Ministrations1



	Ministrations By EntreNous and Misanthrope NOTES: This is bad!fic. Are you looking for misguided angst? Random ennui? Unprecedented sexual skills? Generic traps? Cliched descriptions and inappropriate goofiness? You will find it all here. This is a gentle fun-poking at the fic and genre conventions that we all use. Oh, and there’s a teensy bit of crossover too, with The Sentinel. Which Misanthrope loves, and EntreNous has never seen in her life. ****** “Ministrations” “Xander, what’s got you moping about like your puppy got vamped?” “::sigh:: It’s nothing, Spike.” “No, no. First, you were acting all of sixteen years old, then yesterday you’re sobbing like a little girl, and now you’re just lying here! You haven’t been out in days, and I want to know what’s wrong!” “::heavy sigh:: Oh, Spike, it’s just . . . it’s just . . . ::quivering lip, big eyes, crocodile tears:: it’s bad!fic ennui!” * “Right then,” Spike said grimly. “It’s serious, this is. We’ve got to find a way to shake you out of this soul-consuming, pitiful downward spiral. Especially before you start doing harmful things to yourself. Like . . . forgetting to return the rental DVDs even though you know the late fees cost as much as the initial charge. Or . . . like before, that time when you sat at the table, sobbing, and eating your way through four boxes of _Count Chocula_(tm). Damn it man, you even ran out of milk, and ate the last box dampened with cranberry juice. Something is terribly wrong.” Spike paused to walk over to the blacked out window to stare into the nothingness that was the heavy dark curtain. “If we only knew how to fix this. The answer is right! in front! of! us!” Xander reeled back in fear, curling himself into the tiniest ball possible. He resembled a volleyball-sized Nerf, though Spike reflected sadly that if he could, Xander would have collapsed into Wiffle-ball size. “You’re scaring me, Spike!” Xander said breathily, his eyes as wide as moon pies shining pure light to illuminate the dim, dank basement room they were currently occupying as roommates for eight and a half-years running. “And yet, amidst the fear, the sadness, the boredom, and yes, the slight thirst that I’m feeling, I also am feeling the stirrings of desire.” Xander’s huskily-voiced confession had barely reached Spike’s vampire-sensitive ears when he felt his own desire begin to stir. But surely that couldn’t have been what the boy-man-carpenter-saver-of-worlds had meant. Perhaps he was stirring for another friut-juice-and-chocolate-breakfast-cereal concoction. Or maybe ice cream. Sparing a thought or two for blood-drizzled Chubby Hubby, Spike turned his platinum-blonde head, which contained his ruby-red lips, and his big blue eyes, and his hyphenated-thoughts, to Xander. “Xander, this desire . . . is it . . . is it for . . . for me?” Xander slowly tore his eyes away from the prominent bulge quickly hardening in Spike’s spray-painted-on black jeans. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely, his long thick lashes fluttering wildly over his marmite-colored eyes. The steely length in Spike’s pants seemed to jump in response, impossible though that seemed due to the tightness of his denim-clad limbs. “Please what, pet? Love? Xan-pet? Xander-lander-rama-lama-ding-dong? My precious sweetling boychick?” “Please,” Xander pleaded, his eyes sending out an even greater plea than he could have pled (?) himself if he had tried to plea-bargain . . . “Please! Um . . . I’m not quite sure what, but something involving you biting and claiming me, and shouting ‘Mine!’ so loudly that the neighbors call to complain?” Spike paused for a moment to dig suddenly shaking hands around in his luggage-sized pockets for his lighter and smokes. No, that was a bit of string . . . there was a ticket stub . . . ah, there was the lube, not to be misplaced, and . . . yes! -- there they were, the lighter and cigarettes! which also trembled as he closed slim-fingers around them. The tremors in his digits aided him in loosening one from their pack, and, as he lit it, his thoughts turned back to the mortal youth who had so long ago captured his fancy. When had he, the baddest of the bad, fallen for this creature of such beguiling wiles? His free hand dropped to absently caress his quickly growing member. It pointed like a divining rod at the man-child, still huddled in the corner, but looking less and less like sporting equipment as his baggy cargo pants became ever less baggy, and the scent of pheromones filled the air. Xander licked his lips in an unknowingly innocent, yet undeniably sexy way. Spike wondered, why waste his time in thought and contemplation of the treasures hidden beneath those blindingly bright clothes when they were being offered so sweetly? Xander slowly untangled his long, muscular, well-defined limbs and rose to his full height, once again licking his lips, biting them, and curling his tongue in Spike’s general direction. Spike barely had time to think that he should really get Xander some medicated _Chapstick_(tm) before he realized with a start the darkness and power emanating out of the raven-haired beauty before him. Xander moved across the room like a coltish gazelle-ish graceful cobra, and pinned Spike neatly to the wall, grinding their hardnesses together and pulling twin high-pitched needy moans out of their throats. //Knock it off, you two! Some of us are trying to watch Most