Of Incubi and Inversion
By Minim Calibre
Story Notes: Spoilers through Conversations With Dead People
Disclaimer: Belong to Fox, ME, Joss, etc. Not mine.
Nights like this are the worst. Quiet nights, nights where he can hear
himself think, loud and clear. Nights where the sandman requires hefty
bribes in the form of beer or whisky (or both) before Xander can drift into
an uneasy state of something kind of like sleep, but without the restful
He knows he's dreaming. For starters, he's sitting in his parents' basement,
wearing just a novelty thong from his Oxnard days. Second, Oz is in the room
with him, slouching in a ratty chair, his face blanker than usual.
"Hey," he hears himself say.
Oz looks up. "Hey."
"Hanging out in my subconscious again?"
Xander's been having this dream a lot lately, ever since Spike moved in.
Repeat viewings somehow fail to make it better.
"Look, Oz, I said I was sorry last night."
Oz shrugs. "Your dream, not mine."
"I just... I never managed to make it up to you."
"Yet somehow, you keep trying. Weird, isn't it?" Oz sounds bemused by the
whole thing. He shouldn't be; they've been over this.
Xander hates his subconscious sometimes. Often. Always.
He gets up off the edge of the bed and moves towards Oz, his hips swiveling
and jerking like the bastard offspring of Elvis and one of those Hula girl
car ornaments. Trust his head to come up with something even more
humiliating than going to class naked. He loops his hands behind his neck,
arms thrust out to the sides to balance him as he gyrates, pelvis grinding
into Oz's face.
"Your definition of 'make it up to me' is kind of weird," Oz comments as the
bow-tie on the thong brushes his nose.
"He's repressing again." Xander looks over in the corner, where Larry sits
with his head twisted awkwardly to one side. "It's really okay," Larry adds.
"Sorry I never got around to putting that announcement in the paper for
He's trapped. It'll loop until he wakes up, and when he wakes up, he'll be
as stiff as a two-by-four.
Spike never knows who the visitor will be, though it's most often Buffy,
sometimes Dru. Tonight he wishes it were one of them, one of his victims,
anyone but the figure in silk and leather that's standing in front of him
with casual malice. Dark eyes burn holes through him, leaving him in cinders
and ash, reducing him to nothing.
"Don't kid yourself," Angelus says with a grin. "You've always been
He tries to curl into a ball beneath the thin cotton sheet, tries to hide
his face and cover his ears to block out the knowing leer and sneering
words. Knows it's useless, tries anyway—the life and unlife story of
William the Bloody in five short words.
A sound like an off-key scale fills the room, slides beneath his fingers and
floods his head. He knows the sound well—the slow descent of a zipper and
the soft thud of Angelus releasing cock from cage. He drops his hands, lifts
his head. Readies himself for his punishment. It will be prolonged, and it
will be harsh: Angelus has never been one to make it quick or spare the rod.
Angelus takes hold of himself with one large, white hand and starts stroking
as he speaks. "Doesn't matter what you do, does it Spike? I've always been
there first, and I've always done it better. Violence, women, repenting.
You're just a cheap imitation. There's no art in you."
Spike can't look away from the engorged cock, thick and dark with stolen
blood. When it comes to Angelus, he's always been a voyeur. Stolen glances
from the confines of his wheelchair while Dru screamed for Daddy, careful
observation from rooftops and through windows.
"You think those noises and screams were something, Spike, you should have
heard her the first time." The hand moves a little faster, fingers
maneuvering the foreskin so the eye flashes a vulgar wink in Spike's
direction. "Hell, you should have smelled her. So much blood, and that was
before I bit her."
Envy fills him, followed fast by shame as he realizes the thought of Dru
helpless and violated arouses him. "Shove off. I'm not like that."
"You were. Not that you were any good at it; like I said, there's no art in
you. You always needed me to break them in for you."
"That isn't true."
Angelus laughs at him. "Face facts, Spike. Best you've ever been able to do
is my sloppy seconds. The only reason Dru and Buffy ever looked twice at you
was because they were already broken. You'll never know what it's like,
having the real thing. Buffy was so fresh, so young. Just how you like them.
Little lacking in skill, but she made up for it with enthusiasm." He thrusts
his hips as he says it. "She even had a maidenhead to break. I wasn't
expecting that; it was just frosting on the birthday cake."
"SHUT UP!" Spike reaches blindly beside the bed, finds a beer bottle and
throws it at his tormenter...
...who vanishes as the bottle shatters against the door.
He's letting Oz and Larry take turns fucking him when he hears the sound of
breaking glass and wakes up. It's coming from Spike's room. Great. The night
has gone from bad to more bad. Xander doesn't bother putting on a robe;
Spike will just have to deal with the tent in the old Harris boxers.
Xander will just have to deal with the tent in Spike's sheets. He looks at
the brown glass littering the floor, then back at the naked vampire.
"This is the thanks I get for letting you stay in my house? Ground glass in
my carpet and beer-smell all over the place? What's next, cigarette burns on
Spike just looks at him like he's seeing someone else, then lunges at him
before Xander can get out of the way. Slim hands tug at Xander's underwear,
yank it down and start stroking his cock. Maybe he's still dreaming. He
hopes he's still dreaming—it would give him an excuse for enjoying it.
Xander can feel the carpet under his ass (cut loop, man-made fiber, typical
apartment quality), which is more sensation than he usually gets when he's
sleeping. He's about to push Spike off of him and go back to bed when
Spike's mouth replaces his hands and there's no way in hell Xander's moving
until this is all over. Beggars can't be choosers, especially when they
didn't ask for the gift horse or the mouth.
It's a harder mouth than Anya's, which is the only thing he has for
comparison. He may have gotten to third base with Cordelia, but she was the
one on the receiving end, and Faith was more of a get-in-get-off-get-out
girl. He tries to think about it rationally, about the fact that he's on his
back getting a blow-job from someone he hates, but Spike sucks a little
harder, digs his fingers into Xander's hips as he pulls him closer, and all
Xander can think is that he needs to get laid more, because he's missed it.
A firm tongue traces the head of his cock, gets that little part just below
and teases it while the suction increases. Vamp strength also applies to the
mouth, and for once, it's something Xander's happy about. Spike's still an
evil, disgusting, dead, untrustworthy thing, but it looks like Buffy and
Anya were right about what he's good for. On that thought, he comes—hard.
His hands tangle in Spike's hair, keeping his head in place until Xander's
wad is thoroughly shot.
When his mind clears, he shoves him away in disgust. "This never happened,"
Xander says as he backs out of the room.
Spike looks up at him, his mouth smeared with evidence to the contrary, but
he doesn't say a word.