Tight Lace
by Byrne
NC-17, fluffy PWP
All is Joss's not mine.
Archived at The Crypt

For The Mad Poetess, as promised
Thanks to WesleysGirl for the beta



Xander shook his head as he watched Spike getting ready.  “Are you sure about this?” he asked.  “Seeing as how the last time went so horribly, horribly wrong and all.  Giles is going to have a fit.”

Spike paused as he walked through the bedroom, his hands full of things Xander could only identify as ‘make-up’.   Even after years of hanging out with Buffy and Willow, he could barely tell lipstick from mascara.  Both of which he could see.

“Rupert will be fine,” Spike said with an evil grin.  Hardly encouraging, really.  “It’s been months since the last time, and this is classic.  Completely guaranteed to get a reaction.”

That much was true, Xander had no doubt.  Anyone would react.  Hard not to react in some way to a blond vampire dressed up in a black corset.  With or without the make-up, Spike was going to get a reaction.

At the moment, however, Spike was still in jeans, though the t-shirt had gotten lost somewhere on the walk from the living room to the bedroom.  Xander sprawled on the bed and watched Spike start to put on the make-up.

“How do you do that?” Xander asked after a moment.

“Do what?” Spike raised an eyebrow at him.  The scarred eyebrow, of course.  Xander wondered if the other eyebrow ever got jealous due to lack of attention.  He had a sudden urge to go over and lick it, so it didn’t feel left out.

“Put on make-up like you know what you’re doing,” Xander replied, shifting on the bed and stomping on the licking urge.

“Well, there was this thing called the seventies, you see.  Glam rock and all that—which I didn’t get into so much as punk, but David Bowie was all right.  Everyone wore make-up.”  He rouged his cheeks with a flourish, his eyes already ringed in black.  He smirked as he reached for the lipstick.  “’Course, that’s ancient history to you, isn’t it?”

“You’re ancient history to me,” Xander said before he thought it out.  Which was about par, really.

“Oh, how sweet.  Now shift your arse and hand me the bag by the closet door will you?”  Spike painted his mouth whore red with smooth strokes.  

Xander wouldn’t say it out loud, but Spike looked pretty edible like that.  He was a man, no way of forgetting that, but made up he was…well, damn nearer to pretty than usual, and that made him very pretty.  If he was going to keep the promise he’d made to never to call Spike ‘pretty’ they’d best get this show on the road.  And when it was done, one or both of them would be dead by Giles’ hand, and it wouldn’t matter.

Xander reached for the bag, catching it on the side instead of the top, and spilling its contents onto the floor.  With a low whistle, he reached down and picked up a slip of black silk.  “Stockings?” he squeaked.

“Well, yeah,” Spike said with a snarl, reaching for the stocking as he swept up the rest of the things on the floor with the other hand.  “What did you think I was gonna wear—me bare legs?  Please.  Authenticity is the way to go for this.  Corset means silk stockings.”

“I don’t think Giles wore stockings when he was on stage.”  Xander refused to think about Giles in stockings.

Spike just snorted.  “Whatever you say.  I’ll be right back—“

Xander fell onto the bed again.  “Where are you going?”

“Gonna change.  Into this stuff, right?  Don’t want you to see it going on, will ruin the effect.”

Personally, Xander thought Spike just wanted to be alone to talk himself into wearing the stockings.  That thought didn’t hold up under any amount of scrutiny, however—the whole thing was Spike’s idea, after all, and when did he ever have a second thought?  Or personal shame, for that matter?

Xander lay on the bed with his arms behind his head and listened to the sounds of thumping and banging coming from the bathroom.  God, what was he doing in there?  How hard could it be to strip down and put on a corset?  His brain got a little stuck somewhere between the stripping down and the putting on, and he missed the sound of the door opening.

“Give us a hand?” Spike said, sounding frustrated and petulant.

Xander sat up and stared.

Spike was staring back, but his frown smoothed out as Xander’s jaw dropped.  Long legs smoothed over in silk stockings.  A few inches of bare thigh, and then black panties, for fuck’s sake.  Panties.  The corset was leather, like Spike would wear anything else, and then the impossibly lovely make-up on his face.  Xander felt parts of his brain shut off as blood rushed south.

“What?” Xander asked, not caring if he sounded stupid.

“Said, give us a hand.”  Spike turned around and tugged on the corset laces.  “Tighten me up.”

Xander swallowed hard and stood up.  “Uh, yeah.  Okay.  I can do that.”

He stood behind Spike and tugged on the laces, concentrating on adjusting the cords as he tightened them.  He knew he was breathing faster, knew Spike could hear it, but the thought was distant.

“No…things.  To hold the stockings,” he said numbly, trying to adjust the bottom lace.

“What?  Oh, no.  They have this…rubber kind of thing around the top so they stay up.  Make it tighter, Xander.”  Spike wiggled his hips a little and tugged on the edge of the corset.  “Don’t need garters—they look good, but if you want to take off your pants the garters have to go on the inside and that looks dumb if you’re walking around like this.  Why are you asking anyway?”

“I wasn’t asking, I was just…noticing.”

“Right.  Bloody hell, Xander.  Tighter.  Come on, you’re big and strong, just pull, for Christ’s sake.”  Spike leaned forward a little and held onto the dresser.

Xander shook his head, but did what he was told, crossing over the ends and pulling hard.  Spike gasped and his back arched, his ass raising as his waist was cinched tight.

Xander stared, his cock suddenly harder than it had been in…well, a long long time.  “Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to be late.”



Ending number one.  If they've never had sex before....
Ending number two.  If they've been together for a while....