Extreme Elimination Challenge// came the neighbor’s voice from the other side of the wall. Xander just shook his head sadly. He knew, somehow, had known always, that people wouldn’t understand their extremely loud love. Just wait until he made Spike scream every time he came. “Spike, I want you to know . . . I’ve never done it with a man before, but I’d like to offer myself up to you, to your lusts and pleasures, and love and devotion, on this very night, even though we only just realized we were attracted to one another a couple of seconds ago. Yet even though I’m a virgin to the love of a man, I’d like to reassure you that I’ll make up for my lack of experience with my boundless enthusiasm. Well that, and the fact that I’m pretty sure that I’m a natural at giving head. And I want you to top, because, duh! You’re Spike. And I’m Xander. Bottom boy of the twenty-first century. Just please . . . “ his voice drifted down to a hushed whisper “be gentle. At least, be gentle until I tell you to fuck me really hard, and then give to me fast and furious.” ::rustle, rustle, nudge, nudge, wink, wink:: Shortly after Xander had proven himself quite adept indeed at the perfect blow-job, lack of experience not dampening his enthusiasm or his ability to deep-throat in the slightest, Spike had managed to drive himself onto Xander’s prostate (one r) on every stroke, thanks to miraculous vampire recovery time and amazing aim. (Insert attempt at hot dirty talk here that ends up more like the soundtrack to a really bad home-porno) Spike and Xander released twin animalistic screams of pleasure at having reached completion simultaneously, and Spike drew his newly claimed lover into his arms. “Xander, pet, light in my dark, that was perfect. The most amazing experience I’ve ever had. The best.” Xander raised himself onto one elbow and gazed adoringly into Spike’s eyes. “The best? But you’re, and I’m, and you’ve--” “Yes, precious Xan-muffin love-pet. But you see, there’s something I haven’t yet told you. Bloody. Bugger. Tea and Crumpets!” Spike shook his head at the sudden outpouring of Britishisms, but decided to ignore it in favor of full disclosure. “You see--” “Spike, what, what is it? Don’t you know you can tell me anything? Anything at all? Or maybe,” Xander paused, his voice wavering, tears filling his eyes once again. Oh, no! he thought. How could I have been so stupid? Spike could never want me! “Maybe this meant more to me than it did to you, Spike. I’ll just go.” Xander started gathering up his clothes, pulling them on haphazardly, backwards, inside out, and upside down, but he didn’t seem to notice, what with the tears streaming down his face and his thoughts spinning wildly out of control. “Xander, wait!” Spike called. “You’ve slipped from bad!fic ennui to bad!fic angst! Come back!” But it was too late. Xander had taken his negative thoughts and fled Spike’s bed . . . maybe forever. ***** a year later . . . Xander sighed and huddled into his inside-out jacket and tucked his upside-down t-shirt back into his gay(tm) pants. Here he was in Portland, standing next to the world’s smallest urban park, having fled to the city immediately after slipping out of Spike’s life. Every waking moment he thanked Gods and Magicks and Other Unexplained and Differently-Spelled Powers that he had somehow hot-footed it from the room in his despair, eluding Spike despite his undead lover’s lightning-quick vampire reflexes. “How did I do it?” Xander whispered to himself. “Must have been the extreme self-denigration and my brand-new Chucks. Man, those sure are some speedy sneakers.” Since high-tailing it out of Sunnydale (of course not before tearfully flinging chocolate pudding in Buffy’s face and telling her exactly what he thought of her prissy Slayernitude; sobbing on Giles’ shoulder while he explained that Giles was like the father he never had except for the one that he did have; and wistfully enacting the secret handshake that he and Willow had shared since they were 5.1 years old -- while she was asleep, of course, and Tara looked on without saying a single word, as was her wont) he’d made his way to Seattle after an obligatory stop at Angel’s so he could poke fun at his hard-gelled hair. It was Angel, in fact, who had given him the gay gay gay (tm) pants that he now wore. A year later, and he was both the hottest bartender at the most fabulous gay club and town and the most well-known stripper ever to command a three-figure lap dance. But it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t enough. Sure, he had fame (small children asked for his autograph on the street, shyly inquiring if they too could someday strip as well as him), fortune (thank god for that dead, rich, previously-unknown uncle), and access to the largest number of local microbrews in the country. But there was something missing. Something fangy, and bleached . . . someone with a really short torso and a chip in his head . . . someone called . . . “Spike,” Xander whispered into the foggy air. ***** that same one year later Spike finished wiping down the counters of the second-most successful strip club in town, where he was currently a bartender. He declined offer after offer from the other employees as they left, and finished lifting the last chair onto the tables. Once, he would have taken them up on the offers of bed, and maybe even breakfast, but not anymore. Ever since his one true love had fled his bed