TITLE: Heatwave
SERIES: None, so far. May yet write a sequel. Watch this space.
AUTHOR: Jessikast
EMAIL: jessgordon@hotmail.com FEEDBACK: Yes, please. ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net. M.E.W.A. If you want it, let me know. SUMMARY: There's a heatwave. Xander is too hot. Spike is nice and cool. SPOILERS: Fourth season of Buffy
CONTENT/WARNINGS: Spike/Xander. Sex. Vampire biting. RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, et. al, are the owners. I simply write non-profit work.
NOTE: I don't like second person, and I don't like present tense. Why I wrote this, I don't know. Feedback appreciated. (C'mon, it's not that hard, just click the little button saying 'Review'.)
There is a heatwave. You get back from a Scooby meeting, and your t-shirt is clinging to your back, and your jeans are chafing, and the air is hot and heavy and hard to breathe. The basement is only a little cooler - the small windows are open, but there's no breeze. Spike is lounging on the sofa bed, looking calm and collected, as always. It doesn't seem fair - you're all hot and sweaty, while Mr Room-temperature isn't even bothered by the heat. He offhandedly waves at you, but doesn't take his attention from the TV. You walk straight to the bathroom, strip, and turn on the shower. Cold water - bliss. You stand under the spray for a few minutes, unmoving, savouring the coolness, before washing and getting out of the shower. You pull on boxer shorts and loose cargo pants - it's too hot for anything else.
Back in the living area you plonk down next to Spike. He's watching Monty Python. Having Spike as an unwelcome roommate wasn't so bad when you saw his childlike glee over your collection of tapes. A shared sense of humour goes a long way between enemies, it seems. After a couple of minutes, you shift uncomfortably - the cool effects of the shower have worn off, and the heat is back, and you're getting sticky again. You move, trying to find a cooler spot on the bed. Your movements catch Spike's attention, and he looks at you, slightly annoyed. "'Ere, luv, what's all this then?" he says. "Can't a bloke watch the telly in peace?"
"I'm hot," you say, and you think it sounds like you're whining, but you don't mean to, it's just the heat, and you're hot and sticky, and now the blanket on your bed is making you itchy. He looks at you for a second, the sits forward and pulls off his t-shirt. He sits back, spreads his legs into a V, and looks at you expectantly. "What?" you ask. He pats his bare chest.
"Anti hot-water bottle."
"But." you stop, confused. His look turns almost scathing.
"C'mon. One time offer, pet. S'easier for me than you all squirming around there." You pause, and consider. Snuggling up to a vampire is not a manly thing, especially when the vampire is a guy, and especially when that vampire is Spike, neutered big bad. But he does look cool, and that decides you. You shift around until you're sitting in the V of his legs, and gingerly start to lean back. You're too slow, and it annoys Spike, who grabs your shoulder and pulls you back onto his chest, and resumes watching the TV over your shoulder. For a moment you sit rigidly, then coolness emanating from Spike leeches into your back, and it's comfortable, and you relax a bit. You relax your hands into your lap, and settle down to watch the Life of Brian. Occasionally you can feel Spike snort at a joke, a cool breath of air on your shoulder. It's comfortable like this. You know it shouldn't be, but you're just a couple of blokes sitting watching a good movie together, laughing at the same places, sometimes commenting at favourite bits. It just so happens that one of you is a vampire, and the other is using the vampire as a big, not-so-squishy (cold) pillow. And it just doesn't seem like that big a deal.
The movie finishes. You grab the remote control from the arm of the sofa, and bowse the channels. You stop on The Nanny - nice, mindless American sitcom. You feel Spike snort in contempt. "Oi, don't want to watch that crap. Give me that." And he reaches around you and grabs for the remote. You yield. Spike may not be able to hurt living things, but inanimate objects are free game, and no matter how much you love the remote, you don't want to chance it getting broken in a squabble. You can almost feel him grin in triumph. He had reached both arms around you to get the remote and now he takes it in his right hand. His left arm settles down around your waist. (Is this a hug? What is it?) You consider stiffening, moving away from Spike, but you're too comfortable. It's no big deal, right? Right.
