Written For: kinda_gay 's Valentine's Challenge: Team Schmoop
Rating: Light R
Warnings: Fluffish, References to Xander/Bad!Guy, cliche/overdone plot, with an odd off-canon take on Spike's "claim" over Xander in "School Hard"
Summary: Xander has been experimenting with guys. Of course, one night, he experiments with the wrong person.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I make no profit from this fic.
The sweetest dreams often came to him when he’d had a horrible day, and he knew he had another one coming. It was like his subconscious wanted to give him a few moments of happiness, even if that happiness was only fantasy. So he enjoyed them when they came, often refusing the sun, the alarm clock, even the morning’s call of nature to snatch those last few moments of joy.
Sometimes, the dreams were hot—Spike, naked, beating himself off and calling his name, begging him for a chance at his ass. Sometimes they were just cute—Spike, laying sprawled on the couch as usual, but with his head in Xander’s lap as he told stories from the good old days—and that was fine too. Anything to take a break from the real-world alternative, which was apparently Spike not really noticing him one way or the other, except to inform him that they are out of blood and/or cereal. Or to make some comment about his clothes/hygiene/job/lack-of-fighting skills… Really, the comments just got more and more inventive every day, so yeah, he’ll take the dreams, thanks.
Lately, however, he’d been having these dreams a lot. Mostly because every day of his pathetic life followed the same stupid routine (wake up, lust after vampire, go to work, think about vampire, come home, lust after vampire, go out again, fuck someone other than vampire, come home; repeat). It probably had a little to do with the fact that Valentines Day was this week. So, naturally, things were either going to get marginally better or marginally worse. Xander had his money on the latter, particularly since he’d spent his whole Goddamned lunch break yesterday trying to figure out what to do about Valentines and his stupid infatuation. He’d wound up making a card out of graph paper, a heart with lacy edging he’d cut himself. And then he couldn’t figure out what to write inside. Finally he just scribbled out five dumb little words and stuffed it into his lunch bag, intent on throwing it out later.
But when he awoke this particular morning, clinging to the dream he’d been having (Spike, naked, chocolate syrup…), he was ass-up in somebody else’s bed.
And he couldn’t move.
Not, you know, ‘the-sex-was-so-amazing-I-don’t-wan
He knew he’d been stupid to stay the night. But hell, he’d thought. Just this once, he’d thought. I’m so comfy, he’d thought. Hah. God, and Spike doesn’t even know where he is. Probably won’t know he’s not there until dusk when no one’s around to bring him his cup o’ blood. He shifted in his bonds, as much as he could anyway, and took a sleepy look around. What was the name the creep had given him last night? “Todd”? “Ted”? Yeah, one of those. And he’d been so hot, too, all those tattoos up his biceps, the deadly grin that practically made Xander melt. He’d been seeking out that type lately. Honestly, by now even he knew he was fucking Spike-Alikes. Even if Spike had more badass in one of his cigarettes than Todd/Ted had in all his ink, it was still a little more satisfying than fucking the sexually-confused-but-otherwise-squeaky-c
He should’ve known he was going to wind up in bed with bad news if he kept pushing his luck. Jesus, why didn’t he just tell someone he’d been… ‘experimenting’ lately? Better yet, why couldn’t he just stay home and watch movies with the vampire currently occupying his couch?
Because Spike is one scary roommate, even with his fangs pulled, and if he knew I was fucking guys with his face in mind, there would probably be much sneering and humiliation.
And yet, he was now tied to a bed, naked, with no hope of rescue because he couldn’t get up the nerve to tell anybody that he was here, queer, and lusting after things that go bump in the night.
Surviving the Hellmouth Rule One: Never, under any circumstances, keep secrets. Like fledges, they too will come back to bite you.
He wanted to smother himself out of sheer embarrassment. But the pillow was too far away.
Harris hadn’t come home.
God Fucking Damn It All.
The couch sagged under his weight, probably on its last legs, but he didn’t care. Hell, if the boy wasn’t home in the next hour, he might just jump up and down on it until it finally gave way. It would serve him right, leaving an evil vampire alone in his place for so long. Tapping out his cig on the table (not caring about the nasty marks it would leave in the wood), he shifted to his side and turned his eyes to the clock on the cable box.
