Night after night, Spike fakes amnesia. Or stupidity. Something like that, something coy and annoying and guaranteed to get under Xander's skin like nettles. Which is just wonderful, really, because it's not like his life doesn't suck anyway, with a horny demongirl flitting in and out of his presence, willy-nilly and whimsical, with friends who seem to like the strangers down the dorm hallway better than someone who's concussed himself countless times on their behalf, with his one guyfriend currently lost in the wild blue yonder, taking the kind of heartbroken, soul-shattered roadtrip Xander never even had the balls to dream about.
Nope, this is just multicolored sprinkles on top of the shit sundae that's his life: a cranky, half-wasted vampire stalking and loping around the beautiful Harris family basement, picking up whatever catches his gleaming little magpie eye, setting it down, moving on. Pretending it's not way past tying-up and bed time.
Always moving and Xander worked a double shift today, six in the morning to eight at night, burned his hand three times on the fryer and once on the grill, and got to go to Giles' to pick up the chipped weasel, and he's dizzy and tired and just wants to sleep.
Can't sleep, though, not until Spike's tied up and sort of safe for the night.
"Just sit down and stay still, Spike, wouldja?"
"Hmm?" Fake noise of distraction, and even his noises have an accent.
"Sit down, Spike."
Spike twists at the waist, turning from the meager shelf of unread paperbacks passed on to Xander by Willow and Oz -- hell, even *Buffy* -- people smarter than he is who just want to see him challenge himself. "Sorry, didn't catch that?"
Lazy scratch, painted nails on muscular stomach. Worse than nails on a blackboard to Xander's ears at this point.
"Fucking hell, Spike. Sit down. Stay still." Fryer grease in his hair, in his throat, hot and thick, and Xander's actually kind of impressed at how pissed off he sounds. Usually when he goes for pissed, it comes out -- whiny. Wheedly.
"Sure, *Dad*," Spike says, eyebrow slanting up, mouth twitching. Stupid rosebud pink mouth with all its various versions of 'make me, prat'. He collapses in the chair, all boneless and graceful, legs spread, still scratching his stomach.
Xander snorts and says, "Good boy." He hauls himself to his aching feet, and digs out the ropes from under the sofabed. Turning around, untangling the rope, he can *swear* Spike says something, but the asshole's face is slack and innocent, just watching Xander with wide blue eyes and creepy-sweet smile on his lips.
Flicker of pink tongue in the corner of those lips as Spike blinks once, very slowly and Xander really, really wants to do a Laurel-and-Hardy violent-headshake double-take. He just grips the rope more tightly, until the skin on his palm starts to burn with the friction.
"Tell me a bedtime story, Daddy?" Spike's voice, now *that's* creepy sweet, almost lisping, and it should be gross, coming from an anciently old evil guy, but -- it's not. It's disturbing as hell, just like the twitches Xander's getting down the center of his dick, and it's all mixed up with wet pink mouth and dark lashes batting over blue eyes, but it's pretty much the opposite of gross.
Xander shakes out the rope. Flock of rabid pigeons in his chest, lungs bellowing ineptly, heart doing a Michael-Flatley jig. "Not sure you're getting one tonight. Haven't been a very good boy, have you?"
Spike leans forward, hands on his knees, so fast the upholstery squeaks and Xander just *drops* to the edge of the bed. "Want to be," he says. Always sweet, so fucking sweet. "Wanna be good for you, Daddy."
Oil clogging his throat, drowning the pigeons, and there's a flush sliding like tar down Xander's back. "Yeah? Why don't you come over here?"
-- *Chip, chip, chip. Helpless with the chip.* Regardless, he should stop this, must stop this, can't keep doing this, it's fucking *Spike* for chrissake, maybe he can't drain or even, heh, *slap* Xander, but he's got a mouth on him and --
Spike unfolds like wind and Xander can't see him moving but all of a sudden he's sitting on Xander's lap, one arm around Xander's neck, fingers playing shyly with his hair.
"Spike --"
"Yes, Daddy?" Spike shifts and wriggles and oh, that's *so* not an accident, the way he just brushes up against Xander's crotch. No way, no how. Spike looks down, then back up at Xander, free hand touching him again. "You're hard, Daddy."
"Yeah," Xander says thickly. Riot of wings beating, harsh panicked ca-caws rising in his veins and he's not sure but he might not be breathing any more. Spike's not that heavy, but heavy enough, and he smells like smoke and bourbon and every time he wriggles, Xander's dick gets a little more into it. Next wriggle, Spike almost slips off and Xander grabs him around the waist, holds him still. "You make me hard."
Blue eyes like chlorine. Clear all the way down. And he's *blushing*, which is impossible for vampires, but he is, and there he goes, licking his lips again. "Do I?"
