I Blame the Dutch (mpoetess) wrote,
I Blame the Dutch

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One Size Fits

Between his legs, beyond the blinks and past the solid, fiery ball of pain, there's a dark head bending over him. Sweaty curls a curtain, fringed for crackling, crinkled eyes. Smile as toothy -- no, not quite, but then Spike has unfair advantages in that regard. But bright, white enough to afterglow against the redness of his eyelids when he closes them again. Indrawn air, and Spike can smell smartass on his breath before Xander gets the first word out.

"If you say 'like a glove' I'll be forced to pan your head in," Spike says without opening his eyes. The words his only threat, caught where he is, and weak with the pleasure of it. Weak threat, weak words, half whispered around the lump in his throat. As if Xander's hand is there too, not just pinning him in place, but choking off the lie that he doesn't want to be pinned here forever.

"No fair," Xander says, as if, as if. "You've got two free hands. I've just got this one." Warm against the inside of Spike's thigh, softly stroking. The other twists within him, giving the lie to no fair, or making it true.

As if with two hands free, Spike can... do more than he does now. Twist against, around, mouth 'liar' to him and know Xander sees it though Spike only sees stars.

"Am not. And I wasn't gonna say glove, anyway."

"Liar." With voice behind the word this time, and if it's fonder than it should be, well, there's only Xander here to hear it, and no one would believe him anyway. Liar, liar, liar.

"I wasn't. Mitten, maybe..."

Spike opens his eyes to glare, but there's nothing down between his legs that could see him and laugh back. Just dark hair, and a head bowed low to take him in. A hand, free, and one engulfed. A mouth as warm around him as the fingers within and wet and oh, no fair. No fair. No fair. Xander wears him like a glove, no lie, and no bloody fair at all.
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