D.I. Don't



The sound of a key in the door had Spike looking around for a hiding place, but it was too late. Xander’s eyes went from vampire to what he was holding in his hand and his jaw dropped.

“Would –” He paused to clear his throat, “would you like to tell me why you’ve got that out? In the middle of the living room? When you’re on your own?”

Spike gripped it tighter, feeling the vibrations run up his arm. “Makes me feel manly?” he ventured.

“I just bet it does! Naked, powerful...oh, you bet it makes you feel ten foot tall and covered in hair! Still not answering my question though.”

‘Thought I’d surprise you?”

The tentative tone almost worked, almost, but Xander hardened his heart.

“I told you what I’d do if I came home and found you playing around with that, didn’t I? Well?”

Spike looked sulky, his pout working overtime. “Said you’d put blisters on my arse that’d last a week...”

“So?”

Spike bent over the nearest chair without a word and Xander stood, vindicated, righteous rage zinging through his body as he looked at the torn, gouged plasterboard.

Then he saw what Spike had been trying to hang on the wall, using the forbidden power tools; a photograph of them together, arms around each other, mugging it up for the camera with Spike pretending to bite him...

“Oh, shit! Spike – why didn’t you – oh get up and come here!”

Spike stayed in position, refusing to give Xander the comfort of guilt forgiven just yet. His backside was a series of eloquent curves; hurt, misunderstood, wronged.

So far, so good...but then it wiggled impudently. Xander’s lips set grimly as he realised that Spike had come _this_ close to getting away with it. Four strides put him in reaching distance of the handcuffs on the pegboard. Four minutes were plenty to strip Spike bare and position him over the counter, looking at the wall, thin chains linking his cuffed hands to bolts Xander had put under the lip of the counter in various places.

Spike looked at him, smugly certain that he’d manipulated Xander from rage to randy. The look faded as Xander reached for sandpaper, wall filler and palette knife.

“Thought you were going to –”

“Oh, I am,” Xander assured him, humming under his breath as he began repairs. “First, though, I’m fixing this mess.”

Long moments passed...

“Can’t you get a move on,” Spike whined. “It’s like watching paint dry.”

“No,” Xander said. “It’s like watching filler dry. Then I paint it. And wait for that to dry. And hang the picture properly, using rawl plugs and a – are you crying?”

“Would it help if I was?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not. M’sulking.”

Xander washed the spreader free of filler and dried it carefully. There really wasn’t anything else to do for a while...and Spike looked as fuckable as he could manage. Tied down, naked, legs spread; that was so far off the scale that Xander felt a quiet pride that he’d resisted him for so long.

“You remember the night that picture got taken?”

“Your birthday.”

“That’s right. Remember when we got back here, what we did?”

“Before or after you got your birthday spanking?”

“Both, wasn’t it?”

“Now you come to mention it, yes.”

“Spread ‘em wider, birthday boy.”




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