Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1179422.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Xander_Harris/Spike
  Character:
      Xander_Harris, Spike_(BtVS)
  Additional Tags:
      Conditioning, Dubious_Consent, Alternate_Universe, Hurt/Comfort
  Series:
      Part 3 of Treasure'verse
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-11 Words: 4317
****** Corners ******
by Ladycat
Summary
     But Xander isn't touching him, or acknowledging him in anyway. Just
     sitting and breathing, leaning his head back so it makes the mattress
     dip, Spike's foot sliding closer to messy, sweat-mussed locks.
Notes
     A very young Xander is bought by Spike and his father Giles. Contains
     a serious potential squick regarding pedophilia, so please don't read
     if that bothers you.
Spike knows what's coming long before the door rattles. He can hear it, across
the way and down the hall, soft sounds and muffled, gasping cries. He's heard
those cries before, of course, and usually loves provoking more of them; but
not when there's an edge of pain, like the a hint of a blade flashing. Not when
there's nothing good there.
But for all Spike's become very comfortable these last few weeks, there are
some lines he knows he can't cross just yet. It's not that he's different and
unfamiliar -- even though he's bloody certain that he's no longer truly
unfamiliar -- it's that for all his little brother gives himself over with a
sweet look and a hint of nervousness, Xander isn't a trusting lad. Not truly.
Not with the secrets he still keeps, and all the shadowed memories he doesn't
ever mention.
Dad seems to think that because he gives his body so freely that they're making
progress. Spike knows better; Xander's never thought of that as his.
He lies there, staring at the faint tape marks just barely visible on the
ceiling -- yes, the pictures he'd tried to put up there had been a bad idea,
but Dad didn't have to laugh quite so much when they'd fallen on his head -
- and waits. He's pretty sure, or at least hopeful, that even if Xander doesn't
trust them yet, he knows that he can. So he lies there, listening to broken
moans that have none of the swirling, chocolate-rich depths of Xander's
pleasure, and hopes they'll end soon. Even if it means Xander just goes back to
sleep... Spike knows he's not a nice person, not really, but he's not that
cruel, either. He’ll take anything that eases Xander’s fear, even if it has
nothing to do with him.
When the moans finally die away into ragged, painful breathing, Spike doesn't
relax. Not until the floor creaks, and the light underneath his door shifts,
and the doorknob rattles sharply against the metal lock. He shifts onto his
side, better able to see the door, and waits. And waits.
He starts glancing at the clock, the tiny green numerals at the bottom left
flashing as seconds turn to minutes. Xander hasn't left yet -- Spike can
practically feel his heat through wood and an additional fifteen feet of room -
- but he's not coming in, either. Just resting his hand on the doorknob, palm
probably sweaty from fears, his face flushed, hair damp and scrubbed into
untameable tufts ...
The door doesn't creak as it opens, just slides smoothly inward as if it's on a
track. Spike doesn't know when Xander turned off the hall light, but there's
only a hint of pale moonlight to outline Xander's form as he cautiously creeps
into the room. Spike knows his eyes are probably glinting with reflected light
-- it explains the stuttered hitch of breath, or perhaps that's a swallowed sob
-- but Xander doesn't give any indication he knows that Spike is awake. Just
creeps his way into the room, door smoothly gliding shut behind him, until he
can sit along the side of the bed.
He's not close enough to touch. Spike's arms aren't that long, but it's near
enough that Spike can smell sweat tanged with fear and desperation. It's
metalic, and frightening coming from a boy that's usually sunshine and green,
growing grass.
But Xander isn't touching him, or acknowledging him in anyway. Just sitting and
breathing, leaning his head back so it makes the mattress dip, Spike's foot
sliding closer to messy, sweat-mussed locks.
It's not often that Spike's caught without anything to do. He's got options, of
course: touch Xander, or speak to him, or even just go to sleep with his toes
just brushing the top of Xander's head. But he wants to do the right thing, not
just any old decision, and he has no idea what that is. It's an uncomfortable
feeling.
"Is..." Xander's words are so soft that, for a moment, Spike thinks he's
dreaming them. "I'm sorry."
A hush Spike hasn't noticed falls away, the muffling darkness of pre-dawn light
suddenly not as confining and compressing as it had been moments before. Spike
almost misses the way his lungs can't extend fully. "For what?" he murmurs,
voice as soft as his brother's.
"D-didn't want to wake you up."
Spike smiles, knowing Xander can't see him, and wiggles his toes. He catches
some of Xander's hair between them, as he'd know it would, and he tugs and
twists gently. It's as close as he's going to touch without permission; Xander
still smells of mineral-laced fear, making Spike's nose wrinkle.
