"That was bloody satisfying, it was."

"Spike - "

"Seeing her high and mightiness brought low by a pack of angered Neanderthals defending my dainty virtue. For shame, Slayer."

"Spike - "

"A true gentleman never hits a lady."

That stopped Xander. "Okay, there is so much wrong with that. First? You're not a lady, Spike. You are a man under a spell that gave you girl parts." Spike waved him off dismissively but Xander was not to be silenced. "And second, you hit girls all the time. Including Buffy. Especially Buffy."

"Never said I was a gentleman, did I? She's a white hat." Spike was inspecting a breast down the front of his camisole. "Reckon these would look good with rings through 'em?"

Xander's brain whirled through the subject change and threw a cog when it got there. He stumbled over his boots.

"Don't seem to be any more sensitive but I've always fancied bints with metal through the tits." He gave a nipple an experimental pinch but Xander was too busy denying the hot and wet throb of interest in his loins to answer - or tell him to shut up. In hindsight, this was a mistake. A big one. "Think I'm gonna do that. You toddle on home, mate. I'll be in by dawn."

And Xander found himself standing on the street in Sunnydale so far after dark the nightlife was having its lunch break.

As a recently smaller and more tender than usual member of the species most likely to be lunch, Xander decided cowardice was the better part of valor and hailed the first empty cab that came by.

Because the sooner Xander got home unmolest - uneat- alive, the sooner he could drink himself into that happy place where he couldn't feel anything from the neck down.

Or the neck up.

There would be no feeling - up or down.

Damn it.

He stomped up the stairs to his apartment. Stomping felt good. Stomping was manly.

Stomping distracted him from the tingle that wouldn't go away every time he thought Spike, boobies, needles - three unmixy things that were currently doing a lot for him.

He unlocked his door, kicked it shut and headed straight for the fridge and cool, foamy oblivion.

Beer.

Beer was manly too.

Beer good as a wiser woman once said before hauling off and kicking ass.

Why couldn't he be an ass kicking guy with boobies?

Xander's brain tapped him on the shoulder, rewound the conversation and pointed out the many levels of wrong in that thought.

Xander squinted at the label on his beer. Either they were makin' the Bud stronger these days or the lack of oxygen to his brain was starting to get to him.

He tested the ace bandages.

Okay. Time to feed the Xand-man's brain and if Spike walked in on him, Xander would strangle him with the bandages.

It was a plan.

Death by brassiere.

He slugged down the beer, steeled himself, shucked his shirt and began to unwind the bandages.

Carefully.

Because holy pantheons his nipples hurt.

Cradling his nonmanly parts with a protective arm and grabbing his beer with the other, he shuffled his way across the room and collapsed on the couch.

He looked down at boobie A, nestled against his palm, feeling way too good there for a boobie where it wasn't supposed to be. It was in restricted territory without a pass. "This is your fault," he told it. "And don't think you're innocent either, buddy," he told the other before gingerly letting go and lifting his beer to his lips.

They throbbed back at him vindictively.

Now he knew why girls didn't do the ace bandages thing.

He was glad he hadn't gone to plan B: duct tape.

Boring. Boring. Boring. Law and Order - seen it. Boring. Boring.

Television was out to get him.

And he was almost out of beer.

It could have had to do with the five empties. Or the fact that it was three in the morning and except for a brief flirtation with striking it rich in the real estate market in only two hours a day, the infomercials failed to hold his attention.

Maybe he should upgrade to digital.

Xander scratched casually under a breast.

Operation beer?

Oh, yeah. Success.

Operation feed the mind? Less successful.

Boring. Boring. Aerobics.

Xander's finger hovered over the remote. Oh yeah. Boobies still did it for him. Spandex was a gift from the gods.

"Okay, Denise. Make me sweat."

Self-gratification was the hobby that never got dull.

And there was something wrong with that thought but around the fourth beer, he pretty much stopped caring.

Then Denise started to bounce - all of her..

Okay, bubbly bouncing boobies less appealing now. Ow.

He cradled his own and assured them there would be no more bouncing.

Xander clicked the remote.

Sweet auxiliary channel and budget DVD player. Which meant either Andromeda or Dorm Lockdown III: Pajama Party which was a movie Willow was never going to know Xander owned.

Good deal. He fished for the right remote - wondered if they sold the Universal Remote thing at the Made For TV store in the mall - and found it nesting with the spare change, extra thick unscented hand lotion and chip crumbs under a couch cushion.

