Rating: All PG-13
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Dedication: To literati. She knows why. ;o)
Originally posted: here
There's An Alien In My Pants
Xander squirmed, trying to escape the arm locked tight around his neck, and then froze.
It was him. Spike. The vampire whose appearance outside the Bronze had made Little Xander stand up and beg for attention in a way that had completely freaked him out because, hey! So not gay here!
As if on cue, Little Xander began to take notice of the drama playing out around them, and taller, more terrified Xander prayed for an intervention. This was so not the way he'd expected to die, offered up as a vampire snack. Yet while most of him hoped for escape, the alien creature which had obviously taken up residence in his pants was screaming 'Yes! Yes! Eat me!' Completely humiliating and not in any way arousing at all and, oh gods, was Spike sniffing? Could he smell Little Xander's treachery? That was it. He was going to die of embarrassment before either of them ever got a fang into him.
The vampires' conversation, going on over his head, was little more than a background buzz as Xander's attention was completely focussed on the black-clad crotch atop two slender, well-muscled thighs that filled his entire field of vision.
Must wait. Stay silent. Not a twitch, not a quiver. Can't breath, can't even think about what's coming or the sound of chains on porcelain will frighten the little rabbit off, and we don't want that, now do we?
The metallic rasp, followed by a quiet sigh of relief and the hiss of urine expelled under pressure, meant that he was now free to make his presence known.
"Impressive bit of tackle there, Pet. I bet the Slayer doesn't have a clue what she's missed out on by knocking you back all this time."
Spike licked his lips as he eyed the well-formed tool in Xander's hand, choking back a laugh when the boy jumped at the sound of his voice, twisting to stare at the unexpected vampire in the tub.
"S...Spike! What...? Why...?"
Oh, yes, you just keep standing there, luv, dick in hand, so I can look my fill. Those baggy pants have been hiding quite a prize. I wonder, if I asked, would you move closer, lean your hands against this wall behind my head and let me have a little taste? It's been so long since I had any bruiseless contact..."
"Ew! Perv much, Fangless?"
Two Different Closets, Two Different Hurts
He's in my closet. Crying. Probably clawing his chest raw again, trying to touch his soul. Oh, gods, his soul! I still can't believe he went all the way to Africa to get the cursed thing back.
Despite everything he's done, the pain he's caused, I'm sitting here, wishing he'd let me in, let me hold him, warm him through and run my fingers through those two-tone curls that make him look like an anorexic, debauched cherub.
I'm sick. I'm sick and twisted. And pretty soon I'm going to get up and... not do a damn thing.
He's hurt enough.