Fandom: BtVS Human AU
Summary: Xander hated driving in Pennsylvania. The roads sucked.
Warnings: Daddy!kink, spanking, some verbal abuse.
A/n: not beta'd so if you see something, let me know?
The road was washed out and gray, two shades darker than the chalkboard scrawl of the sky. It curved towards the horizon, no longer endless and golden, shimmering miles away, but instead truncated, abrupt, sloping down towards hell. Streaks of dark tar, cracked with ice and snow, bisected the road at irregular intervals, a worm of ink that obscured the double yellow that dragged along, keeping pace no matter how hard the gas pedal was pressed. Sad, scraggly trees, weighted down with snow that had long lost its luster, reached towards the road, desperate to be pruned, to be trimmed from their misery. As the trees gave way, memorials to nature long sent into slumber, rivers of ice cascaded down rock long ago cut, man’s ever expanding need for this, for that, for more creating crumbling, regular lines, raw wounds that would never heal, in once majestic mountains.
Xander hated driving in Pennsylvania. The roads sucked.
The cabin jerked, his seat bouncing like a child’s toy as he went over a series of pot-holes, unfixable monstrosities that would get patched and remade, patched and remade, some road worker’s unending hell. Or maybe not; job security was nothing to laugh at. Why else would he still be doing this after ten years and a host of other offers? He’d tried the construction route, housing markets that boomed and failed, roads that were better maintained than these travesties to modern engineering, jobs drying up as the markets moved and changed, elastic concaving only to bulge miles and markets away. He’d tried odd jobs, bartending in the middle of Georgia when it was too hot for Xander to even contemplate alcohol, a teacher’s aide in New York, and hadn’t that been terrifying? Didn’t matter, though. They’d all ended, rug yanked from under him time and again.
Trucking was a job that never glutted, never smiled kindly while setting up unemployment lines. So here Xander was, driving something that rattled when he took the corners too hard, gritting his teeth through Pennsylvania until he could reach the relatively smooth paradise of Ohio beyond him.
Even the turnpike was a nightmare this year. And perfect, of course—the skies finally cracked under pressure and frozen rain added its own, new shade of grey to the miasma before him, soaking the windshield and slicking roads already treacherous.
Xander checked his schedule, papers curling messily as he measured time and mileage, diesel and the way his butt ached, numb from constantly being sat on. He was slowly developing a gut, a hairy paunch he still sucked in whenever he dealt with his bosses, hastily unbuttoning his belt the moment he settled into his worn, flannel covered seat.
He’d never been the kind to piss in bottles, hurling them over the side, rather than pull off and waste a few seconds to shit in something that flushed. Rain or sleet or snow, whatever the precipitation was, plinked against the glass, fogged from a sudden drop in temperature—fuck it, Xander thought, catching a familiar sign for an exit ten miles up the road. His cargo wasn’t food, wasn’t time-sensitive or they’d have told him that back in New York. He’d been on the road for nearly eight hours and that was enough.
He wasn’t the only one to have that notion, and the Bald Eagle was damned crowded. Big, burly guys mingled with the sudden increase of slighter, frailer older drivers, the ones who’d retired but still needed cash, needed a job to keep them out of a grave. They smiled and tried to interact, not as inured by the road yet. Xander smiled at them, nodding as he grabbed his shower, trying not to pay attention to the results of his Hostess diet, changing into worn jeans, work boots, and three layers of flannels. Flannels were a trucker’s best friend.
“Hey, man, check it out.”
Xander settled at the bar, ordering coffee and the works, smiling at Maire when she winked at him. He always came to the Eagle when he could, and Maire never forgot a face, a name, or a desert preference; there was already double-chocolate cake waiting for after breakfast. Pouring creamer into his coffee, turning it tan and milky, Xander stirred before saying, “Hello to you too, Bob. And what would I be looking at this time? Last time it was the damned unicorn shirts which, hey, not really my speed.”
Bob smirked, revealing a dentist’s nightmare with two teeth gone and a third slowly succumbing to rot. “Yeah, but your little red-head liked it, didn’t she?” Bob’s voice was scratchy and high, a legacy of too much weight on balls that weren’t that big to begin with—according to gossip, anyway.
Xander never cared about gossip. “Yeah, Willow liked them.” Willow liked anything he sent her, sad, guilty eyes coming through each letter or email or scraped-up phone call. Like she was supposed to feel bad that she’d gone to college, working on her doctorate while Xander saw the country one truck-stop at a time.