"Didn't," he sighs. "Couldn't sleep." It's a lie, but it's one Spike knows how
to work -- he and Dad trade for it all the time -- and anyway, it's more
important because it's an opening.
Or at least it's intended as an opening. Instead of pouring out his woes,
Xander makes a chuckling sound that reminds Spike of little kids who cry so
hard they can't stop laughing. It has the same bubbling, broken quality to it.
"Liar," Xander says, as full of school-yard teasing as a boy sitting on the
floor beside his brother's bed can be.
"Not nice," Spike returns, "accusin' me of lying."
Bantering is the last thing Spike expects, but Xander responds to it by
grinning -- his teeth, and silvery tracks along his face glow -- and finally
turning to face him. "Oh, like it's so unfamiliar."
"Oi! I am far to important -- which means wealthy, love -- to be accused of
lying. In my case, it's artfully rearranging the truth." He's trying to
reference a conversation the two of them had not three days before, about the
differences between 'crazy' and 'eccentric' and how Xander could now claim to
be the latter. It's supposed to make Xander grin, but like most of Spike's
supposed to’s tonight, it does the opposite.
Xander loses animation so fast that Spike's sitting up and leaning over in a
flash, cupping his palm around Xander's cheek. "Hey, now. C'mere."
"No, I -- "
"Don't argue." It's Dad's voice, but Xander responds better to him than to Dad
most days. Dad knows that, but since Spike is perfectly willing to reissue the
orders, he doesn't mind yet. "You're bloody freezing, and you know I hate being
cold, so come get inhere."
Xander makes a mulish face -- the first normal expression Spike's seen yet -
- but he obediently clambers into bed with Spike, allowing Spike to move his
larger, heavier body however he likes.
How he likes is to get Xander on his back, legs slightly elevated so that Spike
can worm his way underneath, arms behind Xander's head. It's not comfortable
for him, but it's probably the most reassuring he can get with Xander -- the
boy likes to be touched. The more, the better.
Xander's tensed up and miserable, his lower lip chewed to striated pieces as
Spike watches him. He's expecting to be forced, Spike understands. To have his
words and dreams pulled from him, the way he controls so little else in his
life. But Spike doesn't want to take the bad dreams from Xander -- and this
scares him more than a bit -- he wants to be given them.
So he rests his cheek against Xander's, occasionally kissing the conveniently
close earlobe, and just relaxes. He's heavy, but he knows Xander appreciates
the weight and the constriction, so he lets himself go completely while Xander
trembles beneath him. The trembling gets worse the longer Spike says nothing,
but Spike understands that. Understands it completely and just lies there,
breathing, his heart beating much slower than the quick patter of Xander's.
He can't see the clock like this so he doesn't know how long they stay like
that, but he comes out of a doze when Xander finally sighs and starts truly
realxing. "Sorry," he repeats.
"Yes, terribly fashed to have you crawl into bed with me," Spike teases,
nipping Xander's earlobe. It's not sexual, not really, although Spike is more
than content if it goes that direction. Xander's sexual education is growing in
leaps and bounds -- the boy comes on command now, and can harden with a glance
-- but for some reason Spike doesn't really want to sully this. It's too ...
intimate. Even for two boys who've done everything but actual penetration.
Xander's arms creep up around Spike's sternum, pressing against him lightly, as
if he's unsure of his welcome. That makes no sense to Spike -- he thought he'd
made it clear that all touching from Xander is good -- but when he doesn't
object, the weight gradually grows firmer and heavier until Xander's holding so
hard Spike's going to have trouble breathing, soon, Xander's face pressed hard
to the crook of his neck.
Well, then.
Spike rolls, pulling Xander with him until he's on his back, Xander burrowing
against him.
That seems to be the permission Xander needs, because suddenly he's shivering
and shaking and trying to crawl into Spike's body. There are tears and sweat
leaking down his neck, but Spike doesn't mention that. Just holds as tightly as
he's held, wondering what on earth has set Xander off like this -- until he
feels lips on the point of his chin.
It's not like there weren't lips before -- if a face is mashed against you, you
get nose and eyebrows and lips in pretty much equal measure. But these are soft
and petal-delicate, and very intentional. As is the sweep of Xander's tongue,
rasping against the skin he'd just kissed.
Spike shocks the hell out of both of them when he sits up and pushes Xander a
scant three inches away.
Expressions pass by too quickly to be read, but the disgruntled annoyance
Xander wears at the end is easy enough to tag. "What, it's okay only when I get
used?"
