Who’d’ve guessed that he picked the wrong human to try to be tender with?
It continually surprised him the differences between the two. He still had to be careful, just in a different way. She let him be wild and ragged in the heat they generated, but he, he needed the heat to be tempered, controlled.
He remembered when he’d arrived at his crypt bruised and bleeding, bone tired, from a fight with a Y’lack demon with particularly nasty claws and abrupt moves. She’d flicked disappointed eyes over him and then worried a wound with her pointed tongue as she gripped him between her tiny fingers, fisting him tightly and mercilessly, bringing him off with fast twists; a juxtaposition of pleasure and pain. Then she’d smiled when he’d shot all over himself, and collapsed to his knees, following him down nipping at other wounds on the way.
When he’d come back to the apartment after running into a pack of vamps on his way home, bruised and bleeding, bone tired, he’d fixed him with a dark stare and carefully peeled away his clothes. He’d brushed his mouth over each dark mark, as if his breath alone could will them to heal. When he’d sunk to his knees and took Spike in his mouth, he sucked him off with such deliberate, languorous moves that Spike could feel every bump on Xander’s tongue, even the temperature change between his mouth and his throat. The man elicited a groan from him with a swift roll of muscle, a press of a finger between his balls, a caress of his thigh. During this thorough contemplation of Spike’s cock, it had taken everything he had to sit for the man’s slow show of care; the bed was missing two posts from the headboard the next day.
Buffy had demanded, commanded, been in control of every one of their trysts, whether or not she acknowledged it. Every meeting between them was about pain, guilt, and unrequited emotion. He’d allowed himself to be tied up and tormented to unbelievable heights of pleasure, her tongue and fingers searching every crevice, dallying over one testicle, swirling and nipping one nipple, sucking delicately on the tip of his cock before encasing him and biting the base. Scratching and pinching and gnawing, she’d bring him to an apex and leave him hanging there, just to watch him beg her hoarsely for more.
Xander never wanted the pain, or the control; yet somehow Spike gave it to him willingly. Their wounds weren’t physical, they were verbal. Barbs and thorns everywhere when they spoke. Yet, biting words belied the soft touch they ached to share. In the midst of passion, there was only a strange tentative, tenderness. Spike could do anything to him. And he had. Pierced by those brown eyes, once he’d tied Xander up and left him to watch as he’d run hands over his own body, penetrated himself, brought himself to swift accurate pleasure; only to swiftly cover Xander afterwards and take him into himself, reveling in the gratefulness that washed over the whelp’s face as his prick was sheathed in Spike’s cool body. Spike found himself murmuring soft words as he apologized for not touching him sooner.
Sliding into him was different too. Sweat the only drops of natural moisture, the slick slide of lube allowing Xander’s tight, guardian muscle to squeeze relentlessly down his to base, shooting spirals of pleasure through his groin, relief only coming once he was past, only to return on the slow glide out. She was soft, all natural liquid heat, contracting around him unexpectedly in random places, rising and falling with him in rapid, sharp movements, seeking the quickest way to fulfillment. Their blinding heat was their only similarity; so hot around him, he thought his cock would melt away.
He had to be careful with what he said to her, she was emotionally fragile. She’d shatter into jagged pieces if he mis-stepped. She took his verbal emotion for granted. But his heart jumped on the rare occasion when her eyes would sparkle because he found something in the right vein at the right time.
He had to be careful with what he did to him, he wasn’t physically strong. He could ram into Buffy for hours, fuck her raw, lick up the blood and cum staining her thighs and cunt and then start all over again. There was never blood with Xander. There were occasionally bruises and sore muscles, but never true pain. He was always so careful to prepare the man, making sure Xander was twisting with lust and desire, forcing himself frantically onto his fingers, lost in sensation, before he ever pressed in with his cock. Buffy’d scream all the more passionately the less ready she was, the more pain and reality he could provide. She wanted to be lost in a different way.
Two humans, two lovers. So different.
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