He’d made his choices. He’d live with them, too.
Didn’t really have much choice about that.
The plate was overflowing with food when he finally got it, a mountain of eggs and butter-fried veggies, cheesy toast done just the right way, and an extra plate full of meat that only might’ve come from a pig or a cow. Xander dug in with gusto. “So?” he asked around a mouthful. Bob was a weird old guy, but he was nice, and Xander had been well-thwapped by Willow; he was always nice back. “What was it you wanted me to see?”
Private speculation was that Bob was more than slightly insane. His hysterical-sounding giggle was the reason and confirmation for that rumor, and Bob couldn’t seem to stop now. He gestured to the window, cracked yellow nail of his thumb a jagged arrow. “There’s a kid,” he said, unable to keep his face straight or his voice level.
Crap. Crap. Xander didn’t stop eating, cutting his eyes towards the open, gold-lettered windows to try and spot him. He knew that Maire would’ve let him in for a little, she wasn’t about to let a kid freeze—but neither was she going to let someone loiter with no money and the possibility of doing damage. So he got a meal, he got a place to stay that was warm for an hour or so, maybe even tucked into the beds in the back, and then out he was, back where he came from with nothing but a few much to show for it. A few hours of help wasn’t worth it when it was January in Pennsylvania.
“None of the others?” Xander asked. Picking up hitchers was a time-honored tradition—in all senses of the word—although Xander’d only done it once, and then because it was a girl, a fifteen year old runaway. He didn’t care how married or faithful any of these guys were—fifteen year old tail was too good to resist, especially grateful tail, and Xander had risked showing exactly how he’d managed to survive Sunnydale, with the highest high school mortality rate in the country, to make sure he was the one to give her a ride.
It’d set a kind of precedent. Xander wasn’t niave enough to think he’d stop all of the crap that went on, but in his particular routes, among the guys he knew, anything female and pretty was to be left to him.
So it was a surprise when it wasn’t a girl Xander spotted, but a guy. Granted he was a pretty thing, eighteen if he was a day, skinny but with broad shoulders, like a half-grown puppy, his hair pure white above a chiseled face that was just a hair too strong for a woman’s, not quite strong enough for a man’s. The kid was starved, swimming in the leather duster he had clutched around him, eyes haunted as he eyed each approaching truck, head half-lowered to keep the sleet off his face.
Bob was still giggling beside him, high and frantic. “Pretty, right? I told the others, you get all the pretty ones.”
The pretty girls, Xander wanted to say, their virtue safe as houses. Pretty boys were a damned different story.
Sighing, Xander looked up to find Maire watching him. “He’s a rough one, that kid. Cussed up a storm when Jimmy tossed him a half-hour ago.”
Xander honestly wasn’t sure if his reputation was that of a savior or a molester. “Yeah, yeah. Get him in, Maire. Did he say where he needs to go?”
“Someplace warm,” she said, then vanished out the back.
Which was how, twenty minutes later, Xander had a hissing, spitting fire-ball of a boy snarling up at him from a mountain of pancakes bigger than the boy’s big, lollipop head. “Where’ you going?”
Xander rubbed his forehead, only-mostly hating Willow and that she’d raised him, instead of the sodden fucks that’d birthed him. A good Harris would’ve let this scamp wilt under the winter storm, leaving him too shivering-cold to argue against hot food and a warmish place to sleep. A Rosenburg, however, would’ve plied the kid with words of comfort as well as food, trying to help instead of just preventing him from freezing to death.
“None of your bloody business, is it?”
Xander didn’t often want to slap people. He clenched his fist, blood pumping against the tips of his fingers. “Look, you want more than a meal and a chance to come out of the cold for an hour, you keep playing the sullen ass. You want a lift—a safe one—you tell me where you’re going. If I’m not going in the right direction, maybe someone else will be.”
“Someone else that’s ‘safe’?” The kid air-quoted the words, full lips sneering into something bitter and old, much older than his skinny, youthful face. “No such creature, mate.”
“Oh, for god—”
“West.” The kid’s eyes were startling blue, brighter against the pink-touched flush of his cheeks, hazed with long lashes as he looked up at Xander. “I’m goin’ west. You headed that way?”
Burying his face in his hands wouldn’t accomplish much, beside make him feel better. “Yeah, kid. I’m going west. You want a lift?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” The kid went back to his soup, practically drinking it from the rim in his haste to get the warmth in his belly, hands busily taking de- and re-assembling the blt he’d ordered so the lettuce was wrapped around the slices of bacon. “Spike.”
