King of Cats

 

 

The bulb was wrong.  Xander could feel the heat baking into his skin, mind babbling things like gonna have to make sure not to burn through the lampshade, and did I buy the bulb?  I thought I bought it.  Didn’t I buy it?  Because there’s no way anyone other than me would by a hundred and fifty watt bulb for a regular lamp.

Eventually, he was going to have to bring this up.  The amount of heat burning his skin meant there was a damned good chance the lampshade was going to burn up.  Or something.  But he’d mention it later.

When his mouth wasn’t too busy saying, “Unhhhhhhhh.”

Spike sucked harder, mouth wet and warm from the damned over-bright bulb and the hour-long blowjob he was still in the middle of.  Xander’s stamina had improved since hooking up with Spike years ago, sure.  But tonight’s display was due totally to Spike’s wicked, clever fingers, that always staved Xander off seconds before completion.  It was maddening.  It was frustrating.  It was so unbelievably fantastic.

Reaching out for curls left ungelled and fluffy at a request—and only a specific request—Xander ran his hands over Spike’s head.  The shape of his skull fell perfectly into the curve of his palms, hair a layer of cottony softness.  Spike leaned into the touch, the way he always did, which always made Xander want to pet him more.  Just to see him look so blissed out and happy.  Especially when Xander cupped the back of Spike’s head, thumb brushing over a bumpy ridge right behind Spike’s right ear.  Following that ridge produced yowls of arched-back pleasure, and a deep, rumbling sound that wasn’t quite a purr, wasn’t quite a growl, but maybe something else entirely. Vampire happy noises, Xander often teased Spike.  Who would promptly push his head into Xander’s waiting hands, telling him they ought to see who’s was bigger then, shouldn’t they?

Spike had a very large head.  Fortunately, Xander had equally large hands.

Thumbing over the ridge made Spike’s eyes flutter and his jaw loosen some of the tighttight suction over Xander’s cock, but that was okay.  This wasn’t really about getting him to come, after all.  This was about Spike, and them, and doing things that Xander wasn’t necessarily comfortable with, but would do because it was Spike who asked.

Drawing his fingers down Spike’s naked neck and shoulders made him shiver, the half-swallowed moan resulting in Xander shivering out a gasp.  He loved to hear his lover, exulting in the sounds as incontrovertible proof that Spike felt good.  That Xander was making him feel that good.  That it was Xander he thought about.

Oh, no, I don’t have insecurities.  Nu uh.  Not even a little, bitty bit.

Spike’s hand lay on his thighs, rubbing but not nearly involved as the constantly moving mouth.  Opportunity lay in those moving, distracted hands, and Xander remembered something he’d wanted to try.  Something he’d wanted to share.  His left hand found Spike’s right, pushing the fingers up to slide his own in between.  “A pilgrim’s kiss,” he murmured, long ago lessons told in Willow’s voice in his mind.  “Palm to palm, that holy palmers be spared of sin.”

Finger’s tightening to almost bruising force, Spike groaned, jerking on the carpet as if it was his cock that was being so lovingly tended to.  His eyes grew huge in the too-bright light, blue turning aquamarine. More, those eyes begged.

“Good pilgrim,” he quoted, groping for lessons he barely remembered and sessions where Spike’s voice wrapped words in silk and sex, rendering their meanings void.  “You do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.”

Tight, tight, tight went Spike’s fingers, tighter still his mouth as he whimpered around Xander’s flesh.  Poetry always did this to him, and a plan slowly took firmer shape in Xander’s mind.  Rubbing his thumbs over Spike’s hand and head both, he forced his voice into the low, rhythmic pulse he knew Spike loved and said, “No more teasing, Spike.  You kiss by the book.”

Spike’s eyes fluttered back, his body tense with longing and he did ... something.  Twice.

Definitely too hot, Xander thought, eyes wide and blind as he stared at the suddenly shade-less lightbulb. Far, far too hot for mortal man.  Or immortal vampire.  I wonder if he’ll burn, if I drip candles on him?  Mmm.  The ones that taste like ginger when you peel them off.  Sharp and hot, mixing with the salt of his skin. . .

“Didn’t kill you, did I, love?”

Xander slowly took a breath, aware he hadn’t done so for several moments.  “Maybe?”

