Established Relationship
Drabbles & Ficlets

by
Jane Davitt

Kisses and Gasps

So many kisses...

Sleepy kisses that coax him awake. Kisses that flutter and alight on a temptingly sweet target, making it swell with appreciation and pour out nectar as a reward for such an industrious bee... but maybe nectar is a bit too fancy an image, and after all it isn't long before the delicate pressure of Spike's mouth turns avid and hungry and the bee stings, teeth scraping, tongue curling as it strips him of all he has to give...greedy bee...

Sudden kisses; Spike turning away from raptly watching a soap and cupping Xander's face, pulling him in to kiss him firmly and fast before smiling with unaffected, simple happiness, so that Xander's breath catches and he feels dizzy with fear and wonder.

Angry kisses, bruising and hard, stripping away pretence, demanding a response, commanding honesty.

Scary kisses when sky eyes blaze like the sun, and fangs flash like ivory knives and God help him, he wants to tilt his head just so and beg to be bitten...

Smoochy kisses that are never called that because hey, they're men and smooching isn't supposed to last more than thirty seconds, but that's what they are, long, endless kisses until lips are slicked and sliding, messy and gloriously so, teeth and tongues, gasps and moans, hands everywhere until it's too much to bear and the kisses stop because there's too much else to do...

Kisses on lips, on necks, on bellies, kisses on cocks that turn them to jellies, kisses that linger, kisses that burn, kisses each 'n every way they turn...

Ask Me Anything

“Do I make you happy?”

It’s asked casually, and your fingers don’t even pause as they slide gently across my back, the arm that lies beneath my neck doesn’t tense, and your eyes meet mine briefly, openly, before you bend to kiss my shoulder. Why do I still think this question is important? Because I know you, that’s why. Because I’ve spent months watching you, secret glances, hundreds of them, each one stealing a little more to add to the scraps I built up into someone I could – but you weren’t like that, you were so much more, so maybe I shouldn’t have bothered. Maybe I should have just done what I did in the end, at the beginning, just grabbed you, just kissed you, covered in blood, standing there in the night, exhausted and spent, your arms so tired from killing that they trembled when they held me, pulled me closer.

Never going to forget that night. Never. I thought you’d pull away, thought you’d laugh. God knows, that’s a reaction I’m used to. You just stared at me for the longest moment and then you kissed me hard enough to hurt, desperate, hungry mouth on mine while your hands were on my body, fingers digging in. First time I’d ever touched you properly, got close enough so that all I could see were your eyes, open, always open, never looking away, as if I’d vanish if you blinked. You don’t kiss like that now. You don’t have to. Never let you get starved for ... for anything. I’m here for you, all the time, any time. If you wanted me, I’d let you take me if a hundred eyes were watching, a hundred voices screaming no. I’d only hear you, calling out my name the way you do when you’re so close to coming and you need something to send you over. You don’t talk when you’re coming. You can’t. I take every gasp, every moan and make them mean what I want them to, but you never give me words to play with. Not then.

You save the words for before, low whispers in my ear as your hands take away any chance of me answering you because I’m gasping, arching up, squirming, begging with my body. If I did speak, what would I say? I can’t talk like that, I can’t. Teach me. Make me. I want to. I want to tell you how your skin feels under my hands, how I can’t see you without wanting to touch you, how I can’t touch you without wanting to kiss you, how I can’t kiss you without wanting to fuck you, be fucked, come with you, in you, on you, our bodies tangled and slippery, bitten and bruised.

It’s not often gentle. We try sometimes, we do, but it’s not in us to show mercy. Sometimes though, afterwards, it’s easy to kiss slowly, to hold without grabbing, to touch without tearing, to smooth back the hair my fist used to guide your head, to hold you still. You talk to me then, your voice drowsy, gossiping, chatting as if I’m a friend. I like that. Don’t know if I deserve it but I like it.

I like you. Used to just want you, letting it eat me away because I knew I couldn’t ever – used to hate you most of the time. Don’t hate you now. Couldn’t.

Do you make me happy? What –
“- kind of a question is that?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just wondered.”

And I can’t stop pretending anymore. Can’t keep anything from you. I trust you.

“You make me happy. I love you.”

I think you said it back but it’s lost in the kiss and it’s as hard and hungry as that first kiss, but this time you taste of salt, not blood and I can feel you smiling and your hands are gentle.