“Oh, right. Xander. You almost done?” The sleet was still coming down, but light enough that Xander could see the darkened mound of the hill across the way, the highway a distant path with crawling lights only fifty feet away. The horizon fell damned close in this state. Xander hated it.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t rush me.” Despite his complaint, Spike inhaled the food.
Sliding to his feet, Xander grabbed the check and headed towards the register. “Clean up as much as you can when you’re done. If you steal anything beside the sweat shirt I’m paying for, I won’t have to string you up because Maire’ll do it for me. Understand?”
“Bloody patriarch,” Spike muttered, but he nodded under Xander’s glare. “Yeah, yeah, got it. Done your good deed for the year, haven’t you.”
“Shut up.” Xander took care of his own business, scrubbing his face and wishing he was girly enough to use the moisturizer Willow’d sent him; the heater dried his skin painfully, and no way was he going to lower it with a skinny, half-starved kid with him. He bought a raft of snacks, replenishing his supply of Hostess products, supplemented with a few in the Dorito and Hershey families before buying a couple bottles of water. He’d pig out on junk food, encourage it in others, but nobody drank soda in his truck.
Paying for the lot of it, Xander spied the kid coming out of the bathroom, dressed in an oversize sweatshirt, bald-eagle proudly surveying all the boy faced. It looked like crap on him, too fuzzy for the odd elegance of his features, disconcerting under the smooth, snapping shine of the kid’s duster.
It was warm, though. Xander liked those sweatshirts.
The kid silently accepted the bags, looking through them with interest as he slipped and skidded on the layer of snowy, icy crap that’d built in the parking lot. “Trying to up a size?” he asked as he scrambled into the cabin. Getting in and out of trucks was something of an art, and it was clear this was probably the first time he’d ever tried. Xander swung himself in, fussing to get everything just so before even turning on the engine. The kid glared at him. “Seriously, you’re already pasty and dough-y already. Some Krispy Kreme award you’re entered in?”
“You have a smart mouth,” Xander said, controlling the urge to smack the kid across it. “I’m not going to hurt you, I’m not going to ask you to do anything untoward, I’m just gonna drive the damned truck and make you listen to my music while feeding you junk food. Got it?”
Spike snorted. “We’ll see how long that lasts. Also, untoward?”
Xander rolled his eyes. Spending time with this kid made him feel old. “My sister’s a nerd and some things you get by osmosis. And if you don’t know what that word means, you should be back in school instead of running away.” Xander held a hand up when Spike opened his mouth, fury turning his eyes pale. “Yeah, yeah, save it. I don’t care.”
After that, the only sounds were Patty, a little Loretta, and some Dolly. The kid stayed quiet, no matter what kind of faces he made at the music, and Xander did too. For hours.
It was nice, actually, having another body not so many inches away, breathing steadily and radiating heat as Spike’s temperature equalized, eventually shucking out of the sweatshirt although the black duster stayed on, melding seamlessly with the black t-shirt underneath. His jeans were tight.
Xander made himself look back at the road.
The road eventually smoothed out, Ohio’s transportation department less of a mafia-run racket, and Xander got used to having a silent companion beside him. So used to it, in fact, that he didn’t really notice when Spike slithered closer to him, head on his shoulder while he drowsed. Xander just patted his hair—crusted with something that made it feel like straw, too old for such a young kid—and didn’t bother with the seat belt lecture.
Another hour and Spike was snuffling into Xander’s hip, stretched out over the seat, twisting in his sleep until Xander had to wake him up. “Hey, Spike,” he said, voice pitched low as he shook the kid’s bony shoulder. “Wake up. We’ll stop soon.”
The kid went still. “Stoppin’?”
“For the night, yeah. I’ve got a thing set up in the back. Relax, you’ll get your own cot, and I’ve got sandwiches somewhere.”
For several long, steady moments there was just the kid breathing, hot against Xander’s wrist, and the constant, pulsing flash of the lights, haloing the road orange as the truck lumbered on and on.
Then there was a soft kiss against his skin, right where his pulse banged too hard, too loud at the gentle touch.
It was a damned good thing there was no one else on the road, Xander thought numbly. Damned good. Because Spike was kissing his wrist again, long fingers creeping up his thigh to rub between his legs, the zipper hard against his dick, sending skittering, fleeting sparks up into his stomach.
