Xander was having disturbing thoughts.
< not that disturbing thoughts are unusual. No, siree, not for this Hellmouth-born guy's brain. But Spike? Now he's a disturbing thought in himself but when did I stop watching his face in case he was suddenly going to all grrr and tear my throat out and start watching his face to look at those incredible cheekbones, to see how the blue of his eyes change with his moods and to wonder if his lips feel as sensual as they look?
< yeah, major wigginness here. Lips. OK, lips are sensual. Part of the job. Comes as part of the whole lips package. Got to be sensual. Everyone's lips are sensual - couldn't work properly otherwise. Or do I mean sensitive? That's better. Let's go with sensitive. Have to feel hot and cold. Have to feel dryness and moisture. Have to be kept moist - the whole licking-of-the-lips thing to moisten them. Oh god, tongue, licking soft sensual lips, running along full, pouty bottom lip..
<OK brain, not helping here. Try touch-down on Planet Xan. Straight guy, likes girls, loves girls, no way into the groiny guy/guy stuff. Soft, curvy girls with cushiony breasts and rounded hips rather than boring guy-type hard chests with defined pecs and ridged abs that you could trace your hands across then travel around and back, down to a firm, tight butt in tight, black denim...>
Xander looked around, confused. <Why's everyone looking at me? It's gone quiet. Wha...>
"Are you alright, Xander?" asked Giles.
"Huh? Why? Er, < oh, that was me yelling, wasn't it? > yeah, um, just er knocked... um, on the table... my leg. Stretching my legs and... Yeah, I'm fine, fine." Wide grin, this one is his reassuring-model #2.5, to the usual Xander standard.
Spike snorted and sent Xander his patented who-did-*your*-lobotomy-moron? look. The look that always, as Xander was beginning to notice, came with that fascinating little smirk - the one that < twists his top lip and pushes out the bottom one just a fraction > spoke volumes of malicious amusement.
<oh, God, now he's giving me that confused look. Brows drawn slightly together and head tilted just enough to lengthen that long, smooth, neck that goes down to those wide, muscley shoulders and ...>
"Coffee! I think we need some coffee. Coffee, anyone? I'll go make some coffee shall I? Do you want some?" Xander stood, well into hearten-the-troops-with-caffeine-and-sugar mode.
"You know, Harris, if you ask me, it's not your legs that need a good stretching."
"Yeah, well you know, Spike," replied Xander, "I'm not likely to ask you anything. I'll stretch what I damn well please, when I damn well want to stretch it."
< wait, wait, rewind. Stretch? Stretch what?>
"Uh, stretch? What stretch, you wanna stretch...?" A flustered Xander stood gaping at Spike, wondering what the hell he meant. <he can't mean what I'm thinking he meant. Could he?> Xander's blood yo-yoed up and down his body making his cock twitch <stretch> and his face turn crimson.
"I mean, brat, that it's your brain that needs stretchin'. Though, come to think of it, the first thing you probably need to do is plug your ears, to stop the grey matter from leaking. 'Course, if it's too late for that, well... veal brains have always been a favourite of mine. Be glad to lick 'em up for you."
"Oh, gross, Spike," Buffy whined.
Xander mewled inside as he watched that long tongue draw lasciviously, slowly and obscenely across grinning lips.
"Yes, thank you for that image, Spike," remarked Giles. "Um, I think coffee *would* be rather the thing right now. Good idea, Xander."
"Not for me, Xan," said Buffy. "After that, I don't think I could ever put anything in my mouth again," she muttered.
"Come on, Slayer. Never's a long time. I'm sure I could think of *something* you could put in there." Still grinning, the vampire made a show of patting his hip-pockets and general area, "Yup, got something right here..." As a furious Buffy glared at Spike, Xander stumbled towards the kitchen with yet another disturbing image in mind.
<mouth. In mouth, putting in mouth. Stretched Spike-penis in mouth... Oh god, stretched Spike-penis in stretched Xander...>
He barely registered the increasingly raucous hub-bub - that was BuffyvSpike with side dishes ofcalming oil poured onto their stormy waters by Giles and Willow - that filtered through from the other room. Frozen in place, hand reached-up to grip the bag of coffee on the shelf, he tried desperately to make some sense of his recent and unexpected thoughts... <desires>. The wholly unwelcome thoughts... <longings>... that he had been suffering... <enjoying>... about Spike.
Xander tried to rationalise his feelings.
<First off, no feelings. Nope, no feelings there at all. Come on, Xan-man, feeling the bleached un-dead?>
<agh, NO! Not *feeling*, never, ever, feeling. Feelings OK - feeling not OK. Not going there, feeling not a good place. Not even thinking about not feeling a good place. No good places there to feel. Not thinking about feeling the good places to feel, that aren't, um, there. Not that I would want to feel those places that aren't good places, anyway, even if those places that aren't there, are there; which, of course, they aren't. Well, of course, they are there, all us manly men have got places, otherwise other parts around our places wouldn't actually join up. We'd sorta fall apart and then we'd find those places dropping off and...>
"Aaaaaargh!" Just as Xander's increasingly addled thought-process threatened to short-circuit, finally and for ever, he shrieked as a hand landed momentarily on his shoulder.
"Again with the 'aargh'? You could do with stretching your vocabulary as well, mate. I bin sent to see what's happening with the coffee-making. You bin in here hours." Spike stepped away and his voice became somewhat muffled, "Need to wet me whistle. Bloody Watcher, tighter'n a duck's arse at forty fathoms. Know he's got some here some place."
<ass, place, where?> Xander's speech-centre went with the stretched-vocabulary idea, "Hungh? What wet? Who? Tighter ass places?"
Then he turned - to see a bent-over Spike, backside prominently displayed, as he peered into the fridge hunting through its contents.
"Snarfhunghle!" <oh, god, *that* place - one of the places that aren't there, so as you don't have to not want to feel them...>
"Know any other good places?" Spike peered over his shoulder at Xander, before straightening up and slamming the fridge door shut.
"Mhwwm! Places, no, none, no good places. How the hell did you... I'm not thinking about places!"
"Satan's shit, what is the bloody matter with you tonight? I think I'll forget about the Watcher's beer and try whatever you're on - least *I'd* be able to stay on top of it. Been poaching Rupert's stash have you, Harris?"
"On top?" Xander made a lunge at laid-back and casual:
"Hah, yeah, um on top, fine. That's the place to be - isn't it? Or not, or either. That's cool."