He's trying to be cutting and cruel, but his voice is shaking and his eyes
can't stop moving. Spike leans forward and presses his mouth to Xander's,
swallowing any of the bitter words he might still produce. Xander moans into
the kiss, melting again, but Spike doesn't let him cuddle the way he -- they
both -- want.
"Pet, you want to forget an' I'll help you do that," Spike tells him, ghosting
his mouth up to kiss the memory of tears from the corner of his eyes. "But
first you've got to calm down, yeah? I’m not gonna hurt you. Don't want you to
think half-way through that I'm forcing you."
Xander's protests die when he finally hears what Spike's told him. He backs up,
eyes clear for the first time as he studies Spike's face in the darkness.
"That's, um. A weird thing to say?"
Spike shrugs. "Yeah. But it's not wrong, is it?"
Xander starts to shake his head, then freezes, looking guilty. "So... one of
the boys before me?"
It's not like they keep it a secret, but Spike still has to control a flinch.
He hates it when Xander references the 'boys' in the past, not because he's
ashamed of anything he or they do, but because Xander is ... well, Xander. And
that makes it different in ways Spike doesn't understand.
He thinks Dad does, oddly. He's seen the way Dad looks at them.
"No," he says, forcefully enough that Xander winces. "No," he repeats, gentler.
"Not one of the other boys. Um. Me, actually."
Xander blinks at him a few times, lips moving before sound finally eeks out.
"You?"
Spike shrugs, the shirt moving oddly since Xander's weight still rests on half
of it. "Was younger than you are, but ... yeah. It was before I was living with
Dad."
None of them have ever talked about Spike’s past -- other than amusing
anecdotes and the like -- and not at all about Spike's mother. There's a reason
for it, though Spike isn't interested in going into details. He will, if it'll
help Xand; but it's not something he relishes.
"I don't ..." Xander's losing his own fear into the cluelessness he sports like
a shield. "How? B-before Dad?"
Spike gently cups Xander's face, forcing the younger boy to look at him.
"Didn't have a picturesque childhood, love, not until Dad took me in. Not until
Dad found out I was alive really -- the problem with getting doxies knocked up,
you understand."
Xander nods, brow wrinkled as he thinks. Spike knows the boy won't care about
Dad spending time with hookers -- female hookers, at that. But that there's a
time when Spike wasn't the calm, confident older brother, the one who takes
care of Xander and doesn't need to be taken care of, well ... that bothers him.
"So ... you had nightmares?" Xander reasons. It's something he can grab onto,
cling to as familiar.
Spike chuckles, leaning forward to kiss him again. "Yeah, love. I had
nightmares. Crawled into the wrong bed afterwards, too." Spike doesn't mention
that it was that 'crawling' that actually alerted Dad to his son's existence -
- that was a much longer story Spike wasn't telling without Dad there. Or at
least Dad's permission.
"So ... ?" Xander looks utterly adorable like this, a big black labrador puppy
that has no idea which way is the right direction but desperately wants that
word of praise.
"So," Spike says, "means I understand. You want to talk, we can talk. You want
to forget, we can do that too. But not if you're gonna freak out half way
through, yeah?"
"But how would I know?" There's a familiar hint of artlessness that means
Xander's teasing him, or at least trying to. "I can't predict the future."
Spike makes a growling noise and leans forward to bite Xander's lower lip. He's
content now that the boy is genuinely teasing him -- if poorly -- since it
means that Xander isn't quite the lostling that showed up ten minutes before.
It's better when Xander moans at the bite, eyes fluttering closed.
"There, now." Spike tugs Xander towards him and then back onto the bed. "What'd
Dad and I tell you about wearing clothes to sleep, hm? Makes it more difficult
to do this." Spike cups between Xander's legs, rubbing the heel of his hand
against a hardening cock. "Off, love. Take them off for me."
Xander skins out of his shirt eagerly, eyes bright and trusting as they look up
at Spike's face. He's as desperate for this as he was desperately afraid not so
long ago -- and Spike knows, clearly, that is not the best thing to do. The
best is to talk, to draw out the nightmares Spike's fairly certain he already
knows the scripts to. But he still wants to be given that, and he doesn't want
to force Xander to do anything he doesn't want, so he leans forward to trail
kisses down a broad, smooth chest while Xander wiggles out of his pants while
trying not to dislodge him.
"Please," Xander whispers.
"Please what, little one?" Spike asks, flicking at Xander's nipple with his
tongue. "Your choice tonight. What do you want to do?"
Xander's eyes flash down to Spike's cock -- he's already naked, of course -
- and licks his lips.
Spike almost comes damned near then.