“I told you this wasn’t necessary.” His voice was even, almost flat.
“Mean you don’t want it?”
The jaded, brittle strength in Spike’s voice finally woke him from his stupor. Grabbing the kid’s questing hand, Xander squeezed tightly enough that Spike gasped and went rigid. “It means that this isn’t going to happen. You’re a kid.”
“M’twenty. I know I don’t look it, but I am,” Spike insisted, voice a sullen whine of pain. “Got my passport here somewhere.”
Xander spared a glance at the ratty backpack Spike had covering his feet, then focused again on the road. “Not happening, kid. I don’t do that.”
A low chuckle was the only warning Xander got before Spike’s head moved forward, rubbing a hard, swooping nose and lips that had to be scraped raw against denim, over Xander’s cock. Hot, wet breath sank through three layers of material, touch-starved skin rising up in welcome.
“See?” Spike tipped an artless look up at him, his head half-trapped by Xander stomach and the steering wheel. “It likes it just fine. Lemme,” he insisted, mouthing over the growing outline, licking along the edges. “Lemme...”
“No,” Xander said again, ignoring how weak and whining the word was. “I’m not—I don’t—”
“Yeah, I know,” Spike murmured, rubbing his cheek against Xander’s stomach like a kitten. “S’what the others told me, when the crazy freak scared ’em. Said you liked boys, though. Wouldn’t make a move, but you like ’em.”
Jesus, Jesus, Bob had set this up, and now this crazy, mind-fucked kid was leaving wet patches on Xander’s jeans, Xander’s cock pressing painfully against the zip to get towards what those damp, growing spots promised. “You don’t have to do this,” he croaked, trying one last time.
Spike just chuckled, the deepening sound making Xander shift and gasp. “Figured that bit out by now, yeah. You just concentrate on driving, mate. Don’t fancy being decapitated.” And then he pulled his hand out of Xander’s grasp, easy as air, deftly unzipping Xander and pulling him out directly into Spike’s waiting, ready mouth.
“Fuck,” Xander groaned. He slumped in the seat, spreading his legs while his hands trembled, clammy and twitching on the steering wheel, attempting to keep his rig in a straight line. Spike was sucking him, carefully lowering himself up and down, not wanting to get his ear clipped or his head thunked, intimately plotting out the contours of Xander’s cock, the slightly angled head.
It felt really, really good.
Spike sucked like he’d done this before at least once, his mouth wet and tight and hot enough to burn as he scraped his teeth over the vein, before doing something with his tongue that had Xander trembling in his seat, body twanging like a rubber band. He’d pull off, sometimes, nuzzle the base or tongue around the head, catching Xander’s precome, then take the whole thing back in while he panted fast and hard and heavy through his nose, Xander cock in his throat.
“You know,” Xander panted to the cabin at large, “I’ve never actually done this. I think I’m the only one left that hasn’t.”
Spike responded by sucking hard in powerful, long stretches that had him panting and Xander gasping, trying to control his hips, as if to say, well, it’s about time, then, isn’t it?
The rig was swerving only slightly, a tolerable limit Xander worked hard to maintain. The more Spike got into it, though, the more the rig trembled along with him, skidding over the sides until the bleat of too far, too far, asshole cut into the side of the road melded with Spike’s panting, the wet, frantic sounds of his mouth on Xander’s cock, dirty sounds that made Xander’s hips stop restraining themselves, fucking into a sweet, willing mouth that tightened and swallowed when Xander came.
It was a full twenty seconds before Xander could see straight, and by then, he’d already made his decision. Finding the nearest pull off, he methodically shut the engine down, listening to the tick-tick of cooling water, the way the boy panted fast against Xander’s thigh, and thought.
“You’re willing to do this, boy?” Boy, not kid.
Spike lifted his head, licking his lips. “Yeah. Hate not paying for a ride, you know?”
Anger built like a flash bomb, bright and startling; Xander smacked the back of his hand across Spike’s mouth before he realized it, ears still singing. “You do this because you want to, or not at all, boy. And you don’t do it with anybody else.”
It wasn’t like having a companion was unheard of. A lot were wives, especially among the older couples, who were licensed to drive same as their husbands and often drove more and better. Others were sibs to provide a person to talk to. A few were partners, most of them too young, picked up stray and needy, grateful for the chance to get out of wherever they were, and willing to pay with their bodies to do it.
