Setting: Late S6
Summary: A drabble in Xander’s POV
Spike’s eyes say so much without saying a single word.
Take right now for instance, he’s glaring at me from the other side of my apartment and I can tell he’s taunting me, whispering to me, ‘just try and get away, boy.’
I shiver at the thought of trying to escape, because I know he’d run after me, I know he’d hunt me down.
He hasn’t said a word since he walked into my apartment, but then-- he never talks to me here, when we’re doing this, and the reality is, I’d hate it if he tried.
Because silence is key to this fucked up game we play. It he spoke, if I heard a single insult fall from his perfect, pink lips, it’d make my dick go soft—and soft is the last thing I want, soft is Anya, soft is what I once had and hated…I want hard, hot, and angry---all I *want* is him.
He’s drunk, not to the point where he’s staggering, just to the point where this, whatever *this* is, is acceptable to him.
I can smell him from here, the scent of whiskey and smoke, and I hate that it gets me this god damn hard. I hate that I can’t yell or spit or rage, I hate that I can’t tell him to get the fuck out.
Because I’ve become addicted to him,
And he *fucking* knows it,
No scratch that,
He *fucking* loves it.
He takes a step in my direction, his eyes filled with amusement as they tell me, ‘you're not going anywhere, boy,’ and all I can do is shake my head, like the good little boy I am.
‘You’re mine!’ I know that’s what he’s thinking, because the golden glow to his eyes always means he's ready, always means he’s hard.
I'm standing so still that I can feel every muscle in my body tense up.
God, I want him too much, I need him too *damn* much.
He slowly pulls off his jacket and then raises a brow, and I know he’s telling me to take off my clothes.
He snorts at how quickly I rip everything off, because I’m always so easy, because I’m always so *fucking* desperate for him.
He glides over, it's so fucking hot, and places his hands on my chest, and GOD! It’s exquisite.