“Why do you call me that?”
“Call you what?”
Spike looked up from his newspaper. “It’s an endearment,” he with the slow, deliberate speech usually reserved for three years olds.
“You use it on girls.”
“You’ve only seen me use it on—hey! When’ve you seen me use it on girls!”
“You use it on Dawn.” Smug grin tilting up at him, dark eyes sparkling black.
“An’ you’re jealous of a sixteen year old girl? Out with it.”
“You’ve used it on Dru, too.”
“Which again brings up how you’ve ever heard me say anything t’Dru. You’ve never seen her.”
“I have! Twice!”
Spike carefully folded the newspaper and glared. He was good at glaring, with his almost-black eyebrows contrasting with pale skin and paler hair. Damn straight, he looked good.
“You look like a beetle when you do that.”
“Oh, all right. I kinda snuckinthewarehouseonetime.”
“Right after Halloween.” The dopey grin didn’t work its usual magic and Spike crossed his arms over his bare chest. “I saw you and Dru together. You called her, um, your ‘ripe, wicked plum’. And, can I say ew? You compared her to a piece of fruit!”
“I compare you to a bloody chunk of rock. You’re as sodding dense.”
“Hey! I resemble that remark!”
Spike snorted his agreement. “Do you know how stupid that was? I could’ve hurt you!”
“Spike, it was years ago. Besides, you didn’t. You didn’t even know I was there.”
“Or Dru could’ve seen you and—did you say twice?”
Another attempt at the ‘I’m-too-cute-to-hurt’ grin. It still wasn’t working. “Yes?”
Spike glared harder.
“Remember the botched love-spell? Dru thought that, and I quote, I had a face ‘like a poem’. She saved me from Angelus, though.” Brief pause. “That was scary. The needing to be saved and the saving parts. Really scary.”
“You’re utterly barmy, you know that?”
“Cause I think Dru is scary?”
“You snuck into the warehouse. Alone, I’m guessin’, right after Halloween when I was more’n a bit chuffed at losin’ my chance at the Slayer, got my white arse whumped in the process and I went after Dru like—”
Long pause. The I’m-too-cute smile had become something else entirely.
Spike ignored that for a moment. “Then? Even then you—?”
Xander leaned across the table and brushed vaguely syrup-y flavored lips against Spike’s. “You’re stupid.”
Yeah, well, like that’d ever bothered him before. He grinned. “You did a very bad thing, pet.”
“Yeah. Sneaking off without Buffy, not even letting Willow know.” Another kiss. “Wanting to see if my solider memories could do anything.”
“Mm, you look good in camouflage, luv.”
“Heh. I couldn’t do anything, though. Know why?” That deep, husky voice was playing little tunes up and down Spike’s spine. “I was stuck. Frozen. Couldn’t look away.” Xander pushed his belly down onto the table, random objects skidding away as he slid-slithered over towards Spike. “I’d never seen anyone take someone before. The way you used her, taking everything you wanted. It wasn’t making love. Wasn’t even sex, although she seemed to enjoy it. It was rutting. Using someone else’s body to get off. Fucking.”
“Oh, yeah.” Fond memories, that. Not the arse-kicking by the Slayer, but that night with Dru. . . the way he’d left her wanting, screeching on the bed to let her finish while Spike grabbed a few minions to beat on.
“She wanted it and you didn’t care,” Xander taunted. “You used her. You fucked her.”
Rough, male hands jerked him through the cloth of his boxers. Spike let his head fall back, groaning.
“Did you even let her get wet? Was she ready for you, when you threw her down on the bed and ripped off her clothes? Did you care?”
Distantly, he was aware of one hand dropping away, but caught between Xander’s heavy heat in his lap and the memories in his head—what was the question again?
“I bet you didn’t,” Xander said directly in his ear and then disappeared.
“No—wai—umph!” Face down on the table, it took a moment to realize the cold he felt on his dick wasn’t just the varnished wood. “Xan—”
“Shut up, Spike.”
Then he pushed inside.
Spike screamed, unprepared for the entry but loving it anyway. He babbled out his thanks, his praise while Xander pounded him into the table, the cockring making a scraping noises as it moved back and forth. He was still incoherent when Xander filled him, pulled out, and left the room.
Fifteen minutes later, Xander came back. “You didn’t move.”
“Can’t feel my legs.” They were hanging in mid-air behind him, but that was about all he knew. His entire world was focused on cock and arse.
“Oh, well.” He was picked up—being so damned skinny had its perks—and hauled over to the living room. Thrown onto the sofa, he was again fucked until he was a screaming, cramping, tensing mess of nerves. Without coming.
“So you want me to be Dru, is it?” he gasped out.
Xander’s grins didn’t have to be seen—he could feel them on his skin, hear them through air that sung. “I can be Dru tomorrow. And you still need to punish me.”
Spike groaned and used every bit of his strength to sit up. His cock was pointing towards the ceiling and funny colors as all his borrowed blood rested in that one part. Forcing himself to sound dreamy as opposed to getthisringoffmeandletmefuckingcomerightnowyoubloodywanker, he said, “There’s fire in your eyes.”
Clearing his throat, Spike leaned forward and tried again. “When I look in your eyes,” he rumbled, sliding down to kneel between Xander’s wide-spread feet, “I see fire burning.”
Then Spike did.