It's late. The night air is muggy, but Spike is still cool against your back. You know you should move away from Spike, banish him to the chair, and go to sleep, but.Spike is cool, comfortable, and haven't you already decided this? You relax a little more, slouching a little, letting your head loll to one side.. You feel Spike stiffen as your neck is exposed. Vampire, neck, right. Now you *know* you should move, but.you don't. Why not? Spike can't hurt any living thing, but this isn't the reason. You can almost feel the weight of Spike's gaze on your neck, all his attention focussed there. So, why not? Spike is your friend. (Friend. Wait! What? When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed?) And.you think you like Spike looking at your neck like this, a look that's as hot and heavy as the weather, full of.anticipation. Spike's hand moves from the sofa, where it had rested with the remote. (You had settled on cartoons.) Almost (almost) trembling it reaches up towards your neck, and pauses, just before touching the skin. Pauses, for.permission? You tilt your head a little further. The cool fingers stroke down your neck, from just behind your ear, over your pulse point, trace down the line of the artery to the hollow at the base of your neck, where the collar bone meets (and why did you never realise before just how strong your pulse is there?), and down, just to the top of your chest, and back up again. And down again, and up, and you know you should be running from here as fast as you can, know you should be panicking, but you only feel relaxed, and *right*, and behind you you can feel Spike start to breathe, shaky, unnecessary breaths. The angle of Spike's fingers change, and now it's blunt nails on your neck. Not scratching, just *there*, and it's making the skin on your neck sensitive, and you can feel air moving from Spike's pointless breathing, but now it's your breathing that's getting shuddery. Your skin feels tight, but you're still relaxed, but in your stomach, you feel like you're getting wound up, ready for something, a coiled spring.
Neither of you have said a word.
The fingers slow then stop and rest at the base of your neck, where your neck joins your shoulder. You can feel Spike, waiting, and the weather (which was getting ready for a thunderstorm) seems to quieten, still, waiting. He speaks. "Can I?" You answer, "Yes." You feel the change, subliminally, and then Spike's face is over your neck, his lips, and his teeth (fangs) scrape your neck, and then enter you, (and why isn't his chip going off, maybe he just needs an invitation) and all you feel is heat/pleasure/pain, reaching through your body, echoing down to finger tips and toes, and for a second every muscle in your body tenses (I'm letting a vampire bite me, ohgodohgodohgod, this is wrong, but it feels so right.) but Spike's arm across your belly holds you down, the other lying across your chest, holding you. Then Spike withdraws his fangs, and you can feel your blood begin to flow, burning hot blood into that cool mouth. As Spike begins to drink, you feel relaxed and clam and right, the heat/pleasure/pain receding from you body, until the only things you really feel, care about feeling, are the cool arms cradling you, and the points of heat/pleasure (no more pain) at your neck and groin. Groin? You realise, in a detached way, that you've grown hard beneath your cargo pants. You think about being embarrassed, but you find you don't really care, all you care about is how good you feel, and making Spike feel good, and you notice that Spike is hard too, his tight jeans doing nothing to cover up the hardness you feel in the small of your back.
On the TV in front of you, Elmer Fudd chases Bugs Bunny. The volume is muted; all you can hear is your own harsh breathing and the slight suckling sounds as Spike drinks from you, and the heavy patter of rain on the window.
Spike notices your erection. You can feel him smile against your neck, and you watch as the arm lying across your belly moves, black tipped fingers moving to undo the button on the cargos. He lowers the zip, and then all that's between you and Spike is the thin cotton of your boxers. Spike pauses again, silently asking permission. You slowly move one of your own hands, and cover his, and bring it down to cover your cock. You feel his hardness jump against your back. He pulls your boxers down and you're free. You groan when his hand closes around you. He stops drinking now, letting his lips rest on your neck as he gently (Spike, gentle? But, ohhhh.) kisses away the last of the blood. You can feel his attention, again hot and heavy, focussed on your cock. Your attention is there too (what little attention you still maintain, god this feels good). Pale hand, chipped black nail polish, slowly moving up and down your darker cock. He pauses to gather the drop of precum that's gathered, swirling it around the tip, then he grips your cock, harder this time, and starts pumping. You're not relaxed anymore, you're taut, hands gripping his thighs on either side of you, panting, and you can feel Spike rub against you, jeans rough against your back. The coiled spring inside you is about to unfurl, and Spike's tongue flicks into one of the wounds on your neck, and that's it, it's too much, hand, fingers, tongue, lips, fang, Spike, Spike, Spike.. you explode.
When you come back to reality, Spike's purring. You can feel it vibrating through your back, and through the arms that are tightly around you, and where Spike's face (and he must have changed back, because you can't feel ridges,) is buried in your shoulder. He's not hard anymore, but the small of your back feels cool and slightly sticky. For a moment, panicking, shouting, running away is a big possibility. But you run too much. Spike's purr stops, like a broken engine, petering out, because he knows you're awake again, and you know he's waiting for you to run, scream, hurt him.. But you don't, you relax again against Spike. His arms tighten for a moment (*this* is a hug) and he whispers, "Thank you" into your shoulder. What can you say? Thanks? You're welcome? It's not enough. You turn around within the circle of his arms, and gently press your lips to his (faint coppery taste of blood). You remain like that, half turned in his arms, one of yours around him, your head against his shoulder. Spike begins to purr again. Now you can sleep, because the heatwave's broken, because you're not too hot any more, because you're with Spike and he's nice, and cool, and comfortable..
