A Backstreet Blazer
He had a mean streak ten feet wider
A son of a gun with a taste for fun
And more than his share of pride
Take a dirt road curve with the Devil's nerve *
Xander headed out to the garage, still damp from his shower and drying the last of the water out of his hair. He grinned at the sight of his lover’s ass wiggling from under the hood of his car. In the last months since they had left SunnyD, they had traveled anywhere they took fancy.
Down in the bayou, up in the Dakotas, tromping around NYC, now they were in Detroit, motor city - where Spike had fallen in lust with street racing. They’d come across one of the underground events and thought a first it was a street rave. Easy picking either way for the vampire.
But after watching the race, Spike wasn’t thinking with his stomach. And the cars, man the cars, fucking fascinated him. So the old Desoto got parked in the back and in rolled a Neon. Not exactly what you’d imagine the bad boy vampire in but apparently very easily converted; a good ’teaching’ car.
Xander had spent many an hour watching Spike get dirty, gutting his car and tinkering with improvements. Some of the friendlier guys had stopped by to talk shop with the blond. Xander didn’t understand a word of it but he loved to watch his lover work and trade insults with the others.
Eventually the car was street ready, although not painted or tricked out - Xander christened it Frankin-eon. It’d moved like a dream and Spike won more races than he lost, until he won them all. He was addicted to the speed, the adrenalin rush, the thrill of danger.
But he was damn protective of Xander; he never raced with the human in the car. Said that if he crashed, he’d walk away, but Xander could get hurt and that wasn’t worth the risk. Not that Spike’s usual driving wasn’t a bit hair-raising.
So instead, he headed the vamp cheering section. He’d get dressed to the nines - painted on jeans in dark denim or leather, a shirt that showed off as much as covered, liner for his eyes and kiss bruised lips. It gave Xander a thrill, all the looks he got. Seems some of that stripper mentality hung on.
He got a laugh out of the groupies Spike had colleted, girls and boys. They flocked around in their sluttish outfits and simpering acts. It was a heady feeling, knowing that at the end of the night, he was the one going home with Spike. Xander had chalked up quite the reputation - sharp tongued, never lost a fight and only had eyes for Spike.
Of course, that was nothing compared to Spike’s. After Frankin-eon, there had been a bike and an old thunderbird - the Desoto got an up grade as well. He became the guy to beat, on the track and in a fight.
Xander tossed aside his towel and moved up behind Spike. He grabbed the slim hips and pulled the wriggling ass into him. He moaned as his lover rocked back. There was just something about a messy, grease-streaked Spike that made Xander really hot. He just got the urge to pounce on his working lover.
Spike turned around in his hands and pulled him down for a kiss. The vampire smeared oil down his clean back. Mmmm. Wherever they went next, he’d have to make sure there was a garage for Spike to tinker around in.
He was a real hot shot and he bragged a lot
But man, that fool could drive
Cause he loved the feel of a steering wheel and the girls with the bedroom eyes
And in a racing tight or a bar room fight
Old Stroker stole the show
A back street blazer and a real hell raiser and a racetrack Romeo *
-END-
A/N
Written for Music of Pain - a Xander ficathon.
* Stroker's theme - Charlie Daniels Band
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