Bringing it Home

And he knows that Spike will let him do anything to him. And that's good. But not tonight. Tonight he's so angry he's livid. Bruise coloured rage, heavy storm cloud gathering emotions swirling in his head. He can't trust himself to touch a body that would double as a punching bag if he told it to, if he asked, if he even just hit it and raised an eyebrow in a wordless query afterwards.

So Spike's on the sofa, a long lean line of black-clad vampire and Xander's kneeling naked, the hands that tried to hit crossed and tied behind him, the mouth that wanted to spit out hurtful words silenced by a gag, waiting for the storm to pass and the blue skies to come again.

But it’s not working, not tonight, and he’s about to give up when Spike sighs.

Not an impatient sigh, though Xander knows he’s been hard since he heard the key in the door. Not angry either, or sad, disappointed or bored. It’s a sigh because Spike’s waiting, waiting for him to come home for real.

And it’s all it takes. Xander snaps the single strand of cotton that holds his wrists in place, tugs on the bow that fastens the silk scarf between his teeth and opens his eyes to see himself reflected in the blue of Spike’s eyes.

And he knows he’s home.

Lemon Candy

Tied up and naked, Xander's heart is hammering painfully hard. Each thud is forcing blood fast around his body, pushing it into places already packed tight to bursting.

"Breathe."

"Over-rated," he gasps. "You get by without it, don't you?"

Spike chuckles. "Don't think that counts, love."

Hands that tied each knot without ceremony or haste drift over his body. They can do that. They're allowed. They can touch and stroke, pinch and tweak, tease and lightly smack. Blunt nails can drag patterns on his skin and wake it, inch by quivering inch.

Spike can do anything he wants to do to Xander except hurt him. And by now it's all that's left that they haven't done.

There used to be a space inside Xander that was waiting to be filled with the pain Spike could give him. The hot, sharp sting of a dismissive word, the dull ache of an indifferent look when he talks. The ragged tearing agony of being betrayed.

He's starting to trust that it's going to stay empty.

Still wishes Spike could do this for him, do this to –

Oh God.

The salt water from the soaked sponge drips and splashes onto every patch of reddened skin on his chest and belly and legs, stinging coldly, and then the air fills with the crisp zing of citrus. Spike holds a piece of quartered lemon in his hand and meets Xander's eyes, his own half-closed as he smirks.

"Beg me."

"Do it, you -" Even this hot, skin itching, skull hurting with the pressure, with the need, he can't swear convincingly at Spike, can't call him names. If he tries, he's flashing back to the times when he meant them all, every one, and he doesn't like remembering that.

Spike brings the lemon to his mouth, catching the first pale wasted drop on his tongue and Xander whimpers.

"Please?"

Spike gives him a cool, unforgiving look and then relents, like always, and crushes and squeezes and catches every drop in his cupped, curved hand.

Then he slaps that dripping hand hard against Xander's cock; stiff and straight and begging better than he ever can, and every tiny nick on the thin soft skin catches fire and Xander howls far back in a throat made wet by a watering mouth and Spike waits to be told he can bend his head and lick the lemon juice off, tip of the tongue slowly.

On the night table, by the lube, the sandpaper, fine grain and nearly, not quite smooth to the touch is starting to curl up at the edges.

Count the Cost

"How many?"

He waits for the sting to die down enough that his mouth can shape more than a hissed-out breath, and then gives in and just shakes his head mutely.

"Xander --" There's a warning there. "Supposed to be counting. How many?" A cool hand -- still cool, so it's early yet, low numbers, has to be -- strokes across the back of his balls, bunched up and ripe and tight. "Take a guess. Might get lucky."

It's fairly clear from the tone that Spike doesn't really rate his chances.

"Don't ... know. Lost count." Xander blinks after the lie, seeing black jeans, a bit of the bed and some carpet. Not interesting. He closes his eyes again, and concentrates on his ass, and the insistent throb-pulse-ache of his cock and balls. Fuck, but he's hard. "Eight?"

Spike snorts. "Not even close." He gets a warning tap, light and sharp. "Going to start over. Pay attention, this time, got it?"

"Yes, Spike." Meek. Obedient. Well... no. Not really. Not his style. Submissive? Yeah, because that's just a little bit different. And doesn't that make Spike quiver slightly, and doesn't it make that first one bite, especially as it's not the first, and it's landing on skin Xander knows is glowing red, the colour he can see if he closes his eyes just a little bit tighter.

Spike stops and asks him twice more. First time he gets it wrong, and Spike starts over. The second time, he's wailing and squirming and there are tears clogging up his throat and he gets it right.