"Could -- c-could you, um. In the limo? The way you ... "
They've done lots of things in the limo, but Spike still knows what he means.
"Hm," he says, idly stroking the boy's stomach, and tugging at his cock. He
understands Xander wants to feel covered and protected, but he's not entirely
certain being passive is a good thing. Spike knows how easy it was for him to
fall into that, especially when he was frightened ...
"Anything else?" he asks, smiling apologetically.
Xander rolls his eyes, but doesn't object. He's learned in infancy that his
wants and desires weren't to be catered to -- but he also knows that Spike and
Dad will never hurt him, only make him feel good, so he doesn't mind it so
much. "I could ..." his eyes flicker downwards again.
Spike gets it, then, and snickers. He forgets, sometimes, that receiving
doesn’t mean passive, particularly not for a boy who throws himself into things
as much as Xander does. "Right, fine," he says even as he digs up a bottle of
slick from underneath his pillow and hands it and his forefingers to Xander.
The boy doesn't lube him up so much as massage him, a trick he hasn't been
trained to but is welcome all the same. He's trembling in anticipation and if
the metalic-smell of upset hasn't totally faded, the scent of Xander's musk is
fast overriding it.
Xander's breathing in short, fast little gasps as he lifts his legs, welcoming
Spike's touch before Spike's ready to give it. Spike chuckles, stealing another
kiss even as his fingers find smooth balls, and smooth, touchable skin directly
behind them. He rubs, mimicking the same rhythm his tongue uses as he presses
it into Xander's mouth.
"You are a treasure," Spike murmurs, because no matter how much he hates it, no
matter how often he fights and denies it, he really is a romantic at heart. And
Xander is warm and pliant and entirely willing, even with sweat still sour on
his neck, which somehow makes Spike want this even more.
"Hold them," Spike murmurs, chuckling when fingers brush against his belly,
tickling slightly, on their way to gripping behind Xander's knees. Xander's
trembling, now, his cock a painful shade of red as Spike runs lube-slick
fingers all over the insides of Xander's thigh, paying close attention to
perineum, balls, and the sensitive skin just immediately below.
Xander starts moaning by the second pass-through, the sound getting higher and
more desperate when Spike circles around the entrance to his body, massaging
the soft tissue there.
Dad's already been here, and Spike's certainly touched him a whole lot, but
Spike’s never been the one to gently ease a forefinger inside a tight, grasping
inferno, Xander already whimpering, head tossing as Spike explores him. Spike
feels a little like whimpering himself, because Xander is beautiful like this,
open and willing and wanting so badly -- wanting him so badly.
It only occurs to Spike right then that Dad's only two more doors down the hall
and if Xander wanted, he could've gone there. He should have gone, actually. He
didn't, though. He came to Spike, crawled into his big brother's bed like he
knew it was already okay -- which it is -- and it's Spike he's clearly wanted
to be touched by ever since he had the nightmare.
It makes Spike's cock throb with need.
"Breathe," he cautions, even though it's him that's having trouble. Or, okay,
possibly both of them but Spike doesn't want Xander to know how much this
affects him. He likes being the cool older brother, the protector to this
trembling mess of dark hair and dark skin and submissive need, but he's pretty
sure that Xander's going to figure it out at some point. And ... that could be
okay, he thinks. But later. After he's made Xander come just from fingers up
inside his body -- two, now, and moving easily enough that Spike suspects the
boy of 'practicing' on his own with the toys Dad places subtly around the house
-- and then come again from the feel of Spike's body over him, Spike's cock
rubbing up against him.
Spike wants that almost as much as he's pretty sure Xander does.
"C'mon," he pants. He wants to croon the word, but it's more of a croak pressed
into Xander's collarbone. "Can you take more, love?" His fingers find Xander's
prostate unerringly, rubbing hard and fast just so he can see Xander jerk
underneath him. "Do you want more?"
Xander nods like his head is no longer attached by bone and tendon and hot-
pumping blood and instead of permission, it's a warning. The internal needle
that gauges Xander's comfort-levels is in the red already, heading towards
complete melt-down, and like this Xander will agree to anything so long as it
makes Spike feel good. It's a quality that Spike loves, not just because of the
trust and desire it shows in Xander, but because it makes him feel smugly happy
that he gets to know this body below him, gets to fine-tune it as carefully as
a master mechanic, playing it the way he plays the piano. But knowing Xander as
well as he does means Spike knows that he can hurt Xander, with Xander's
enthusiastic permission and participation, without ever meaning to.