Xander had been one, once. Hitched himself into a rig and learned why it was girls never really got him hard.
He grabbed Spike’s hair, tugging his head back hard enough to make the kid whimper. “Understand?”
Spike’s eyes were dilated, only barely rimmed with blue as he nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Good boy. Go get in the back, you’ll see how it’s set up.” Xander needed a minute to breathe before following. He’d never done this. He’d never wanted to do this. Hell, watching that first girl—Jill?—nervously unbutton her top, letting her breasts spill out in the moonlight, had made Xander sick and not because girls held little attraction for him.
But Spike wasn’t nervous, or scared. He was belligerent, smart-mouthed, and he sucked like he’d done it before. And he’d called Xander Daddy unprompted, showing a clear understanding of the game Xander’d never learned the rules for.
“Said something about sandwiches, didn’t you?” Spike called.
He wasn’t jail bait, Xander reminded himself, as he crawled into the back. “Yeah, in the cooler,” he pointed. Flicking on the heater, Xander shrugged out of his flannels realizing belatedly that he hadn’t bothered to zip himself back up after Spike’s opening gambit. He watched as the kid wolfed one down, idly stroking his own stomach. “I’m not really a nice guy, you know.”
He wasn’t. He knew his preferences and his tastes and that both were better suited by tastefully discreet clubs that made sure everyone was clean, everyone was cared for and well recompensed for their troubles. Xander liked those clubs.
Spike’s eyes were still wide, pupil’s shrinking against the swinging yellow light Xander turned on, until they were nothing but blue, aces of crystal fragments that looked as sharp as his cheekbones. He fingered the spot where he’d been hit, the skin puffy. “Not gonna cut me, are you?”
“I’m not into blood.”
Spike nodded, a shy smile totally at odds with the abrasive personality from before. “Right, then. I’ve done just about everything, so as long as you add no broken bones or anything to your dislike of blood—”
“Did I say you could speak?” Useful information though it was.
Spike sucked in a breath, eyes going impossibly wider. “No, Daddy.”
“You’ll speak when I give you permission, boy, and not before. Tell me you understand.”
The swaggering, aggressive personality was evaporating from the boy like mist, leaving him as young as he really was, all big hands and too big feet, shivering lightly without the duster to give him bulk, armor against the world. It was so easy to read this kid. “I understand, Daddy.” Even his voice was different, breathless instead of sneering, lacking the baritone depth he’s previously forced.
“Good boy.” He loved the way Spike shivered at that, eyes half-closing. Yeah. This one was definitely into it, maybe really had set up the whole thing, looking for someone who wouldn’t just use him and kick him out a few hours later. Xander had always known he was a sap, but it’d never manifested quite like this. “What don’t you like?”
“Spanking,” he answered promptly. “An’ I realize that’s just gonna make you want to—”
Xander lashed a foot out, catching Spike at the back of his knee, tumbling him down to the ground. The whole rig shuddered under the impact, but Xander was used to that, riding out the aftershocks. He was going to make the rig dance before he was done. “No commentary,” he said to the crumpled heap on the floor. “Just list.”
“Spanking,” Spike repeated, hoarse this time. “Clamps or weights. An’ I’m clean. I’ve got papers.”
Another reason he’d waited for Xander, probably. Bob knew how fanatic Xander was about testing, although he thought it was because of Jesse, the high school friend who’d died of AIDs—not Jesse, the high school sub that’d died of AIDS after cheating on Xander. “Show me.”
Spike tore through his bag, coming up with a passport, a folder full of medical papers dated two weeks before, and a bag full of condoms and lube. He blushed when Xander looked at those, twisting the plastic in his hands. “Er. Just in case?”
Xander reached out, papers in his lap, yanking Spike forward so he could backhand him again. “I’m not interested in training you that much, boy. If you don’t behave, I’ll drop you off and leave.”
Spike sucked in a shaky breath, then shook his head negative. And didn’t speak.
“Better.” Returning to the papers, Xander scrutinized them carefully. He knew how to spot fakes and, thankfully, these probably weren’t. He didn’t bother with the passport, knowing the name wouldn’t be ‘Spike’; he’d much rather make Spike tell him, make him beg to tell Xander, than snoop for it. “Here’s the deal. You don’t have to do this. I’m going to California, so I’ll take you all the way there, if you want. I won’t touch you. You’ll help me load and unload, do odd jobs when we stop, and I’ll cover your meals and anything you might need along the way.”