in an inside-out, upside-down rush,-- though how Xander had been able to escape his clutches while wearing his pants backwards was anyone’s guess-- he’d been unable to do anything more than sigh forlornly. Finally, his depression had him sighing so heavily he blew the pudding right of the Slayer. That final reminder of his Xander-sweetie-pie gone, Spike left town, determined not to be reminded of his schnookums any more. Pulling himself forcibly back to the present, Spike shrugged into his duster, and pulled it tight around him. The sleeves mimicked a lover’s embrace. A cold lover, an unfeeling lover, and inanimate, leather lover. Much like Mike, the biker-themed stripper at work. Spike wandered aimlessly around the streets of downtown, passing the luxurious hotels he owned through a series of business dealings with the demon underground. He settled on one in which to stay that night. He never chose the same one twice, constantly seeking to make real his favorite fantasy that he would run into his long lost love in the lobby, and they would make wild, hot, passionate, and most of all loud monkey love from floor to floor, waking the guests with their excitement, providing job security for the cleaning crew. Instead, lost in his thoughts as he was, he barreled straight into the chest of a tall, buff, ex-military man with piercing blue eyes. Before Spike could right himself, another man’s hands straightened him. Spike turned to see who had caught him: a shorter man, with beautiful lips and curly hair. “Are you all right, man? You were really zoned there. Hey! Hey! Mind if I ask you some questions?” “Uh, sure, I guess,” Spike replied distractedly. He didn’t really want to engage in conversation, but it had been so long since anyone had touched him. Hours, in fact, since the club had closed, and all the liquored-up ladies had left. “Great, man! This is great! Jim, you don’t mind, right?” The curly haired man asked his stone-faced companion. Jim, who Spike could tell now was clearly a detective, shook his head. “No, chief, I don’t mind.” Jim focused his laser-gaze back on Spike. “As long as I get your solemn promise you won’t attempt to drown my friend.” Spike, yes, still in shock, simply nodded. “So,” ‘Chief’ began, bouncing with barely-restrained enthusiasm. Enthusiasm. Bouncing. All so much like Xander, except the hair and the eyes and the smell. It brought back too many memories; it was just too much, and suddenly Spike was reminded of why he had run so far, so fast. “I’m sorry, I just can’t do this!” Spike cried, and dashed through the throngs of Cascade PD Training and Knowledge Exchange Seminar participants to his penthouse room, where he could cry himself to sleep before the coming dawn. ***** Xander sighed as he surveyed his sumptuous apartment. The intricately woven oriental rugs, the carefully carved statues of nubile young men, the refrigerator stocked full of Twinkies and Ho-Hos and shelf upon shelf of chocolate-covered-chocolate . . . it just didn’t feel like home. Only one place had ever felt like home to him. And that was pinned down to the sheets, writhing in ecstasy as Spike pounded into him. Xander wiped away a single tear, then wiped away another single tear, until he was forced to admit that he was once again sobbing like a five year old girl who had skinned her knee once her training wheels had been taken off her bike and her father had let go of the handlebars even though he swore that he wouldn’t and she just felt so abandoned and sad and dirty, and fuck all of her dress wasn’t torn up too! . . . Then he shifted moods quickly and began packing his personal belongings with eyes darkened by the knowledge of things that he knew. Knowing things. He had to get out of here. Had to find a new ridiculously ornate abode with baroque fixtures on which to spend his fabulously well-to-do deceased uncle’s fortune. For just the other day, he had sensed that he was being followed. And not in the good sense of getting cruised and getting a blow job gratis, oh no. More like someone wanted something from him. Like someone . . . no, two someones . . . wanted to ask him questions. Xander wrung out his hands, his fore and middle fingers on each cramped from continually making scare-quote gestures in the air to denote the emphasis of his thoughts. He had to leave, and now. But where? His eyes scanned the counters, and happened to fall upon a brochure advertising the charms of the lavish string of ludicrously expensive and ridiculously comfy hotels that lined the streets of downtown Portland. Despite the casual, laid-back nature of this city, there seemed to be luxury hotels aplenty. He couldn’t figure it out -- then again, he wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Xander nodded firmly, his mind made up. He’d have to get JoJo to strip for him tonight. Though the regulars would miss his special lasso-ing act, especially the part where he twisted around the floor frantically humping a cowboy hat with a piece of hay gripped in his teeth, transporting his many Louis Vuitton suitcases to one of those hotels was now his top priority. ***** Spike bolted up out of bed with the all the grace of an Olympic gymnast, even though he’d never done so much as a cartwheel, and even though he’d been sound asleep just moments before. His eyeliner was also perfectly drawn on, even though he’d been sleeping, and didn’t even wear it that often any more. Strange how