Hands trailed over his belly and thigh, a gentle caress designed to return blood to its proper flow—and reassure me that Spike’s still here.  Are my insecurities so blatant?  But there was no worry or fear or the horrible look of is he gonna flake on me now? in Spike’s gaze, blue eyes fogged as they smiled up at him.  Just the kind of quiet love that spoke of fifteenth anniversaries and screaming fights and little chubby arms wrapping trustingly around necks and long, sweet blowjobs that were only the precursor for the night’s events.

Xander’s thumb rediscovered the ridge behind Spike’s ear, and he smiled when Spike went immediately boneless and lax.  “Can do that forever.”

“And skip the next part?  Well, that’s okay with me you know. . . ”

Eyes opening, a tiny hint of is everything okay? appeared, black flecks that shimmered gold in the blue of Spike’s eyes.  “Love, it’s all right.  I don’t—”

It was awkward, leaning forward from a seated position to match up with Spike’s kneeling one, but Xander was determined.  He chased the words right out of Spike’s mouth, tracking down any hint of his own flavor mixed with the midnight ocean taste of Spike.  “Teasing you,” he teased, grinning at Spike’s dazed expression.  “I said yes, and I meant it.  Besides.  You want this.”

“The Stones may’ve ruined it, but you can’t always get what you want.”

“Hey!  Mock not the Stones, buddy.  And are you telling me I don’t get you satisfaction?”

Spike’s two-fingered smack to his cheek didn’t even burn.  “Smart ass.  And, actually, not yet, you haven’t.  But,” he stressed, expression softening, “doesn’t mean I have to get it this way.  I have you.  S’all I want.”

He said things like that so very casually. Well, no, not casually.  Never casually.  But frequently.  All the time, even.  It always took Xander’s breath away, leaving him in a haze that not even long, slow, sweet blowjobs could put him in.  The words were a blanket, a talisman that he held onto when the clamoring in his own mind grew too loud. You’d think after five years, I’d be used to this.

He hoped he never was.

Another kiss, white swirl of whipped cream to complete the aura that always lingered after those words.  “I’m teasing.  A rare, nearly unheard of occurrence, I know.  But I want to do this, Spike.  I want to do it because you want it.”

Wanted it the way little children wanted a sweet, with gimme and please and mineminemine, though for this, Spike had said none of those things.  The lack of requests was what told Xander how important that this was; silence from Spike was always significant.  It was simply a matter of determining how it was significant.

Not that he gave me many clues, oh no.  Not Spike, the selfish bastard, who focuses on his pleasure to the exclusion of anyone else’s.  The same Spike who gets along with my friends as much as possible, so I still have friends.  The one who doesn’t mind when I have to be thoroughly and disgustingly human.  Who plays along when my boss calls him ‘roommate’, like the homophobic bastard that he is.  Who’s the most considerate lover I’ve ever known, and in the long line of Xander-lovers, that’s actually seriously high praise.  Oh, yeah.  Selfish bastard.  That’s totally Spike.

He wasn’t sure when he first realized what Spike wanted.  It’d come up, of course.  Whatever else Spike was, ‘kinky’ was the most benign term used to describe him.  Just about everything had been brought up at least once, up to and including some things Xander would sleep better if he’d never heard of.  But Spike was thorough and relentless ... except for this.  This, he mentioned and then dismissed, as if it was unimportant.  Undesired. 

Even now, when Xander used their linked hands to tug Spike to his feet, sway-stepping him back towards their bedroom, still Spike would stop the instant Xander indicated he wanted to.  Because he wanted this.  And Xander had long ago made a promise, under the stars with jasmine and the brine of the nearby ocean mixing around them, that if it was in his power, he’d give Spike anything Spike wanted. Blood, body, and soul, he’d promised then and now. All yours.

There was no music except for the sound of their bodies, but still they swayed together, noses nudging, foreheads touching.  Xander led this time, whirling Spike around, letting skin rub against familiar skin, always moving him closer and closer to the bedroom.  The bedroom Spike had been barred from since early that morning, after Xander had returned from his shopping.

The prep work had been surprisingly minimal.  Surprisingly only because the romantic in Xander had wanted rose petals and sweet candles to make the room a red-hued haven, silken sheets to pamper his lover’s skin, with notes and chocolates to ease him later.  Spike would’ve wanted—loved—all of that, had he done it, too.  William the Romantic was never far under William the Bloody’s skin, and living with Xander had taught him not to hide such impulses quite so fiercely.

But that wasn’t what this was about.  The roses, the candles, the scents and sounds and soft lights—all of those would’ve been a distraction.  A way to muffle, to mask what was going on, and Xander didn’t want to do that. Not going to insult him that way.  Or let him think I need those things to do this.  Instead, the room was basically the same, except for the large tarp pulled over the bed.