And if it came up Dorm Lockdown III: Pajama Party, Xander was going to do what came naturally - or unnaturally.

Because damn it, he was tired of being nun boy with the amazing locking thighs.

He popped the button on his jeans.

It was his body.

His boobies.

His -

He needed another beer before he thought too hard about that one.

Xander kicked his boots under the table and toed off the layered socks, ignored the way his unbuttoned jeans hung off his hips and helped himself to another beer.

Behind him, the girls of Eta Alpha Tau locked their dormitory doors and dropped the key out the window.

With a crack of wooden paddle to bare, round, smooth ass cheek and a breathy blonde squeal, Initiation week was on.

And so was Xander.

See: on, turned.

He settled in with beer and remote to follow the usual plan. A fast-forward montage of slap and tickle - literally - to get to the good stuff, which involved a redhead with a strap-on and later, a janitor who'd accidentally been trapped in the dorm when they locked it down.

*And how come I never got that job?*

Except - except -

Xander tilted his beer vertical before realizing he was sucking desperately on an empty bottle and the fast montage was a slow montage.

Because there was a smack of the paddle, a quiver in her skin, flush and swell of blood to her folds that made his throb in sympathy.

'Too hot?' Redhead asked. 'Cool her down, Audrey.'

And then there was tongue - tongue like a taser to the spine, teasing its way across reddened cheeks and thighs, flickering in and between and freshman initiation girl spread her legs with a practiced moan as the tongue tip traced around and around pink skin until everything gleamed.

And throbbed.

Lot of throbbing. Tingling.

Fingers and tongues and -

Xander dropped the beer bottle and glanced to the windows (covered) and door (locked) and hit slow just as glossy fingertips began to slide up blonde's thighs.

Phantom fingertips up his making him shiver - bringing on that hot, wet, heavy feeling - *Okay. Less thinking. More - right.*

He raked his nails up the seam of his jeans - clench and shudder, slick feeling when he squirmed.

And with a *wrong, wrong, wrong - fucked up* he slid shaking fingers into his jeans and - arched. "Fuck. Right." And his voice in no way sounded shaky and breathy. Manly. All man. Getting off on lesbian porn. All man.

And men want - more. Right? Greedy. Greedy man even if he's fingering really girly parts - and they happen to be his.

The ache spread, skittering through his pelvis, down opening thighs, fingers in and out on the screen - hotslickwet - *Watch the screen.*

Close-up on the blonde, fingers teasing in and out - Spike is a natural blonde.

*Okay. Okay, not bad.* And rhythm, Xander decided, was a good thing - a nice thing. An in-out-ache-in-arch thing - hot and fluttery - and holy fuck! no wonder Anya had liked that move.

*Okay. Yeah. Yeah, more of that.* Xander slouched down on the couch, found putting his feet up on the coffee table, knees spread gave him more room and a good view and tried out a little moan of his own and a thumb across the nipple - which had apparently forgiven him for the ace bandage and was ready to party.

And who knew dexterity came so easily when a guy was motivated?

He dropped his head back to the couch, soundtrack of wet sounds and moans, only some of which were coming from the TV. Nice sparks and tingles and a slow burn like those icy-hot packs he used after a hard day at work making everything from navel to knees want.

*Jesus...fuckin'....come on already!*

Panting. Harsh panting he was pretty sure wasn't coming from the screen cause Dorm girls moaned and squealed. They didn't pant.

Hey! Great! Panting was manly. Panting was - whoa - panting was making him dizzy and there was the whimper. And a scrapescrape - *cheapass DVD player*.

"Come on, come on, come - Fuck!"

The door crashed open - crashed shut and Xander whipped his hand out of his jeans fast enough to give himself fabric burn. He scrambled for the box of Kleenex next to the couch - and Spike was laughing.

Like a hyena.

And Xander knew from hyenas.

The burn in his thighs - and elsewhere he didn't have any words Willow wouldn't lecture him for using - was spreading to his cheeks, concentrating, burning. And suddenly he got Anya because an orgasm was not something denied lightly to a horny woman.

He stood up, braced his hands on the couch and glared at the heap o' Spike giggling against his front door. "What?"

Spike's head dropped back, pupils enormous, lips swollen and red and *Oh, holy fuck* absolutely bare-chested under his duster, which was splayed out around him, slipping down one shoulder and framing Spike's pierced nipples in a way that made it really hard to be mad at him.

