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Cicirossi
It started with with a (fictional, we hope) ice cream/donut/sex shop rest area on the highway. And then it just grew until it ate Cici's brain.
Rated NC-17. Contains rampant silliness, ice cream abuse, food as sex toys. If you're bothered by slash you might not want to keep reading....
Spike, Xander, and the Buffyverse ©Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Warner Brothers,
UPN, 20th Century Fox, Sandollar, and probably some other people I've forgotten.
It's Joss' world, we just like to play in it.
He thought he heard Spike chuckle, but he couldn't be sure. He was a little distracted, after all. Spike had very talented fingers. Anyone who could do that with his hand at such an awkward angle had Xander's undying approval. Oh man, he hoped he was the only one who thought the sound of his zipper being lowered was really loud. Xander leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, making for an even worse position for Spike, but a better one for the tablecloth. Things were busting out all over, and he didn't particularly want everyone to see them.
Humping Spike's hand was out of the question. That would draw way too much attention to what they were doing, but it was damned hard to sit still and take it. Spike rubbed lightly at Xander's hard flesh, too lightly for his taste, thank you. He needed more pressure, more friction, more anything. He pressed his own hand over Spike's again in an attempt to get more of the glorious feeling. Spike stopped.
"Spike. What are you doing?" Xander heard the note of desperation in his voice, but was proud that he had managed to keep it low and quiet.
"Hands on the table, luv. This is my show, my way, or we don't do it at all."
"You're punishing me, aren't you?"
"Oh sure. I always give people I'm punishing a good yanking. Hands on the table."
Despite what Spike said, Xander knew he was being punished. He put his hands on the table, palms pressed flat, and Spike returned to what he'd been doing. It was all he could do not to moan out loud. That felt too good, but not really good enough. Soft, soft touches, up and down, just enough to make him squirm and pant. Feathery touches at the base. The tiny rasp of a fingernail just under the head. Xander was almost bouncing, little undulations of his hips on the seat. The crowd became a distant thing, something he was only vaguely aware of.
"Spike, please!"
Only Spike wasn't listening. He teased Xander for what seemed like hours, but was really only as long as the last fifteen minutes of the show. A monumental effort of sheer will kept Xander's eyes open, watching the show as Spike instructed him to. The inside of his lower lip hurt from biting into it, holding in those hungry noises that wanted to come out. Under the music and shouting and frenzy, Spike was saying things to him. Hot, make me crazy things about how good he felt, and who was the good little human?
The grand finale was coming to a close, with much sword clanging and trumpet blaring, when Spike finally found the rhythm he needed. Hard and fast. Hot friction, squeeze stroke, and as the show roared to a finish, so did Xander, choking off an exultant yell as spasmed in Spike's hand. Ever considerate, Spike cleaned him thoroughly with the napkin he'd put in his lap, then stuffed the napkin in his duster pocket.
Their waitress (she of the prodigious bosom) made the rounds not long after, bouncing up cheerily and asking them how they'd like the show.
Flashing her his most charming smile, Spike said, "It was very exciting. Wasn't it Xan?"
The girl turned to him, and Xander managed a weak smile. "Gmurphle."
"See, he's speechless."
That got them a wide grin, and a flash of truly frightening cleavage as the girl bent to clear their dishes away. "Well, glad you had a good time," she chirped.
"Oh, definitely," Spike replied, and the girl sashayed off, leaving a very smug Spike and a puddle of Xander behind.
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