Beside him, Spike gave a nervous laugh.  “Not what I was expecting.”

“Good.”  Because Spike was just as romantic as he was, for all they were two guys who proclaimed to never like that kind of thing, and Xander knew he’d expected it.  Xander didn’t want to do something expected.  He wanted to do something inspired. I just wish inspiration hadn’t taken so long to hit.  I’m not sure if I remember it all.

“So, we’re—”

“Shhhh.”  The quiet word filled the room, wrapping around them the way Xander wrapped himself around Spike.  He had to kiss him then, loving the way his eyes shone from the light of that same damned lamp in the living room, the only illumination they needed.  “Go lay down, Spike.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Spike said, words spitting out like fastballs so Xander couldn’t interrupt.

Another kiss, softer and sweeter. Whoever said ‘romantic’ is an insult has never had Spike-kisses.  “I know.  Now go lay down, Spike.”

Spike laid down on his back, watching as Xander positioned the door half closed so the room grew even darker and pulled out a large bottle from the dresser across the room.  “Had this all planned?”

“I dream'd,” Xander quoted, hiding the pop of an opened top within his words. I don’t know this.  I don’t remember this.  I’m only stupid Xander who could never be trusted to remember things like this, and it was only Willow who got me through ninth grade, and he’ll hate it, so why am I even trying?  Spike’s eyes were lasered onto Xander as he made his way back to the bed, kneeling beside Spike’s body.  Hands wet and slick, he rubbed them together to warm them.  “A dream tonight.”

He heard Spike’s sharp intake of breath, wet and wild as he sucked in unneeded air.  It could have been due to wet fingers sliding down his belly to massage his cock before slipping lower, but Xander didn’t think so.  Not when a voice that shook more than Spike’s wide-spread thighs murmured, “And so did I.”

He’d gotten his lines mixed up.  The timing was off, but it could be fixed.  Especially when Xander’s voice hit that husky note he knew drove Spike wild, the one that made him sound less like a boy and more like a lover.  “Well what was yours?” he asked, “that dreamers often lie?”

It wasn’t a question in the original, but Xander was writer and director tonight, and he deemed the change acceptable.  Beneath him, Spike gasped and quaked, body tensed into an arch to do St. Louis proud as a slick finger teased his entrance.  “In bed asleep,” Spike moaned, “while they do dream things true.”

Living with Spike had taught Xander things he never expected to learn.  The one Xander often remembered on his lowest days was that Spike was an incredibly intelligent creature.  Very little escaped his notice, and not much else his sharp mind, stored away in tiny pockets of knowledge to be unleashed at the most opportune moments. And that’s just the things that can hurt.  Forget about the hints he drops when he’s not paying attention.  Places and people I’ve never heard of, books I’ve never read.  Never wanted to read, before.

But now he did want to read them, to be worthy of the attention Spike gave him.  It wasn’t like being back in school, which made sense since he never studied this much in school.  It was different.  Better.  There were no tests to pass except those he set himself.  Spike wasn’t a prize to be won—he’d already been won.  This was for Xander, to make Xander feel better about himself.  And this time, Xander actually learned something.

“O, then, I see,” he said, one finger giving way to two.  “Queen Mab hath been with you.”

Spike cried out sharply, his cock growing larger under Xander’s watchful eyes.  Already flat against his belly, it throbbed to the beat of Xander’s heart while his body trembled.  “Xander,” he whispered, as quiet as the fog of breath on a cold winter’s day.  “Xan.”

Two became three, gliding in and out slickly as more and more lube was added.  Xander knew he didn’t need so much; Spike liked the pain, his eternally youthful body flexible and accommodating in a way Xander’s never could be.  This wasn’t about pain, though, and Xander added another dollop to make sure all three fingers moved as smooth and sweet as possible.  This was about something more important that physical feeling, the good or the bad.

“She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate-stone.”  Xander added the fourth finger as he described dear Mab’s appearance and transportation, the sound of his hand down to his thumb easing in and out somehow mixing perfectly with the sound of his own voice.  Spike’s legs twitched and kicked around him before hands drew his knees back up, holding himself open for Xander.  He was breathing harshly as his body slowly opened under Xander’s gentle ministrations.  His eyes were locked on Xander’s mouth and they never once looked away.

“And in this state,” Xander told his watching lover, “she gallops night by night through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love.”