"Thirty. Thirty, Spike. Please, I know it is, I counted, please --"

And Spike's hand comes down again, and Xander's head sinks low enough that he can press a kiss against Spike's knee, imploring.

"How many?"

"Sixty-three," Xander tells him, finally acknowledging each and every one since he went over Spike's knee. And he gets another, this one to be endured, not enjoyed, because Spike would've given him sixty, seventy, as many as he thought Xander could stand, but he's not happy at being tricked.

So Xander slides off Spike's lap and goes to his knees.

Penitent.

Waiting.

And Spike grins.

D.I. Don't

The sound of a key in the door had Spike looking around for a hiding place, but it was too late. Xander’s eyes went from vampire to what he was holding in his hand and his jaw dropped.

“Would –” He paused to clear his throat, “would you like to tell me why you’ve got that out? In the middle of the living room? When you’re on your own?”

Spike gripped it tighter, feeling the vibrations run up his arm. “Makes me feel manly?” he ventured.

“I just bet it does! Naked, powerful...oh, you bet it makes you feel ten foot tall and covered in hair! Still not answering my question though.”

‘Thought I’d surprise you?”

The tentative tone almost worked, almost, but Xander hardened his heart.

“I told you what I’d do if I came home and found you playing around with that, didn’t I? Well?”

Spike looked sulky, his pout working overtime. “Said you’d put blisters on my arse that’d last a week...”

“So?”

Spike bent over the nearest chair without a word and Xander stood, vindicated, righteous rage zinging through his body as he looked at the torn, gouged plasterboard.

Then he saw what Spike had been trying to hang on the wall, using the forbidden power tools; a photograph of them together, arms around each other, mugging it up for the camera with Spike pretending to bite him...

“Oh, shit! Spike – why didn’t you – oh get up and come here!”

Spike stayed in position, refusing to give Xander the comfort of guilt forgiven just yet. His backside was a series of eloquent curves; hurt, misunderstood, wronged.

So far, so good...but then it wiggled impudently. Xander’s lips set grimly as he realised that Spike had come _this_ close to getting away with it. Four strides put him in reaching distance of the handcuffs on the pegboard. Four minutes were plenty to strip Spike bare and position him over the counter, looking at the wall, thin chains linking his cuffed hands to bolts Xander had put under the lip of the counter in various places.

Spike looked at him, smugly certain that he’d manipulated Xander from rage to randy. The look faded as Xander reached for sandpaper, wall filler and palette knife.

“Thought you were going to –”

“Oh, I am,” Xander assured him, humming under his breath as he began repairs. “First, though, I’m fixing this mess.”

Long moments passed...

“Can’t you get a move on,” Spike whined. “It’s like watching paint dry.”

“No,” Xander said. “It’s like watching filler dry. Then I paint it. And wait for that to dry. And hang the picture properly, using rawl plugs and a – are you crying?”

“Would it help if I was?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not. M’sulking.”

Xander washed the spreader free of filler and dried it carefully. There really wasn’t anything else to do for a while...and Spike looked as fuckable as he could manage. Tied down, naked, legs spread; that was so far off the scale that Xander felt a quiet pride that he’d resisted him for so long.

“You remember the night that picture got taken?”

“Your birthday.”

“That’s right. Remember when we got back here, what we did?”

“Before or after you got your birthday spanking?”

“Both, wasn’t it?”

“Now you come to mention it, yes.”

“Spread ‘em wider, birthday boy.”

Hand to Hand

He’s asked for this before. Not often, but enough to know he likes it. Always as foreplay, never lasting long, nothing but a faint, fading flush left behind. And he always has to ask.

Tonight is different. He didn’t ask for it tonight. He didn’t get a choice. He’s face down over Spike’s thighs, not even stripped, his shirt shoved up, his jeans ripped down and he’s hurting and hard after just one angry slap.

And it doesn’t end, not even when he’s past the point where there’s any pleasure in it, not even when his own erection fades because he knows Spike isn’t hard at all, isn’t liking this one bit. It keeps on until Spike’s hand untwists from its grip on his shirt, pressing down in the hollow of Xander's half-bared back and comes up to swipe blindly across his face.

And when the hand comes away wet his other hand stills and it’s over, done.

And now Xander knows what will happen the next time he shows off on patrol and comes so close to dying that Spike’s eyes turn empty with shock then fill with disgust.

And he knows there won’t be a next time.

Because he’s hurting but Spike hurts worse and the first thing he does when he’s released is to slide his cool hand against Spike’s warm one and not let go for a long, long time.

