Title: Bits and Pieces
Fandom: Pairing: Buffy: Spike/Xander
Concrit: Please. If you spot a typo, feel free to tell me in comments.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Summary: There are some things about Xander that Spike loves more than others.
Notes: Written for the "Body part fetishes (misc)" challenge on my kink_bingo card (here).
Everyone Xander touches comes away a little stronger, happier or more content, a little straighter or softer, less frayed around the edges.
His touch is sometimes casual, never careless. A warm hand at the base of your spine; a fast scrabble through the hair on your head; a tight grip on your hand that grounds your soul in the midst of roiling terror.
The hands that work that magic don't look particularly special. Blunt fingers, squared-off nails, knuckles covered in nicks and scars, palms like sandpaper.
No-one sees them quite like Spike does. They don't get to take them home.
Spike's not the type to write atrocious poetry any more, no matter what the Bit might have found a while ago, written in copperplate calligraphy in the journal wrapped in Dru's old petticoats, hidden in a trunk in the tunnels beneath his crypt.
He's not the type, no, but if he was, oh, the odes he could write about those dark chocolate orbs, about the curlicues of lashes that surround them.
Thank all the demons in hell - thank Dru - he's lost the taste for hearts and flowers and… effulgence.
They're fucking hot, those eyes. Dark chocolate porn and butterfly kisses.
The day Spike moved in with Xander, he threw out every pair of loose-fitting pants the boy owned. No more lurid polyester and stretched-out cotton, no more saggy-arsed khakis and baggy jeans.
The first time he caught an unobstructed view of Xander's arse in all its glory, he'd been… Well, he'd been tied to a bloody uncomfortable junkyard reject like a distrusted puppy, but the sight of that delectable morsel wagging about had made the whole sodding mess just the tiniest bit less depressing.
But the years of covering up were over.
Xander's arse would be the envy of Sunnydale.
Xander's cock is a treasure Spike intends to keep for himself. That the psycho slayer, Queen C and the once-and-again vengeance demon presently known as Anya have all been there before him gets him hot under the collar, but he doesn't hold grudges. Much.
He's had bigger - though he'd rather stake himself than admit it was Angelus - but he's never had better. For someone so damn young, Xander really knows how to use what he's got to best advantage, and Spike doesn't think it was his girls who taught him everything he knows.
He's a fucking natural. A real Viking.
On cold days and lonely days, and days when he's in just that sort of mood, Spike comes home a couple of hours before dawn, strips and crawls into bed and waits for Xander to notice him. He doesn't always wake, but he always notices.
Spike lets Xander curl around him and over him, snuggling in his sleep like Spike's his own personal bodypillow, and Spike's surprisingly okay with that.
Of course, he likes it better when his boy wakes up, all warm skin and hot eyes, grabby hands and eager lips.
Either way, Spike ends the night exceedingly happy.