EMAIL: jessgordon@hotmail.com FEEDBACK: Yes, please. ARCHIVE/DISTRIBUTION: Fanfiction.net. M.E.W.A. If you want it, let me know. SUMMARY: There's a heatwave. Xander is too hot. Spike is nice and cool. SPOILERS: Fourth season of Buffy
CONTENT/WARNINGS: Spike/Xander. Sex. Vampire biting. RATING: R
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon, et. al, are the owners. I simply write non-profit work.
NOTE: I don't like second person, and I don't like present tense. Why I wrote this, I don't know. Feedback appreciated. (C'mon, it's not that hard, just click the little button saying 'Review'.)
There is a heatwave. You get back from a Scooby meeting, and your t-shirt is clinging to your back, and your jeans are chafing, and the air is hot and heavy and hard to breathe. The basement is only a little cooler - the small windows are open, but there's no breeze. Spike is lounging on the sofa bed, looking calm and collected, as always. It doesn't seem fair - you're all hot and sweaty, while Mr Room-temperature isn't even bothered by the heat. He offhandedly waves at you, but doesn't take his attention from the TV. You walk straight to the bathroom, strip, and turn on the shower. Cold water - bliss. You stand under the spray for a few minutes, unmoving, savouring the coolness, before washing and getting out of the shower. You pull on boxer shorts and loose cargo pants - it's too hot for anything else.
Back in the living area you plonk down next to Spike. He's watching Monty Python. Having Spike as an unwelcome roommate wasn't so bad when you saw his childlike glee over your collection of tapes. A shared sense of humour goes a long way between enemies, it seems. After a couple of minutes, you shift uncomfortably - the cool effects of the shower have worn off, and the heat is back, and you're getting sticky again. You move, trying to find a cooler spot on the bed. Your movements catch Spike's attention, and he looks at you, slightly annoyed. "'Ere, luv, what's all this then?" he says. "Can't a bloke watch the telly in peace?"
"I'm hot," you say, and you think it sounds like you're whining, but you don't mean to, it's just the heat, and you're hot and sticky, and now the blanket on your bed is making you itchy. He looks at you for a second, the sits forward and pulls off his t-shirt. He sits back, spreads his legs into a V, and looks at you expectantly. "What?" you ask. He pats his bare chest.
"Anti hot-water bottle."
"But." you stop, confused. His look turns almost scathing.
"C'mon. One time offer, pet. S'easier for me than you all squirming around there." You pause, and consider. Snuggling up to a vampire is not a manly thing, especially when the vampire is a guy, and especially when that vampire is Spike, neutered big bad. But he does look cool, and that decides you. You shift around until you're sitting in the V of his legs, and gingerly start to lean back. You're too slow, and it annoys Spike, who grabs your shoulder and pulls you back onto his chest, and resumes watching the TV over your shoulder. For a moment you sit rigidly, then coolness emanating from Spike leeches into your back, and it's comfortable, and you relax a bit. You relax your hands into your lap, and settle down to watch the Life of Brian. Occasionally you can feel Spike snort at a joke, a cool breath of air on your shoulder. It's comfortable like this. You know it shouldn't be, but you're just a couple of blokes sitting watching a good movie together, laughing at the same places, sometimes commenting at favourite bits. It just so happens that one of you is a vampire, and the other is using the vampire as a big, not-so-squishy (cold) pillow. And it just doesn't seem like that big a deal.
The movie finishes. You grab the remote control from the arm of the sofa, and bowse the channels. You stop on The Nanny - nice, mindless American sitcom. You feel Spike snort in contempt. "Oi, don't want to watch that crap. Give me that." And he reaches around you and grabs for the remote. You yield. Spike may not be able to hurt living things, but inanimate objects are free game, and no matter how much you love the remote, you don't want to chance it getting broken in a squabble. You can almost feel him grin in triumph. He had reached both arms around you to get the remote and now he takes it in his right hand. His left arm settles down around your waist. (Is this a hug? What is it?) You consider stiffening, moving away from Spike, but you're too comfortable. It's no big deal, right? Right.
