hips in a snap-glide-grind as precise as any machine, mink-sharp fangs prickling over his jugular and he arches up into it, into all of it, shuddering to his release, lost in it. Spike growls and thrusts and sips at his blood like a tulip of very fine champagne, and the sullen glow of the charring logs catch cat-green glints off his eyes.
"Never again, love, never -" Spike vows, chalice of life at his mouth, water of life on his lips and Xander pulls him closer with every muscle and fiber of his being, and tastes salt-tears on his tongue.
"No, never," he says.