Heat From Frozen

The hands on him are cool and so is the mouth...but the shivers racing and chasing all over his body aren’t down to that. The tongue should be numbing his cock – it’s lapping at the head in slow, relentless strokes paired with puffs of air blown lightly, precisely, a blizzard of snowflakes driven over his skin by a howling wind, but it isn’t, because he’s burning up enough not to notice. Fingernails scrape across his stomach, his balls, his thighs, making Jack Frost eat your heart out patterns in winter setting sun red.

Then the ice cracks, the teeth part and he’s taken under, taken in, down into the darkness and he comes hard and it’s spring time again, with the slush and the floods.

And when he opens his eyes, his summer-blue eyes, Xander’s taking another mouthful of ice cream and smiling at him like a kid who’s just seen Santa.

It Could Be Worse

Spike looked down at Xander and planted a kiss on his nose in an attempt to get him to open his eyes. He watched, grinning, as Xander managed that much and then rolled off the supine body beneath him. Propping himself up on an elbow, he lay beside Xander and looked down at his face, studying each contour, each feature, with an attention to detail that made Xander feel uneasy.

"What? Am I breaking out in green spots or something? Because if I'm allergic to vampires, this is a bad time to find out."

Spike chuckled. "Just looking at your eyes, pet," he said. "Did anyone ever tell you they're like -"

"Chocolate," interrupted Xander, bored. "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Spike gasped in horror. "Who said that?" he demanded. "Unimaginative wankers. Nothing like chocolate. It's all flat and sticky and sickly sweet."

"Hey!" Xander objected. "You're talking about a substance that's done much to enrich my life in many different ways. Just because your tastebuds died before they invented a way of putting bubbles in it -"

"Hush, Xander, while I tell you what your eyes are really like..." Spike's voice was hot enough to melt toffee and Xander relaxed, smiling, still basking in the glow of a bone melting orgasm. He wasn't going anywhere until his legs stopped resembling jello and this mood was something new from Spike.

"There's this single malt that you, with your adolescent affinity for alcopops, have probably never heard of, let alone tasted. It's called Talisker and it's known as the 'lava of the Cuillins'"

"What's a 'cuillin'?"

"Shut up."

"No, really. I want to know."

"Mountain range on the Isle of Skye."

"Where's Sk-"

"Inner Hebrides."

"And they are?"

"The islands off the West Coast of Scotland. You have heard of Scotland? Good. As I was saying, about a decade ago, this malt is one of the most fiery of all the whiskies. It's peppery, explosive, full of the tang of salt, and the finish is huge and long."

Xander preened himself slightly. "Sounds interesting but what colour is it?"

"A rich amber, reddish in the firelight."

"My eyes aren't like that at all," Xander objected.

Spike looked puzzled. "Of course not. They're like the peat bog where they get the water to make it. Sort of, well, mud coloured I suppose. Squelchy, too. I fell in one once when I was a lad and -"

Xander rolled off the bed and yanked on his boxers. "For your information, Spike," he said coldly. "My eyes are chocolate coloured. And none of your Cadbury crap. Hershey's will do nicely."

A/N The whisky description is genuine, from Michael Jackson's Malt Whisky Companion. The story was inspired by a rant about the way so many fics describe Xander's eyes as chocolate coloured.

Table Manners

"You know this is wrong, don't you?" Agonisingly slow slide in.

"Wrong. Yeah." Slide out and it feels even better somehow, because it means he's that much closer to the moment when he's filled again.

"You know this is something that you can't ever tell anyone about." Two sharp, fast stabs that leave him gasping.

"Please..."

"Please what? Please do this...or this...?" The friction is unbearably good but the voice is distracting him.

"Can you just shut up? Please?"

There's a moment of huffy, annoyed silence and then the urge to press on a sore spot gets too much.

"Thought you liked me talking dirty, pet. Thought you got off on it. Always wondered if it was what I was saying or the English accent."

He's had enough. "You were brought up with table manners and all that, right? Pretty - ah, God, yes - keen on that back then?"

The teasing rhythm falters for the first time. "Yes. I suppose. Why?" His voice is uncertain and Xander smiles.

Slamming his hands down hard against the table, he pulls off Spike's cock and turns. Before Spike quite grasps what's happening those strong hands are on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees, and Xander's cock is just a tongue's stretch away.

"What are you -"

Xander's hips sway forward lazily. "Ssh. Don't talk with your mouth full, Master William," he whispers.