It's late. The night air is muggy, but Spike is still cool against your back. You know you should move away from Spike, banish him to the chair, and go to sleep, but.Spike is cool, comfortable, and haven't you already decided this? You relax a little more, slouching a little, letting your head loll to one side.. You feel Spike stiffen as your neck is exposed. Vampire, neck, right. Now you *know* you should move, but.you don't. Why not? Spike can't hurt any living thing, but this isn't the reason. You can almost feel the weight of Spike's gaze on your neck, all his attention focussed there. So, why not? Spike is your friend. (Friend. Wait! What? When did this happen? Why wasn't I informed?) And.you think you like Spike looking at your neck like this, a look that's as hot and heavy as the weather, full of.anticipation. Spike's hand moves from the sofa, where it had rested with the remote. (You had settled on cartoons.) Almost (almost) trembling it reaches up towards your neck, and pauses, just before touching the skin. Pauses, for.permission? You tilt your head a little further. The cool fingers stroke down your neck, from just behind your ear, over your pulse point, trace down the line of the artery to the hollow at the base of your neck, where the collar bone meets (and why did you never realise before just how strong your pulse is there?), and down, just to the top of your chest, and back up again. And down again, and up, and you know you should be running from here as fast as you can, know you should be panicking, but you only feel relaxed, and *right*, and behind you you can feel Spike start to breathe, shaky, unnecessary breaths. The angle of Spike's fingers change, and now it's blunt nails on your neck. Not scratching, just *there*, and it's making the skin on your neck sensitive, and you can feel air moving from Spike's pointless breathing, but now it's your breathing that's getting shuddery. Your skin feels tight, but you're still relaxed, but in your stomach, you feel like you're getting wound up, ready for something, a coiled spring.
Neither of you have said a word.
The fingers slow then stop and rest at the base of your neck, where your neck joins your shoulder. You can feel Spike, waiting, and the weather (which was getting ready for a thunderstorm) seems to quieten, still, waiting. He speaks. "Can I?" You answer, "Yes." You feel the change, subliminally, and then Spike's face is over your neck, his lips, and his teeth (fangs) scrape your neck, and then enter you, (and why isn't his chip going off, maybe he just needs an invitation) and all you feel is heat/pleasure/pain, reaching through your body, echoing down to finger tips and toes, and for a second every muscle in your body tenses (I'm letting a vampire bite me, ohgodohgodohgod, this is wrong, but it feels so right.) but Spike's arm across your belly holds you down, the other lying across your chest, holding you. Then Spike withdraws his fangs, and you can feel your blood begin to flow, burning hot blood into that cool mouth. As Spike begins to drink, you feel relaxed and clam and right, the heat/pleasure/pain receding from you body, until the only things you really feel, care about feeling, are the cool arms cradling you, and the points of heat/pleasure (no more pain) at your neck and groin. Groin? You realise, in a detached way, that you've grown hard beneath your cargo pants. You think about being embarrassed, but you find you don't really care, all you care about is how good you feel, and making Spike feel good, and you notice that Spike is hard too, his tight jeans doing nothing to cover up the hardness you feel in the small of your back.
On the TV in front of you, Elmer Fudd chases Bugs Bunny. The volume is muted; all you can hear is your own harsh breathing and the slight suckling sounds as Spike drinks from you, and the heavy patter of rain on the window.
Spike notices your erection. You can feel him smile against your neck, and you watch as the arm lying across your belly moves, black tipped fingers moving to undo the button on the cargos. He lowers the zip, and then all that's between you and Spike is the thin cotton of your boxers. Spike pauses again, silently asking permission. You slowly move one of your own hands, and cover his, and bring it down to cover your cock. You feel his hardness jump against your back. He pulls your boxers down and you're free. You groan when his hand closes around you. He stops drinking now, letting his lips rest on your neck as he gently (Spike, gentle? But, ohhhh.) kisses away the last of the blood. You can feel his attention, again hot and heavy, focussed on your cock. Your attention is there too (what little attention you still maintain, god this feels good). Pale hand, chipped black nail polish, slowly moving up and down your darker cock. He pauses to gather the drop of precum that's gathered, swirling it around the tip, then he grips your cock, harder this time, and starts pumping. You're not relaxed anymore, you're taut, hands gripping his thighs on either side of you, panting, and you can feel Spike rub against you, jeans rough against your back. The coiled spring inside you is about to unfurl, and Spike's tongue flicks into one of the wounds on your neck, and that's it, it's too much, hand, fingers, tongue, lips, fang, Spike, Spike, Spike.. you explode.
When you come back to reality, Spike's purring. You can feel it vibrating through your back, and through the arms that are tightly around you, and where Spike's face (and he must have changed back, because you can't feel ridges,) is buried in your shoulder. He's not hard anymore, but the small of your back feels cool and slightly sticky. For a moment, panicking, shouting, running away is a big possibility. But you run too much. Spike's purr stops, like a broken engine, petering out, because he knows you're awake again, and you know he's waiting for you to run, scream, hurt him.. But you don't, you relax again against Spike. His arms tighten for a moment (*this* is a hug) and he whispers, "Thank you" into your shoulder. What can you say? Thanks? You're welcome? It's not enough. You turn around within the circle of his arms, and gently press your lips to his (faint coppery taste of blood). You remain like that, half turned in his arms, one of yours around him, your head against his shoulder. Spike begins to purr again. Now you can sleep, because the heatwave's broken, because you're not too hot any more, because you're with Spike and he's nice, and cool, and comfortable..