“Or you still do odd jobs, I still cover your meals, but your job will be to do whatever it is I tell you. Whatever it is. You’ll call me Daddy except when we’re in public, then it’ll be sir. You’ll allow me to touch you whenever and however I want, and if you’re good you’ll like it. You won’t complain if you don’t; I won’t tolerate boys who misbehave. You don’t get a safe word. Your safe word is disappearing when we stop, and I stop at regular intervals so you’ll have a chance. I won’t chase after you. I won’t beat you, if you stay. I won’t make you bleed or break your bones. I will fuck you frequently, and often, and probably make you do degrading things, call you even worse.”
Xander didn’t need the verbal reply, although he got one, as sweet and proper as a good English school boy. The only answer he needed was tenting Spike’s pants, eagerly soaking through at the tip.
He let the silence stretch, loose and comfortable in his own bed while Spike tried not to fidgit. Spike was clearly waiting for orders, eyes flicking from Xander’s face to Xander’s lap and the cock that was slowly hardening.
Spike crawled forward, head down as he knelt before Xander, forehead against Xander’s knee. “Daddy,” he said.
“You’ve been wanting this a long time, haven’t you?” Xander knew the type, after all. He attracted the type, frequently hired to discover just which of the newest crop of employees was ‘that type’ and didn’t know it, submitting to Xander for breaking and training because Xander broke them to a bridle—not a slag heap. He stroked Spike’s hair. “Wanting someone bigger, older than you to make sure you’re warm and clothed, a pretty, petted boy that liked the way you smiled. The way you smelled.”
Spike made a noise in the back of his throat. “Yes, Daddy,” he whispered. He didn’t even start when Xander’s booted foot rested against his cock, although his knees widened just a hair.
“When was the last time someone fucked you?”
“Four weeks, Daddy.”
“Four? So you haven’t been fucked since your test?”
“No, Daddy,” Spike said. “I—there’s this girl I see, sometimes. I always wear a condom, though.”
Xander added more pressure, carefully watching Spike’s face. “And this girl?”
“She’s my mum’s friend.”
Ah. That explained most of it, Xander easily putting pieces together to form a bleak, dismal picture. This kid’s type usually was. “You going to see her again?”
Spike shook his head, throat working against a gasp he didn’t voice. “Only if you say, Daddy.”
Xander removed his foot, running his hand down Spike’s chest appreciatively. He was starveling-cut, a beautiful specimen of manhood that would’ve been completely at home on a billboard for Abercrombie jeans. Xander couldn’t wait for Spike to get some more meat on his bones. “Good answer, boy. Strip. I’ll pick up clothes for you next chance I get—you never wear something with buttons, or otherwise difficult to get to. Your cock and your ass are mine to play with, whenever and however I want.”
Said cock jerked as Spike freed it, the rest of him shivery with eagerness. He didn’t stroke it, letting it hang out between his legs, dark rose against a circle of brown pubic hair. Xander reached out, carding through wiry curls, tugging them lightly. “You dye your hair?”
“Bleach it, Daddy. I—I like it.”
Xander chuckled, squeezing the base of Spike’s cock before removing his hand. “So do I. Over my lap.” Spike made a face but still scrambled to obey, laying awkwardly against the bed with his ass face-up. “I know you said you don’t like this, but I’m of the opinion that it means you’ve just never had anyone good spank you before. Besides. I like punishing boys who’re naughty, and blowing me while I was driving qualifies. You’ll be doing that a lot.”
The first slaps were light, breezy warm-ups that made Spike tense, his ass jiggling appealingly. It didn’t hurt, not yet, more sound and fury than actual pain. By the fifth, Spike had relaxed, his breathing evening out, only tensing with each new slap, the cue Xander needed for the next level. The ones that followed were harder, red hand-prints left in their wake, a steady stream of slaps that varied in intensity and frequency, dotted over Spike’s ass, his back, and the tops of his thighs.
Then came the harder ones.
Xander never really walloped, not like he wanted to, just carefully, gradually increased the pain until Spike was snuffling into the bed, squirming like the little boy Xander wanted him to be, whimpering each time he was spanked. His cock was achingly hard, rubbing raw against Xander’s thigh, and he was seconds from crying.
“Are you going to be a good boy?” Xander asked. He was hard again, hot and tight against Spike’s shifting belly. He slapped even harder. “You want to be, don’t you? You want to be very good for me. Say it.”