So he keeps the fingers at two, moving them faster and harder, driving them
against Xander's prostate until Xander's keening, a thrashing, sweaty mess on
the bed. Spike's got a hand pressed to his shoulder, the frantic patter of his
heart tattooing a design against Spike's palm, and really a last ditch effort
to keep Xander from working himself right off the bed. He'll be sore tomorrow,
Spike knows, muscles still unused to the kind of wild sex Spike and Dad always
draw out of him. But a good kind of sore, and hopefully a physical exhaustion
so complete that he won't remember the dreams -- memories, of course they're
memories, twisted up now that he's got something to lose -- just what Spike
does to help him forget them.
"Come," he murmurs against sweat-streaked skin, curling his fingers down tight.
"Come on, Xan. I want to see you come for me."
Xander whimpers, bucking and blindly straining towards Spike's body and voice
until he finally cries out sharply, voice totally falsetto as he covers his
belly with transluscent come.
Spike gives him about thirty seconds to stop shaking so much, to let each
breath stop sounding like it's a sob -- but no more. Scooping up Xander's
remains, Spike coats his cock with it even as he rolls Xander onto his belly.
"Shh," he breaths, kissing sweaty hair and the curve of Xander's ear. "Close
your legs, love, tight just like we did before."
Xander's muscles are still shaking in reaction and afterglow, but after a first
fumbling try, Spike has a slick, tight tunnel of skin to slide against. It's
messy, his weight on his hands so he can fuck between Xander's thighs or
between his cheeks -- never inside, not tonight -- while simultaneously keeping
his legs heavy against Xander's, his weight against the boy's chest as often as
he can.
"Yes," Spike pants. He's never quiet during sex, since dirty talk or
reassurances turn him on as much as his partner, but he can't speak now. He can
just thrust, riding against Xander's thighs and arse, heavy and hot and
weighted against him. "Christ, yes."
Xander moans in agreement, arching back and shifting in a way that tells Spike
the boy is hard again. He chuckles: "Ah, to be fifteen again."
Squirming, Xander's blush is audible as he finds the best way to hold his body
for their combined needs. "It's, um, annoying."
"Nah, it's lovely," Spike returns, knowing compliments to Xander's physical
appearance will make him blush even harder. He leans down, cock threatening to
slip out from between Xander's arse, so he can press his cheek against
Xander's, glorying in the heat there. "Means I get to make you feel good,
little one."
Whimpering, Xander's thighs twitch with the need to spread, to thrust himself
hard against the mattress. Spike chuckles again, nipping Xander's shoulder
before sliding down to a better position. He starts thrusting again, hard and
sure and fast, fucking against Xander since he can't fuck in Xander. The boy is
mindless below him now, each rocking motion adding to the muscle soreness he'll
feel tomorrow and the promise of bliss that waits for both of them.
"Ready, little one?" Spike asks. His cock is screaming for release, balls
pulled up tight to his body but he wants Xander to come first. To reassure the
boy that as much pleasure Spike gets out of this, that it's for Xander. That
it's because of Xander. "Come, baby. Want to feel you shuddering underneath
me."
Xander makes a noise that's half-croak, half-aching cry, coming so quickly
after Spike's words that it's practically on command. Spike rides through the
shudders for five seconds, ten, fifteen -- and then loses it himself, spilling
over Xander's arse and back and collapsing against him.
As the minutes tick by, Xander doesn't complain about Spike's weight, or that
he's got wet come growing cold on his front and back. He just lies there,
breathing slowing down while his body grows totally lax and still and ...
Spike has to chuckle. The boy is fast asleep underneath him, too exhausted to
even complain about how hard it is to breathe with Spike on top of him.
Rolling off carefully -- come turns gluey when it's pressed between too bodies
like that -- Spike gropes around for the rag that's never too far from his bed
and uses it to clean them up. Xander never stirs as he's moved, although he
shivers a little when Spike has to move away from him. Sweet, Spike thinks,
tossing the rag away as he settles back onto the bed.
Xander immediately rolls closer to him, arms around his waist, head on Spike's
shoulder, his breath warm and wet as it mists against Spike's chest. It's a
damned wonderful feeling. There'll be conversations tomorrow, and a bit of
worrying to be done by Dad since it's clear that Xander isn't as well as
they've been hoping -- but right then, Spike can't feel anything but glowing
happiness.
Xander came to him, for reassurance and sex, sweetly giving as Spike imposed
his desires on him. And Xander is still here, sleeping peacefully like all it
right with the world now that Spike's there to protect him.
It's a damned good feeling. The orgasm doesn't hurt, of course, but as Spike
drifts off, he's not really thinking about how hard he just came. He's thinking
about who and why and mine.
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