Harder to be mad at him when Spike rolled his head against the door to stare at Xander as if he'd never seen him before. "You're up? What're you doin' up?"

"Up? I'm - I don't have bedtime Spike and - "

Spike tilted his face, nose to the air and his eyes half closed. "Oh. Someone's been gettin' naughty," he sing-songed and the angry flush came right back to Xander's cheeks.

"Okay. That is it. I'm not gonna stand here and be mocked in my own living - what the fuck are you doing?"

Spike looked up from the battle of the coat. The coat seemed to be winning. "'M stuck."

"I hope you don't expect me to help. And what the hell happened to your shirt?"

Spike blinked, big black eyes - stoned eyes - didn't there used to be blue there? He looked down, lifted a nipple ring as if the shirt might be under it. "Dunno. Lost it."

Xander collapsed back onto the couch with a groan. "Great. Look - can you just...go into your room and - not mock me for a few hours so I can get off like a normal young American male and go to bed?"

"Wasn't gonna mock you," Spike said, a lot closer which meant he'd probably won his battle with the coat. It also meant bare!boobies!Spike was free and headed his way instead of into his own room.

It also meant Spike could see the TV where Audrey had moved on to three fingers and he reached for the remote.

Mood? Definitely killed.

Spike got to the remote first. "Leave it on."

"You've already seen this, Spike. In fact, you left it in the Andromeda box set."

"Not gonna watch it." Spike lifted Xander's hand and placed it palm down on the couch, holding his gaze with those big, dark - *Great. He's stoned.* - eyes.

That Xander couldn't quite look away from.

"You are." Little fingers found their way through Xander's belt-loops and tugged.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Spike tugged again, pulled himself up with a hand on Xander's shoulder to straddle his thigh. Then he plunged his other hand straight into Xander's jeans - into Xander despite the awkward angle - holding on when Xander struggled, fingers curling just there and they both froze. "Fuck." Xander said - as a big vortex of wrong sucked all the air out of the room. Spike wriggled his fingers, a cool, soft, fluttering tease. Rocked hypnotically on his thigh while bolts of crackling electricity froze him in place.

"Lending a helping hand, luv. God - you're so fucking warm. Haven't had human cunt in years."

Xander jerked, clutching at the couch pillow - and he was going to remove Spike's hand - oh god - any time now. "The PC term is - is - " He racked his brains.

Spike had lifted his head - but not his hand, wet pressure, slick slide, shaky bolts of holy cow skittering away from ground zero. Spike raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, there is no PC term." Only bad porn on the TV. A half-naked male vampire with boobies and - and really talented fingers really in his lap - and this was all a hallucination brought on by...by...by... "Fuck," he said again, slammed his head back and closed his eyes.

The DVD was still playing somewhere. But now he had a soundtrack of Spike. A soundtrack of nasty bad wrong and twat, pussy, cunt and bet you taste fuckin' sweet, luv. And cold fingers, thrusting, wriggling, circling - rubbingrubbingrubbing until he was gasping, grinding up into them and they could have been anyone's as long as they'd keep going - and - and -

Something white and hot and tight in the back of his mind, in the bottom of his spine drew in on itself and exploded along his nerves, lifting him off the couch, clutching at Spike - the couch arm - anything he could reach because it kept on until it was too much.

And then Spike - stopped - stilled and Xander...floated. Soft, fluttery rhythmic clench around Spike's fingers, barely moving in him then slipping out and he wasn't gonna think about the feeling of empty left behind.

He wasn't gonna think about anything. That was the rule. No thinking for at least thirty minutes post orgasm. Or the next morning - still man enough to want to roll over and sleep.

Xander pushed himself upright with a grunt, legs too watery to try standing and pried his eyes open to find - Spike.

Eyes dark and fingers up to the knuckles in his mouth - staring at him as the fingers came out, centimeter by centimeter, followed by a curling tongue and a groan. Then he slid them into his own jeans, toppling sideways onto the couch, legs splayed, eyes slitted and turned to the TV - rise and fall of his hips.

"I'm just - gonna..."

Shower? Asked a voice in his mind, conscious of the heavy musk in the air, on him. The voices were finally returning. Oh joy. And Spike was watching him through lidded eyes to the rasp of skin under denim.

"Sleep," he said out loud, overruling it. He sent a stern memo to his knees demanding cooperation - and bailed.