If I Believe

 

“Yeah, that’s it.  Get it all out of your system.”  Spike arched back, eyes half-closed as his body was pounded against the bed a little harder.  “Fuck me, fuck me harder.”

“Call me ‘baby’,” Xander growled, “and I’ll turn you over.”

“What, you don’t wanna be my baby?”  Spike’s pout was nasty and sharp, sneer showing underneath (hates it, know he does, he always has to see me).  He didn’t gasp when Xander angled his body exactly, but he did bite his lip, cock twitching against his belly.  “Thought you did.”

Xander snarled (hate), fucking even harder into Spike’s willing body.  He wasn’t sure how it’d gotten to this point.  Just that the day had been awful and the meeting at the Box had devolved into a shouting match (so much noise, too many people).  They all had bad days sometimes, but they didn’t usually shout at each other.  Not since years ago when they’d been played by Adam by way of Spike (asshole)—and this time, Spike (asshole) was in the fight as much as any of the rest of them.

He’d gone home, fuming and pissed, listening to Spike (waiting) go after this or that, unwilling to let the argument fucking die.  He was worse than a girl (not), that way, constantly harping (whining) on things until Xander wanted to scream (make it stop), yanking Spike’s clothes off and shutting him up the best way he knew how: by applying cock to yielding hole (wants it, always wants it).  Because Spike always, always yielded in situations like this.  Even when Xander took him dry as a bone (giving him what he wants).

“Shut up,” he grated, sweat slick against his skin, the salt burning into every scrape or cut or bruise he’d ever accumulated in the past day, past week, past life.  “Just shut the fuck up.”

Spike was looser (so tight) from the constant scrape of his cock against sensitive skin, only precome aiding the tight (so tight) glide and thrust of Xander’s cock.  It hurt, he knew it hurt (hurts).  And that only made it better.

“Naughty words, little boy.  Gonna do something with them?”

Lips pulled back into a snarl that would’ve done the hyena (animal, nothing but an animal) proud, Xander reached down between their bodies to grab Spike’s cock and pulled it roughly.  “You don’t get to talk.”

Blue eyes glittered up at him, pink lips open to let a little groan of the best kind of pleasure pain slip through.  It always pissed him off (liarliar) that Spike liked it when Xander was like this.  Not sweet, not gentle (so cruel), taking without the slightest thought of Spike’s enjoyment.  It pissed him off (liar) because it made him love Spike more (love him, mine).

In the darkness of their room, tangled up with blankets and lust and hate (love), Xander fucked his demon into a bloody (sweet) frenzy.  He fucked until Spike didn’t have any more words (never stop) until he couldn’t tell if he was doing it for the pleasure (pain) of it, or the way Spike arched, frothing and needy (love) under him.

“Xan—”

“No!”  Xander released Spike’s cock, ignoring the red lines of friction burn (hurting) he saw on pale skin.  Wanted to see something else.

“Xan—”

Sharp crack (crack) in the stillness of his breathing.  Spike’s head flew to the left (red), lip already swelling, with the tiniest hint of blood (red) beading on soft (soft) skin.  “Don’t talk,” he ordered (love) ragged and desperate.

Spike (red) licked the blood away, eyes so bright (sky shining) that they felt like coals (hot) against his skin.  “Fuck me,” he growled (love), body moving (love), body bleeding (love) for Xander (love).

Xander came, shouting (love) his anger while below him Spike (love) sobbed his own release (mine).

*Title from E.E. Cumming's Poem If I Believe

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