Xander cups Spike's crotch, feels hot pressure against the denim, and looks straight-on at Spike. "You're hard, too, baby," he whispers. "Feel that?"
Quick, emphatic nod that dislodges silly gelled hair, and a few curls spill over Spike's forehead. "Yes, Daddy." Breathless. He wiggles again, spreading his legs. "Hurts, Daddy. Want to touch it."
Xander has to close his eyes. Just for a second, just to let the reverberations of want and lust that are snaking fast through his gut and up his chest run their course. When he opens his eyes, Spike's still staring at him, biting his lower lip, evil pretense of scared little boy.
Xander pops the buttons on Spike's fly with his thumb. Exhales slow and harsh and pats Spike's back. "It's okay. You can touch it."
Spike shakes his head. "Can't, Daddy. S'wrong."
Stab, long and blunt, right through Xander's chest at his words, something like disappointment. "It's all right, baby. You can do it with me. Want to see you do it."
"But --"
"Do. It."
Wheeze of fake breath as Spike inhales and jesushell, he really is doing it. Taking out his dick, rolling his cheek on Xander's shoulder and looking up at him, all shy and proud and scared.
"Like this, Daddy?"
Xander cups Spike's jaw, cool hairless skin soft like a girl's and kisses his forehead. "Like that. Just like that. Go on."
Reverse stab up from his stomach all the way out his mouth, huge rushing outburst of air that's almost a groan when Spike starts to move his hand. Jerky and unsure, like he's still scared, and Xander tightens his grip on his boy's waist, peppers kisses over his cheekbones and eyelids.
"Feels good, Daddy --"
"Yeah," Xander breathes. He licks tears from the corners of Spike's eyes, bites the tip of his nose, never stops watching as Spike's hand gets steadier, faster, slicker. He licks the flat of his tongue over Spike's panting mouth. "Feels so good, doesn't it? Good boy, such a good boy."
Somehow Spike's eyes get wider. "I am?"
Rocking and wriggling on Xander's lap, sweet little gasps coming out his mouth, and Xander's about to burst out of his jeans. His cock throbs angrily, thick and hot and it almost hurts, being this hard.
"You are," he tells Spike. "But I want you to stop."
"No, I *can't*," Spike whines, bouncing harder until Xander grabs his wrist and makes his hand go still. "*Daddy*, I --"
Xander buries his face in Spike's hair, imagines he smells Crayolas and winter air as he pushes Spike off, back onto the bed, and rolls on top of him. "Don't whine."
"I'm sorry, I --" Spike shuts up, biting his lip again, as Xander tugs off his jeans.
"Stay still," Xander says. Grease choking him off, making his voice low and thick. "You made Daddy hard, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"What are you going to do about it?"
Spike turns his face away, covers it with one arm. God, he really is small, like a teenager, all bones and tight skin, and he's never, ever, going to fill out. Xander rips Spike's arm off his face and plants his hands on either side of narrow shoulders. "Asked you a question, boy."
Spike licks his lips, can't seem to look straight at Xander. "I could, could, touch it?" High voice, breaking on the question mark. "Help you feel good? Could kiss it, Daddy?"
Gets a flash of those long white fingers around his cock, jerking him unsurely, lashes brushing his cheeks. Or pink lips wrapped around the head, little choking noises coming up his throat. Xander shakes his head and Spike frowns, miming fear like a fucking pro.
"Too hard for that now," he says and holds Spike down by one shoulder as he reaches-stretches-prays to get the lotion out of the drawer by the bed. "Made Daddy so hard, Daddy's got to fuck you."
Wordless whine, high and scared and excited, and Spike bounces under him as he nods. "Yeah, Daddy." Gasps and rolls his hips hard enough that Xander's groaning now, grabbing the lotion and unzipping his pants, yanking down his boxers.
So, so fucking stupid, Xander's a prince among morons, doing this. Spike's never going to let him live it down, he's going to live in the palm of Spike's hand forever, and that palm's getting filled with Lubriderm that smells like Willow and -- "Fuuuuuck," Xander groans.
"Getting you wet, Daddy."
"Yeah --" Xander sits back on his heels, watches Spike's tongue, caught between his teeth, the picture of diligent concentration, schoolboy bent over his slate or whatever. Slick, warm hands and his cock's screaming, trying to yank itself off his body, through its skin. "Now you, baby."
Spike looks at him. Roses in his cheeks, curls on his forehead. Evil, evil, evil. "What?"
Xander grabs the skinny wrist, grinds bones together, and puts Spike's hands between his legs. "Do it. Get yourself nice and wet for Daddy. Don't want to hurt you, do I?"
