Summary: Future fic. Spike and Xander revise their history.
Notes: Written for strickens_girl in rubywisp's Spander Inquisition. She requested mention of long time attraction and kink or dirty talking. It's probably not exactly what she wanted, sorry. Many thanks to wondersheep for the sooper quik beta and suggestions. Thanks to her, I actually met the minimum word count!
Warning: Schmoop ahead.
"Tell me again about the first time we met," he says, turning to you in the bed you share, sounding very much like a child asking for a bedtime story.
"You were there, love," you say with a fond smile. "Don't you remember?" Your hands run down his naked arms, skin still smooth and so warm beneath your fingers.
"But I want you to tell me," he says. He has such a beautiful smile, you think, still boyish and open. You can't imagine not giving him everything he ever desired.
And so you begin.
The stories have all changed over the years. Each meeting is now more meaningful, every glance or unspoken word, every taunt and cutting remark a telltale sign of what was to come. Hindsight is 20/20, and this is no different.
"First saw you dancing in the Bronze, love. Sweet little boy, hot and ripe for the taking ..."
He giggles. Like a kid, he is, and you love him even more. He knows and you know that you hadn't been in the Bronze looking at him that night, but it doesn't matter. You've changed your history, you and he.
"And there was that time Angel offered you to me ..."
"I remember," he says. "I was so hard for you, waiting for you to claim me as yours ..."
Another lie, but oh such a pretty one. You remember his panic, his fear that night. That sweet, smart mouth ... not too hard to revise, now that you're together.
"Yeah, wanted to take you then," you say. "Such a tender, beautiful boy." Your hands roam over his body now, his lightly tanned chest and pebbled nipples, smooth, delicious stomach, the light dusting of hair below his navel.
He moves beneath your touch, seeking more. So responsive, after all this time. "I was yours, then," he whispers. It's such a wonderful thought, that he'd been yours completely, that you could have had him at any time from that moment on.
"Dreamed about taking you," you say. It's true, you've dreamed of it. Not then, but now -- intense, erotic dreams where you stalk him, overwhelm him until he's nothing but need, for you.
"Wanted you to," he says. Moving more now, skin sliding against yours in an unbearably gentle way.
You're both naked, and the sheet rides low on his hips. You pull it away from his body, exposing his hard, wanting cock. "I wanted to follow you home one night," you say, your fingers touching his hardness lightly. "Wanted to shove you against a wall and strip you bare, wanted to fuck you until you couldn't remember your name."
Your gentle touches are at odds with your coarse talk, and he pushes against your hand, silently asking for more.
"Always wanted you," he moans. Yes. Yes. Always your boy. Always.
You both skip over the parts you don't want to think about, just cover it with vague words about jealousy and stupidity.
"Couldn't bear it when you died," he whispers, tears forming in his eye. You understand the reaction. It's the memory now, the thought now of anything happening to you. At the time, he probably wasn't really broken up about it.
"Never want to be away from you," you say. It's the truth, you can't imagine life without him now.
He changes the subject, goes back again. "Did you like it when I tied you up?" he asks huskily, moving to bump his cock against yours.
Oh, yes. The two of you have even played at it, reenacted scenes from the past. He found a chair just like the old one, red and slightly wobbling, at a garage sale one Saturday, and he brought it home for just that purpose. You remember it so clearly now: Xander, tying you down. He was so naked and wanting, watching you with something like triumph in his eyes. Lowering himself onto your cock, impaling himself without any help from you. Riding you, squeezing you.
"Fuck, Xander," you say, holding back the groan. "Yes."
"Tried to hide how much I wanted you." He's reaching onto the nightstand for the little bottle of slick. Pouring it out onto his fingers. His gaze never leaves yours.
You move to press your lips against his, run your tongue across the seam of his lips, then right there where they're just a little crooked.
"Did you ever ride your fingers, Xander?" you ask, right as he's beginning to prepare himself. "Fuck yourself and wish it was me?"
He's stretching himself out, getting ready for you. "Yesss," he hisses. "Always wanted it to be you."
You want to imagine him like this, fucking his fingers on the little pullout couch in the basement. Moaning for you as he stripped his cock, bucking and rocking, closing his eyes and imagining you there, filling him up and making him yours.
It's been long enough, you think. You grab the bottle beside you and slick your cock, then roll on top of him. "Look at me, love," you say, poised, right there, and the world just stops.
He moves his hand away and looks up, that one, deep brown eye gazing at you like you're heaven.
"You want me?" you ask. You already know the answer.
And then you're sliding inside, spreading and pushing in, filling him up the way he's filled you up every moment since you've been together.
He's tight, always so tight you're afraid you'll hurt him at first. Always so hot you think you'll burn up from it.
Always. Always. He says it like he's loved you forever, and you understand completely. You can't imagine now a time when you didn't love him, didn't want him around you, inside you, over and under you.
Maybe you always have.
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