So, the sun was up. And he still wasn’t home.
Gritting his teeth, he rolled off the couch and headed for the kitchen, intent on raiding his fridge. Beer. Beer. Blood. Old Chinese Food. Spaghetti? No, that’s apparently the left-over science project section. Smacking the fridge closed again, he reached up and grabbed the box of Lucky Charms that was apparently bought for him (since Harris never opened it).
Where the hell was he, anyway?
Getting laid. His mind supplied, a thought which still wasn’t easy to swallow. Even after months of it haunting his brain. Kid would come home, spend an hour or so eating and indulging in some witless banter, then say something like “You know what? I’m not gonna spend all night getting my balls busted by a biteless vamp. I’m out.” And he’d leave. He’d come back three, four hours later smelling fresh as a daisy—too fresh. He’d find Spike awake, watching some late movie/gameshow/infomercial, and plop down next to him with a beer.
One night, though… One night he’d come home smelling… different. Stunk of semen and this Godawful musk-scented soap that didn’t mask it at all. Which meant someone had gotten Harris dirty while he was trying to get clean. A male someone.
Well, well, well… He’d thought then, swallowing the last of his beer and peeking his way. Interesting. So he played for both teams, did he?
He could see it.
But his bemusement had faded over the weeks as every night, without fail, the boy would find some reason to take off. By that time the insults and mutual distaste had tapered away to banter about the day’s events, gossip about the rest of the Scoobies, and cheerful back-and-forth just to keep the tradition going. They no longer considered themselves enemies. In fact, they were comrades in arms. Yet, every night, it was “I don’t know about you, but patrol got me really wired. I’ll be back later.” Or, “Dude, there is nothing on TV. I’m going out.” Or even, “Jesus, this whole place smells like your cigarettes. I need some air.”
And the second he’d slam the door, Spike’s mind would go He’s fucking that bloke with the horrid soap.
And every time he thought about it, his nerves would strain a little tighter. Even though he never smelled that soap again. Even though he knew, whoever Harris was fucking, it probably wasn’t the same guy he fucked the night before. He just couldn’t get the scent of Harris with that soap on him out of his nose. The only thing that calmed him was knowing, knowing, that the boy would be home in two or three hours, sipping beer and watching infomercials with him, a little more relaxed than he was before he left.
How he thought he was fooling anybody, Spike couldn’t fathom. Boy wasn’t the sharpest tack, but he should know by now that vamps can smell sex a mile away. Fuck, when he came home, it was all Spike could do not to jump him just to temper that smell with his own. He closed his eyes as the thought bled like hot wax through his veins.
Christ. Wouldn’t that be heaven?
Even before they’d given up hating each other, he’d had to admit the kid was a piece. Bronzed skin, working man’s muscles, those dark features that always drove him insane—dark hair, dark eyes, practically his go-to flavor, wasn’t he?—and his huge, warm hands… Huge, warm body, and if we’re talking proportions here, he could only imagine…
See, around the time Spike’s nerves started cracking, he realized something important:
It wasn’t fair.
Because it wasn’t. Xander Harris was coming home to him every night, in every way but the proper one. Not that he wanted to play house with the boy, of course not, it’s just…
Why go out and fuck strange men when you’ve got the best lay on the planet sprawled out on your couch, waiting? It was downright unjust. There he was, going out and screwing indiscriminate townies, half of which were probably demons anyway, ignoring the easy-access proxy-fuck that was his undead, but unfanged, roommate.
Harris was a demon magnet, after all.
So, why not take the demon that can’t kill/maim/impregnate you? Who could probably give you the best you’ve ever had, no strings? Honestly, it was a win-win.
Spike sulked, glaring at his dead cigarette.
And the worst part was, he wanted to. Jesus, every time the boy had a morning wank, the pheromones that followed him practically made Spike dizzy. But, more than that, living with the boy had proven that if they’d ever actually had sex, it wouldn’t just be a fantastic orgasm.
Harris would be… Fun.
Interesting thought, that. But it was true. They knew each other, they were comfortable with each other, and they could hang with each other the way they just couldn’t with women. With Buffy it had been heat and passion and a violent need for control over something he absolutely could not stand to love. With Dru it had been nurturing, worshipping, with just enough room for a little amusement if the chance came along. But with Harris… It could be different. It could be easier.