"No, no hurting." Spike swipes lotion over his hole, pink as his lips, and Xander clenches every muscle from ears to knees to keep from coming right there. "Never hurts, Daddy. Feels *good*."
"That's right. Have to make Daddy feel good, don't you?"
Vehement nod and *fuck*, he's fingering himself.
"More," Xander tells him. "Gonna fuck you deep. Get yourself wet."
"Yes, Daddy." Wheezing pump of lotion, white and shining over Spike's knuckles.
Then it's just quiet. Xander hears himself breathe like glass bottles breaking, sharp and high, feels the heat twist in his dick and flare through his body, and Spike -- just lies there. Legs spread, arms over his head. Waiting. Longer it's quiet, more room there is for thought, and Xander can't think, not right now, that's the last fucking thing he needs.
"Talk to me, baby." He leans forward, rubs his cock against Spike's ass and kisses him. Fast, all sharp (human) teeth and gummy spit. "C'mon. Be good."
"Fuck me, Daddy --" Somehow Spike gets one leg free from between Xander's knees and he pulls it up, bending it, opening himself. "See? Want you Daddy, want to make you feel good, want --"
Xander bites Spike's lip as he tries to push in. Too tight, so fucking tight, and his cock bends painfully until he takes a breath and tries again. "Open up," he tells Spike. "Let me in."
"Yeah," Spike says. "See?"
And whatever he does, it's the right thing, there's a little less pressure and Xander's pushing his hips down, watching Spike's eyes widen until there's white all around, watching the roses in his cheeks go scarlet, watching his narrow, bony chest heave.
"Good boy." Xander groans, sheathed and pressed and he has to stay still inside *this*, so slick and there's like a million heartbeats all around him, urging his cock to go farther, deeper, faster.
Spike hooks his arms around Xander's neck and kisses him with a closed mouth. "Daddy, *please* --" And then he rolls his hips again, rubbing his dick against Xander's stomach. "Taking it, see? See, Daddy?"
"Fuck yeah. You're taking it --" Xander's hips are rolling back, fast and hard like monsoons sweeping through a village, shaking the teeth in Spike's head. "Better fucking take it, boy."
"Am, *am*, want to, making you feel good --"
"Make me so fucking hard, you have to --" Xander's face is curling and frowning and he sounds angrier than he ever has, and it's the heat, this unimaginable overheated pressure and Spike's sweet little whine and he *never* gets what he wants, let alone what he needs, but he's taking it now, fucking Spike down into the mattress, yanking him up by the hair, muttering and growling and all he can see is big blue eyes and all he can hear are little whimpers and tiny grunts when he shoves in and pulls out. "Take it, boy. *Take* it --"
Spike's tiny and boneless and white beneath him, working Xander's dick like he wants this, too, and gasping and kissing and calling him Daddy and he's being so good, such a good little boy, that Xander grabs his cock and leans back, jerking it while he holds Spike down with the other hand and fucks in deeper.
"Gonna come, Daddy --" Scared again, needs permission, *so* well behaved.
"Come for me, baby," Xander whispers and it tastes like chocolate syrup on his tongue, hot fudge and love and pride. "Come for Daddy."
Spike's eyes squeeze shut and his hips cant up even higher as his head thrashes and hands scrabble at the sheets, the mattress, and he's crying out and tightening even more around Xander's dick and he's coming in Xander's hand, spurting, hot and thick.
"Good boy, such a good boy," Xander croons, and his arms give out. He licks his hand clean and collapses, wrapping his arms around tiny shoulders, delicate as birdbones, and *fucks*. Spike's still spasming around him, gasping out whines and tears are running down his cheeks, and it's all sweet and wrong and evil-evil-evil and Xander's spine pours out through his dick as he jabs in deeper and twists his hips and bites down on Spike's shoulder. "Coming inside you, gonna come --"
Spike wraps his legs around Xander's hips. "Please, Daddy, want you to --"
Whitepinkred heat blinds him when he comes, huge wheeling blue eyes and white skin and he's dropping, billowing, zooming down and down and his boy's whispering his ear, telling him how handsome and strong he is, how good Daddy's cock feels and he's never going to hit the ground, wants to fly downward and never stop coming and never have to see anything again.
Spike kisses him again, opening his mouth, sucking Xander's tongue all the way inside until its root starts to hurt, and he keeps sucking, rocking his hips until long after Xander's spent. Still half-hard but it hurts like hell now.
Before he passes out, because he has to pass out, he has to roll off Spike and keep his eyes closed and drown himself into the sour sewage pouring through his gut and up his throat, guilt and fear and some more fear, Xander hears a whisper.
Thanks, Daddy.