"Spike? Have you ever done this?"
I wander over to where Xander's flipping through those great tomes of the Watcher's to see what he's talking about. Almost gives me a seizure when I look over his shoulder, because it's not demons or dastardly deeds he's reading about. More like some sort of how-to sex book. Have to clear my throat before I can answer him.
"Yeah. Not as easy as that makes it look."
"Oh." Casually, oh so diffidently (yeah, yeah I still use words like that in my head. What?) he turns the page. My eyes almost bug out. "What about this?"
"Done it? No. Had it done to me, though."
His cheeks are the color of a nicely spanked butt. But brave little lad that he is, he still asks. "Did you like it?"
"Wasn't bad. Would've been better if I trusted the, er, person? man? let's just say 'one' that did it."
"You did that with someone who wasn't human?"
"Well, you always call him Deadboy."
Ow. Poor thing goes pale at that one, so I guess he's in denial about that kind of thing. Not that I blame him. I'm a bit in a forgetful way myself about that whole time. Anyway, he looks up at me with those big eyes and that expression in them, the one that makes me want to tie him up and hurt him so good. And I can see it coming. Question and recrimination. I brace myself when he opens his mouth again.
"So, would you ever do it to someone? Who trusted you?"
Christ on a crutch. Not what I expected to come out of his mouth at all. No questions about the poofs in my life, no accusations, just this. Is it any wonder I sometimes want to crack him open with my bare hands and drink him all up? He trusts me, he says. Ha bloody ha. If I didn't have the chip I'd turn him, then see how much pain those eyes could see before he broke. Isn't that a scary thought, then? 'Cause that's how I felt about Dru.
"Might do," I tell him. "If that person wanted me to."
"What would you need?" He wants me to. He really does. It's making me hard, just the thought and it's all I can do to keep talking. All I can do not to just drag him off and nail him to a wall or a table or the bloody floor.
"Lots of lube. Glove if you're squeamish. I'm not, so don't worry about it on my account. S'not like I'm contagious."
"Heh. Not unless I drink your blood." Does that a lot, my Xander. Says things like that, then looks at me sidelong, like he wishes he hadn't. Never hard to know what's on his mind that way, but I wish he'd kept that thought to himself too, because it makes me throb. Just the idea of it. His blood in my mouth, hot and metallic and maybe just a bit sweet from all the crap he eats. Then feeding him some of mine, feeling the pull as he sucks against my skin. Feeling it all come up out from in me and infect him. Taint him. Make every part of him mine, inside and out.
This little noise comes out of him, and I realize that I'm leaning against his chair, rubbing against it like a fucking cat. His eyes are wide and inky dark as he stares at me over his shoulder, and his breathing is harsh, uneven. I glance around to make sure no one's paying us any mind, out of the corner of my eye I see his hand is under the table, pushing at the crotch of his jeans. Jolts right down to my toes. "Meet me outside, pet," I say, and I pull my duster around me as I grab my smokes and head for the back door of the shop. Not so obvious that way, because if they see my jeans it'll be really damned obvious.
Only a minute or so later he's with me, outside, and I flick the cigarette away that I just lit and grab him. He hits the wall hard when I push, but the chip doesn't even twinge, and I know he likes it, the rough bit. Turns him on. They all have it, every one of the Scoobies, whether they admit it or not. The capacity for violence. The love hate relationship with it. Only the tiniest moral dilemma stands between what they do and what I can't do anymore. So they get it other ways. Buffy through the slaying. The witches through the magic. Xander with me, like this, up against a filthy wall in a back alley, humping madly. Cursing and fighting me just enough to be less than convincing. The lovely scent of fear is missing, but the hot, sharp scent of male lust is almost as good, and the roses and ashes taste of despair.
"You want me to do that to you, pet? That's a possessive thing. Shows you're mine, that I can do whatever I want to you. That what you want?"
Yeah. That's what he wants, because he moans and tips his head back, baring his throat. A natural at it, my puppy boy, at the game of submission. If we were at home, naked, he'd show it all to me. The neck, the tender belly, his privates, swollen with all of his heat and life. But we're here, and I need to come so bad, so hard for him and I hate him for reducing me to this. For making me into this half-me that just wraps around him and rubs to the cadence of his breath and the rhythm of the heart in his chest. He's gasping, trying to talk, trying to say things he shouldn't, so it's good he can't. But I do get the message. And I push one hand between us, to where we both ache and the extra friction does it up right, and he comes for me, right there, so damned beautiful it hurts. It doesn't take long before I'm bucking against him, making a mess in my own trousers.
The next night he comes home from work (domesticated me, living with Alexander La-fucking Harris) and wordlessly hands me a brown paper bag from the pharmacy on his way through to the shower. Doesn't stop to eat dinner or have a beer, just goes to wash and I'm tortured with images of him cleaning himself inside and out. It's no wonder he didn't invite me to come in with him. Watching him slide his own fingers inside would be the end of my control for the night. Don't have to shower myself, but I go to the kitchen and strip off my shirt, then wash my hands and arms. Can't be too careful with a fragile human body. Then to the bedroom to get it all ready, make sure there's an atmosphere for him, because I'm a bloody sap who has it bad for a goofy boy who dresses horrible and dances worse.