it never smudged, no matter what activity he’d participated in, and without benefit of a reflection, either. Focusing on what it was that had him catapulting out of bed, Spike scanned the darkness around him. Even through the heavy black-out curtains (so much like the ones in their place) his vampiric sight made it bright enough to see the posters and carvings, portraits and hastily-torn magazine covers of raven-haired boys that made up the decor of his penthouse. ‘Queer-eyed tacky-riche’ is how the designer described it. Spike paid the ambiance little mind, however. No matter how beautiful the boys in the artwork were, they weren’t his Xander, and therefore were of little consequence to him. “Why am I awake?” he asked the underwear model in the photograph next to his bed. The model just pouted at him unhelpfully. As Spike rose out of bed, he felt the hairs on the back on his arm rise, as if he were being watched. But no, he reminded himself, and the jeans model who stood sentry in his hallway. That would be impossible. Or would it? Yes, it would. Spike opened the refrigerator and winced at the day-time bright light from within. Before his eyes could adjust, he’d grabbed a container of blood and drank it cold, grimacing at the taste, but preferring it this way out of some sense of self-flagellation. Angel did it, so Spike figured all heart-sick vampires did. Spike wandered back to his large, overstuffed, curtained, decadent bed. He may be paying for irreparable mistakes in letting Xander get away, but that was no excuse for a stiff neck in the morning. Spike climbed under the heavy comforter. Comforter, he snorted. Nothing was as comforting as his Xander, though that was a luxury, as he’d pointed out numerous times in the past, which was beyond his reach now. Dismissing the strange feeling that had woken him, Spike fell back into a deep sleep. Meanwhile, Jim and Blair lay entangled together, brows and other parts slick with sweat, both panting heavily, several floors beneath where Spike slept heart-wrenchingly well in his decadently comfortable bed. “That was great, Jim. But I’m still worried about that blond guy. Did you see how pale he was? He needs some more vitamins in his diet, man. Perhaps, in my philanthropic way, I could send him a fruit basket.” “Of course you could, Blair,” Jim replied, making plans to purchase the most elaborate fruit basket he could find. “But, well, Jim,” Blair said, nibbling his bottom lip. “I don’t have a lot of cash, you know.” “Don’t worry about it, sweetling,” Jim replied. “Would that I could provide for you fiscally and physically may I sate you,” he confessed in an uncharacteristically romantic-language enhanced, talkative mood. “Because you are pure of heart and dirty of mind.” “You know it, man,” Blair whispered against Jim’s lips, and prepared them both for round two. ***** Xander handed over the requisite double-platinum jewel-encrusted credit card to ensure that he’d have the second-most-luxurious penthouse suite in the overpriced and decadent den of comfort that was the hotel he’d now be calling his home. He’d picked the swankiest, ritziest one of them all, naturally. His lip quivered as he acknowledged that it would be far easier to suffer with down pillows, concierge attention, and complimentary fruit baskets delivered to his room each and every morning. “But no kiwis,” Xander managed to breathe tearfully to the desk clerk. “They make my throat itch, and the seeds wig me out, and I just. can’t . . . “ “Of course,” the clerk rushed to assure him. “Anything for you . . . well, let’s just say that I’m a fan of your lithesome dance moves as well as your deliciously trendy cocktail inventions, Mr. Lavelle.” Xander smiled wanly as he inwardly flinched at his despised middle name, which now passed as his surname. Just another way to punish himself, reminding him of what he’d lost. And he was now going by his whole first name, Alexander, rather than his accustomed nickname (though he still called himself Xander in his own thoughts and all omniscient narration just to keep things simple). He loathed his full first name. Just couldn’t stand it. Ick. And ew. But what a small price to pay . . . and he really couldn’t think of any other way to increase his suffering . . . “Would you like the regular cotton sheets, or our luxury satin sheeting ensemble for your bed?” “Satin,” Xander said absently. Why did everything have to cause him so much pain? “And would you like the continental breakfast served to you in your dining alcove each morning?” “God, no,” Xander said scornfully. “I’m on the latest no-carb diet, as I’m striving to transition my surprisingly lucrative stripping career into a much-coveted modeling contract. So make that a triple order of bacon with cheese melted on top. No extra fruit. Fruits are carbs. You’ll be seeing my picture ripped out of magazines and posted on people’s walls before too long. Probably on the walls of this very establishment.” “I’m sure I will sir,” the clerk murmured. “Looking debauched, delicious, and darkly dangerous, I imagine.” “You’re damn right,” Xander said hotly. The clerk swooned in ecstasy as he entered in the special dietary guidelines of his newest celebrity guest, lost in those penetrating eyes and that cupid’s bow pout of Xander’s mouth. Unseeing in his misery, Xander continued internally to bemoan his loveless, forlorn, abandoned, and generally no-good terrible bad fate.