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Chiaroscuro	By : winterlive Category: > Spike(William)/Xander > Spike(William)/Xander Views: 1952 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Xander flicked the light on as he entered his apartment, relieved to be home. He tossed his keys on a small antique table near the door and turned to see his new 'friend' standing on his doorstep, hands behind his back, chin high, eyes lowered. Thank God he didn't live in a house. He was absolutely certain that, had there been no option, the man would rather have stood in the rain than cross the threshold without permission.

"Come in."

The blond stepped through the door and stood in the perfect center of the mat there, drops of rain rolling off his leather coat and falling onto the floor around his feet. Xander couldn't help but notice how his hair, which had been arranged in rigid rows by some kind of glue, now fell forward in damp, tousled spikes to curl over his forehead. He was... beautiful.

"Give me your coat," Xander said, nervous but still holding onto his authoritative tone. He held out his hand, and the man gracefully pulled the coat from his shoulders and laid the collar over Xander's hand. Distractedly, Xander hung it up, noticing as he did that the man's hands immediately returned to his back. Xander was more than a little unnerved by him. He's well trained. They're supposed to do that. His eyes, he doesn't even look around. Is he looking at my feet?

Xander stepped toward him and lifted his sculpted face up, so he had to lift those shockingly blue eyes. The warm yellow light played over his cheekbones, his wide forehead, the white scar on his eyebrow that Xander hadn't noticed in the club, but which he'd definitely be including in the painting.

Xander turned the Botticelli face to one side, trying to decide how best to angle him... but he was unprepared for the small, breathy moan that escaped the blond's lips. It was need, pure and simple, instantly recognizable. And it was for him.

Blood rushed straight down, like someone had planted a supermagnet under his feet. The lust was sudden, surprising in its intensity. The images that had played through Xander's head in the cab returned in vivid clarity: the man on his knees, hands behind his back, sucking Xander's cock; on his hands and knees on the bed, wrists tied to the headboard, back curved gracefully; flush up against a wall, Xander pounding into him, squeezing his wrists in his hands.

Xander shook his head and stepped back, away from the man, as though just being in the same space as him, breathing his air, was causing the reaction. "Stay there," he commanded, only a slight quaver in his voice, and walked quickly into his kitchen.

Get a glass. Fill it with water. Drink the water. Put the glass down. Fuck, don't drop it! Just set it on the counter. Good. Now breathe. In and out, in and out his breath went, and he was all right, he'd be okay, just so long as he remembered to breathe. He went to the freezer, grabbed an ice cube and ran it over the back of his neck. There. Much better. Tossing the ice cube into the sink, he squared his shoulders and went back into the hall.

The blond man knelt on the floor, hands behind his back, knees wide. His black jeans were painted on, his black t-shirt taut over his whipcord muscles, all of which stood out in sharp relief from the uncomfortable position and from holding still on the floor. But something was different.

The man was looking straight at him.

His head was tilted back; piercing blue eyes pinned Xander to the floor. They were almost challenging. Giles had warned him of this, that the Slave would eventually sense that he wasn't an educated Master and choose some small way to defy him, but Xander hadn't thought it would be this soon.

What, a minute to compose myself was too much to ask? Hell. Xander mentally reviewed what Giles had told him. He took a careful breath, set his hands to his hips and looked right back at his Slave.

"Get up."

The Slave immediately did that, lowering his eyes as he had before.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, and I expect you to answer. Do you understand? Answer me."

"Yes, Master."

A shiver ran though Xander again at hearing that smooth, accented voice. He shook it off and began to walk, moving himself behind the Slave. "You looked at me. You aren't supposed to do that."

"I'm sorry, Master."

Xander steeled himself, raised one hand and brought it down sharply on the man's ass. The crack filled the suddenly-very-close air, and the man jumped. "I told you to answer questions, not give me apologies." The man stayed silent, and Xander noticed that he shivered on the mat. "Are you cold?"

"Yes, Master."

"Why are you cold?"

"Master, it was raining outside." He could never have been able to tell, had he not been listening very closely, but he was, and that was definitely sarcasm. He raised his hand again, and the smack echoed in the high ceilings.

"You're an impertinent Slave."

The Slave loosed his hands and turned to face him, looking straight into his eyes, just as cocky and full of bravado as any London street tough.

"And you're no Master."
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