Spike did sob, pushing the sound into his own wrist before saying, “Y-yes, Daddy.”
Xander hit hard enough that his own hand, rough and callused from years of work, stung.
Spike shouted, hitching his ass up higher, before forcing himself to relax again. “I want to be good, Daddy.”
“Of course you do. All little boys do,” Xander soothed, rubbing over the tense, flexing muscles in Spike’s back while he administered the final volley of swats. Even though the noises Spike made were negative, he was starting to jerk into the spanking, his cock leaking wetness all over Xander’s jeans.
“Good boy,” Xander said eventually, rubbing soft, then hard, then soft again over Spike’s inflamed skin, drawing out the pain of it until, keeping Spike in tears. “Lift up, baby, come here.”
Spike scrambled around on shaky arms and legs that didn’t want to hold him at all, burying his face in Xander neck even as Xander palmed his cock, holding him upright while he dug through the bag Spike had thoughtfully provided. He lubed Spike quickly, hot, fluttering muscles giving easily against Xander’s fingers while the boy snuffled and cried into his shoulder, arms tight around Xander’s neck, then rolled a condom over himself; he knew he was clean, but it would help with the mess.
Sliding into Spike was easy. The boy gave around him sweetly, accepting the intrusion without even a whimper of pain, squirming to lower himself over Xander’s cock until it was all the way inside. Spike murmured against Xander’s neck, no longer clutching but touching, his fingers greedy as they stroked over Xander’s shoulder and neck, testing the contours of his face, learning him through touch and breath and sound.
“Big, Daddy,” Spike gasped, and it wasn’t the cliche but stated fact. Xander was big, had actually marveled at how easily Spike had sucked him off before. “Oh, oh,” he added, words obliterated as Xander thrust upward.
Smirking, Xander cupped his new boy’s face, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I’m good at finding that,” he said, as proud as any man who could find both clitoris and g-spot within moments of searching. The prostate was easier, sure, but it still took skill and Xander had that. That’s why he was the daddy in this relationship, Spike the eager sub.
Before Xander was really ready, Spike started whimpering, hips jerking against Xander’s hands, clearly begging for movement. Xander chuckled, slapping Spike’s red, inflamed ass just to hear his boy squeak, feel his muscles tighten around Xander’s cock. “Don’t be greedy,” he murmured. “You get whatever I give you and nothing more.”
“Yes, Daddy,” Spike panted. He was trying to say something else, but Xander leaned back, letting his hips swing upward into a smooth, easy rhythm and the words melted on Spike’s tongue, leaving him wide-eyed and gasping as he rocked into the thrusts, squeaking as his sore ass was rubbed against Xander’s thighs, his own legs folded tight for leverage.
Positioned as they were it was easy for Xander to tongue over Spike’s nipples, biting them red and distended while his boy whimpered, chest arched forward while he whispered yes, and more, and please, Daddy, please, exactly as a good boy should, letting himself be moved and touched and ridden, a perfect, beautiful find that Xander wasn’t ever letting go.
They fucked three more times that night, Spike eagerly licking Xander’s body clean of his own come, then sliding down further to give renewed attention to Xander’s cock. Xander was fond of all fours, particularly admiring of the muscle-play in Spike’s back, defined for such a young, still-growing kid, so they did that until Spike’s hands and knees were as red and raw as his ass. Spike called him Daddy the whole time, never once slipping, like the brash Spike was the mask instead of this eager, desperate boy. Who knew, maybe it was? It wouldn’t be the first time kids forgot who they were to get a chance at Xander’s big hands and bigger cock, the soft words that soothed and calmed even as he called them names no normal boy would tolerate without a fight.
The final time had Spike on his back, legs in the air with his cock dark red and desperate-looking while Xander fucked him slow and steady, long enough that his back started to hurt, aching low and painful while Spike practically mewled beneath him. It turned out to be the right thing to do because after Xander came, after he’d pushed Spike to the head of the bed and watched him jerk off, then clean himself with hands and tongue, Spike slithered around without prompting and began working at the tightest, most painful spots, loosening the knots and easing the dull burning of a body not as young as it used to be.
“Keeping you,” Xander slurred, lifting an arm to accept his boy, tucked up against him while they slept.
He didn’t need to hear Spike’s gratefully sighed good; he felt it wherever their skin was pressed together, the way Spike went limp and trusting, and didn’t object at all when Xander woke by shoving his cock into Spike’s mouth, just sucked and slept and sighed into his new life.