Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Yada yada yada, not mine, don't sue.
Notes: Written for the Intoxication Challenge. Thanks to the lickable [info]knotted_rose for the beta read.



Xander thinks that maybe, just maybe, there's some sort of intoxicant in Spike's skin. A drug, some thin hallucinogen that gets transmitted into Xander's body as soon as they kiss. There really is no other explanation as to why he's effected this way, why after thirty seconds of kissing or touching that Xander is hard and throbbing and *needing* Spike as if he were Life itself. Time slows and becomes thick and liquid, like molasses, and the air seems heavy and too-warm and Spike is the only thing that matters, and nothing is fast enough or hard enough or *enough*, and Xander just *needs* him. His only focus are the cool fingertips against his skin, sending more heat and intense white hot *lightning*, it's like -- like being electrocuted and not being able to let go.

He doesn't think he'll ever be able to let go.

Spike is lean and pale and moves like a cat, and that's a cliche but it *works* because it's so true. He growls and purrs and Xander lives for those sounds, because they mean something. They are the connection, and when Xander whimpers, breathless and needing (fuck, that need, it's like a fire) and Spike chuckles and gives him what he is begging for, which is to be *taken* and owned, and the surrender is like being drunk, and Xander is absolutely positive that it's some sort of supernatural thrall the vampire has him in, because there's no other sane reason why Xander would spend his nights on his hands and knees, letting Spike fuck him like a wild dog, and *still* coming back for more.

Strong, abusing fingers on Xander's thighs make his heartbeat speed, thudthudthudthud like he's running a race, all adrenaline and endorphins and he shakes because he knows those fingers could tear him apart, could rip him open and pull his heart out and sometimes he thinks that if he were crazy enough he wouldn't even care because this ... this is need like he's never known, an addiction and a fever.

Spike looms above him, smiling ferally (that just makes it hotter) and spreading his legs, opening him up, fondling his balls and cock and ass with a touch that pulls and glides and hurts and burns and fills and Xander is *owned* so completely that he doesn't think he could ever *not* be owned.

"Filthy little whore, can't stand to be without this, can you now?" Spike says, and Xander wants to cry and scream and protest and agree all at once, but he can't say a thing because he's too busy giving a high pitched, animal whine.

(Yes, please, fuck me now.)

"You're sick, you know," Spike says, and his voice is approving and fond and brooks no argument. He runs his hands over Xander's thighs as he lifts them over his shoulders and Xander's so hot and shaking and ... (please)

Xander nods (even though he's forgotten what he's agreeing with) and whimpers and Spike rams inside him, slick and thick and Xander loves it the most when it's fast and furious like this, setting his ass on fire and filling him up as he screams in pain and gratitude.

Spike's like fire and wine and Xander feels raw, like Spike's stripped him of his skin and bones and he's bare and Spike *knows* him, knows how he's effected, and he just takes and takes and Xander begs him to take more.

It's unnatural, really.

And it's agony. Being away from him during the day, going to work, being a good boy -- every second away from Spike is like withdrawal, and the pain is physical. His neck itches and he feels cold and incomplete, he breaks out into cold sweats and starts shaking for no reason at all. His friends look at him with worry, now, and he wonders how much longer until he's found out, until he loses them. Not that it will matter. He doesn't know if he can keep showing up to work day in and day out when all he wants is to be here, in Spike's bed, drunk on the surrender.

He feels it now, the euphoria, the high, the pain of Spike's fingers digging into his skin setting him over the edge, and he's flying, coming, screeching, sobbing, and Spike's there holding him, taking every noise and buck of his body like it's his due, pouring his own orgasm out, too. Giving.

And Xander will dress quietly, ashamed, and leave. Go back to the basement, where things are simpler and less ... just less. He struggles to sit up as Spike pulls out of him and rolls away, but then there's a hand on his arm, grounding him there, and he looks over into Spike's face.

"You stay," Spike says.

Xander's breath catches. "I have to ..."

"You stay," Spike repeats, and Xander bites his lip and lays down again, not knowing exactly what to do. But then Spike does something he's never done before, roughly pulls Xander against him, drapes an arm over him possessively, and Xander thinks that this could be even more addicting than the sex.

The End

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