On the last word, Xander folded his thumb against his palm and slid his entire hand inside.  Spike wailed, drowning out courtiers dreaming of curtseying, body convulsing as he was breached the fullest way.  Muscle wrapped around Xander’s wrist, clenched so tight it would’ve hurt if he hadn’t been mesmerized by the feel of literally touching Spike’s depths.

Back and forth he slid his hand, waiting until the convulsions eased enough for Spike to grate out, “Please.”

“O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees, o'er ladies ' lips, who straight on kisses dream, which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.”  The words flowed out from him the way his body was flowing right back into Spike. I’m not supposed to remember all of this.  I’m never supposed to know this.  But he was supposed to know Spike, and maybe that was the key. 

His fingers curled down into a fist, filed-to-nothing-nails still catching slightly on Spike’s insides, making him sob and wordlessly beg for more.  “Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, and then dreams he of smelling out a suit; and sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail tickling a parson's nose as a' lies asleep, then dreams, he of another benefice.”

His wrist slid deeper inside, almost to mid-forearm and Xander wondered if this was too much.  Vampire or no, no one was supposed to be able to take a thickly muscled arm to the elbow inside them, were they?  But god, the way it looked, sliding inside made Xander stumble slightly over the next verse.  Because he was taking Spike in a way he’d never taken him before.  Never wanted to again, either, if truth be known, but this wasn’t about Xander.  It was never about Xander, he’d known that from the beginning.  This was about Spike.

“Sometime she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, and then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, of healths five-fathom deep; and then anon drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, and being thus frighted swears a prayer or two and sleeps again.”

Spike was mindless below him, curls wild against the pillow, lips moving along with every word Xander spoke while his eyes rolled nearly back into his head.  His cock was sticky with wet, and want, and need, but there was no danger of coming too soon.  Not now, when his body had been given so totally to Xander.  At this moment, more truly than any time they’d ever or will ever say it, Spike was Xander’s.  Completely.

It made Xander tremble, lost in the sight of his tanned arm disappearing into pale softness.  “This is that very Mab that plats the manes of horses in the night, and bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs, which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.  This is the hag.”  His voice was raising along with the tempo of his thrusts, working deep inside Spike to show him, prove to him that this was everything.  Right here.  Right now.  There was nothing else. Don’t want anything else, Spike.  Anyone else.  Want you.  “When maids lie on their backs, that presses them and learns them first to bear, making them women of good carriage: This is she–”

“Peace!” Spike shrieked, whether because he remembered the line or because he couldn’t take anymore, Xander didn’t know.  Didn’t care.  Because Spike was coming fountains, covering himself with an amount Xander had never seen before.  Slightly awed, he watched as Spike sobbed his name over and over, his cock spending in more bursts than he’d ever seen to utter completion. 

The kind of completion Xander had just had, sitting in the living room on the sofa with Spike between his legs.  The one that kept him from hardening even while he watched his lover release.

It took some doing to work Xander’s arm and hand from Spike’s body, and longer still for Xander to ensure that there’d been no damage.  Spike murmured drunken words in iambic pentameter as Xander cleaned both of them off, reaching out blindly whenever Xander moved too far away.  “Peace, thou talk'st of nothing.”

Clean and dry and abruptly exhausted, Xander climbed into the bed beside Spike, unsurprised when Spike immediately slithered into his arms and clung with the strength of a frightened child.  Xander shushed and rocked, holding Spike until the trembling stopped completely and his breathing evened out into nothing at all.  “True, I talk of dreams,” he murmured into Spike’s ear.  “Which are the children of an idle brain, begot of nothing but vain fantasy.”

“You remembered.”  Spike’s throat was raw from shouting, but that didn’t hide the stunned satisfaction.  He clung tighter, shock giving over to joy.  “Oh, love, you remembered.”

“Which is as thin of substance as the air and more inconstant than the wind, who wooes even now the frozen bosom of the north.”

“Should go on the road, the two of us.  Listening to you do Mercutio would have little old ladies comin’ in their depends.”

Xander chuckled, holding Spike closer, but didn’t stop quoting. What was I thinking about a romantic?  Little bastard.  “And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, turning his face to the dew-dropping south.”

Expending probably the last of his energy, Spike pushed his face up to bestow a chaste kiss on Xander’s mouth.  “Then have my lips the sin that they have took.”

Two months, six, a year ago, Xander wouldn’t have understood. Now. . . I’m not going, Spike.  And I’m not letting you go, either.  “Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!  Give me my sin again.”

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