When he comes to me he's nervous but determined, and I know because I see that look every time he fights a demon. I stroke a hand down his back, bare except for water droplets, and move close enough to feel the heat of his skin. "You okay? Don't have to do this."
He laughs then, sharp and desperate. "I want you to, Spike. I want it so bad. That's why I'm scared."
"We'll make it right, luv. Gonna make you feel so good."
"Can we. Let's just. Let's do it, okay?"
Headlong into everything. And they say I've got no patience. I grab him before he can make it to the bed and pull him down for a kiss. "Not so fast. Got all night." We do, after all. No friends about tonight, just us, and he's got to relax or it'll never work. Not letting him go when he tries to pull back, I find his tongue with mine and coax it into my mouth. He tastes like toothpaste and tap water and Xander. It's the Xander part that's addictive.
The towel at his waist is a flimsy barrier at best, and I take it away from him with one quick motion. I've still got my denims on, and I rub against him deliberately, feeling him shudder, knowing how much he likes the idea of being naked while I'm still dressed. Makes him feel vulnerable, and that's effing hilarious, because it's not like he needs some sort of illusion to be that way. Even with the chip I'm stronger than he is, faster, and I can do some damage before the pain incapacitates me.
When I break the kiss he comes after more, seeking with his lips, and I push him away a little, rough-like. Oh that makes him wide-eyed and horny, doesn't it? His already hard cock strains up and I want to taste it, but that's not what this game is about. "On the bed, Xander," I order, and he goes, just like that. And there it is, the openness, the ritual offering of all his weakest spots as he stretches out, arms up over his head, legs spread wide. Almost more than I can take, almost too much and I wonder if I'll have the strength to take this slow. And easy. Because the boy invites violence, and hard, fast taking.
I walk over and sit beside him, cupping his chin in my hand, feeling the rough prickles of his beard, and I kiss him again, because I have to taste him some way, and this is the only way I can. He makes a soft noise, a hungry one, and Christ I'm hot for him and I'm glad my pants are still on, because they give me a barrier. Because his skin is damp and so fucking warm and he smells like sex, raw and animalistic. My lips find the soft spot under his chin and the depression in his throat where the pulse beats and I press my teeth against it. The vein jumps under my mouth, fear and excitement, like we both know someday it will be real and I'll rip it open and he'll flood me. Who says I ain't a poet anymore?
Before long my tongue is teasing one hard little nipple, so sensitive, and my hand is on his cock, pumping so that he shifts and moans but he never reaches for me. Knows better, knows I'll give him permission when he can, and that makes him such a good boy. I tell him that, so good, and it makes him flush with pride and shame. Then I'm giving him what he wants, because my fingers brush across that tiny stretch of skin behind his balls and I press hard, right there, and he comes up off the bed in a high arch. So pretty like that, stretched on the rack of pleasure.
He got good lube, bless his heart, and I warmed it while he was in the shower, and no, I'm not a fool for love, not me. I slick my fingers up and press two inside him and the groan comes from deep in his chest, surprised and hot and I feel it echo in my cock. I want to bury my face in his crotch but I don't. I concentrate on what I'm doing instead, my free hand braced on his belly to hold him down. I know this would be easier with him on all fours, facing away but I can't do that. Have to see his face, have to see the muscles in his chest and arms flex and bulge while he tries to take three fingers, then four, and he's opening to me like we do this every day, but he's so tight and grasping that I'm glad I don't have to breathe because I'd be holding it right now. Just to see if he can take it. To see if I can open him up like this, all of him.
More lube, and I thrust my fingers back into him and he cries out sharply. Not pain, never pain for my boy, not unless he asks. Just surprise, and pure lust, and I fold my thumb under and push against the resistance of him and I'm in. He's shaking now, crying a little I think, and I lean up to lick away the tears. The motion pulls him up on my hand, and his body locks tight around me and oh God. So hot and sweet and his tears taste like London rain and he's mine. Every bit.
Just a little farther now, and I curl my hand into a fist and pump and he screams, a long, hoarse sound and I'm shaking too, holding on by a tiny thread, because if I lose it I might hurt him and this is for him. Every movement of my hand is agony for both of us; a sweet, tense spiral coils in my belly, because I'm holding his insides in my hand, closer to him than I've ever been and he knows it. His eyes open, dazed and cloudy, but he looks at me, right at me and it's all there for me to see. The love and the pain and the need and he hates it too, and it's all so fucking perfect.
Have to finish it now, can't stay in this moment much longer without something shattering irrevocably, and I move my arm, twisting and searching and he jerks convulsively. This time his scream is silent and his eyes roll back and he comes all over his chest and belly and he goes absolutely limp around me and before me. Passed right out. Carefully, oh so carefully, I slide my hand out of him, and lick his stomach clean. Tastes so much like blood, almost as good, and he wakes up to that. Moves his hands finally, tangling them in my hair and I kiss his lips, those impossibly soft lips and I know he gets it.
Takes care of me the rest of the night, he does, stripping off my denims and wrapping his mouth around me, but it's nowhere near as good as knowing for that split second I possessed every bit of him, even parts I should never be able to touch. And knowing that he really does trust me.
Shit. It must be love.