Because, really, despite all the sex he’s had in his very storied unlife, it was a rare treat to find someone he could actually let go with. And Harris was that kind of person. He drew you in, and suddenly you were laughing at his bad jokes and cracking a few of your own, watching old movies and cutting them up, drinking weak American beer and not really caring that the Big Bad doesn’t give a shit about Rambo versus John McClane because he does. Spike does. Or that little part of Spike that’s still alive after the chip and the soul and the months of being out of his mind. Harris knew that little part of him. He was keeping it alive, feeding it with his sense of humor. So the thought of bedding him wasn’t about a chase, or control, or even physical attraction. He wanted Harris because he’d never met anyone like him. Someone who, after all the evil he’d aimed at him, could still walk right past the Big Bad persona like it wasn’t even there and shake hands with the Real Spike.
With a man like that, sex might actually be the release it was supposed to be.
He’d thought about seducing him, really, but how exactly does one go about seducing someone like Harris without getting into that… that sticky warm&fuzzy feelings department?
Well, apparently someone’s already solved that puzzle…
His fist hit the table with enough force to crack it, and he sat up, thinking about tossing the whole thing over..
His eyes flitted to the clock.
He got up, grabbed the phone and started dialing. There were three gay bars in Sunnyhell, and two of them were owned by demons.
He didn’t like the kid’s odds.
He’d been awake for an hour. Had to pee… pretty much that whole hour, but hell if he was going to pee in this bed and piss off whatever had him this time. Every limb he had was numb and cold. His neck ached with the way it was forced to either crane or hang. He figured that, until his captor had returned, he couldn’t get any more uncomfortable.
Then he felt The Itch.
It started at the tip of his nose. He tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend it didn’t exist. Started humming a tune, which turned out to be “Keepin’ The Faith”, and that was so not the best song for this moment. Plus, the humming just made the itch spread. So he took a deep breath after the first chorus and began to rub his nose in the sheets. That didn’t help either. The itch now ran from the tip of his nose, down his cheek, and it had flared up behind his ear as well.
I hate my life. He thought on an exhale, resting his forehead on the bed and letting the rest of his body droop helplessly. No, really. I really hate my whole Godforsaken existence.
The door behind him smacked open. He jolted. Pinpricks erupted in his limbs, and he sucked in a breath, wishing he could at least see Todd/Ted before they got to the raping/maiming/sacrificing part.
Hold on. There was more than one person coming in.
“See? Look at that dick. We haven’t had one that big since that Latin boy finally got himself drained.”
“Yeah, Jesus. How’d you manage to find this one?”
“He found me.” He heard Todd/Ted laugh, then felt a hot-fast sting of pain that made him jerk in his restraints when the jerk smacked his ass like a bouncy-ball. “Didn’t you, pumpkin?”
Gritting his teeth, Xander turned his chin to look at him and narrowed his eyes. “I bought you a beer, yeah.”
“Two beers.” Todd/Ted leered, looking most appreciative. “One last night, one a couple months back. Been looking for you ever since.”
“This the kid who took a shower and ran?” The other guy asked, sounding amused.
“Yeah. God, I tried so hard to distract you, baby…” His fingers ran down the cleft of Xander’s ass and slid between his cheeks. He fought to keep himself from tensing up. “Tried to get you to stay the night…”
Oh God. He remembered him now. Sometime three months ago, some Tuesday or Wednesday night, he’d practically fucked his tattooed ass into a wall. And when he went to take a shower, he got in with him and couldn’t keep his hands off him. Spike gave him the funniest look when he got home, like he knew. “What’re you…?” He almost didn’t want to know.
“He’s a prime piece, Andy.” The other guy said, apparently looking him over from his position by the door. “We could get a grand an hour for that cock alone.”
“Hold up. Andy?” Xander snorted, somehow feeling that the irony was too sweet to miss. “Fuck, I was way off base. Sorry, dude.”
“Yeah, I like him.” Andy, who was not a Todd or a Ted, spread his cheeks apart and examined him in the most humiliating way. “I may break him in myself. Man, if you’ve never fucked a demon magnet, I suggest you start with this one.”
“Maybe I will.” The other man laughed cruelly, and Xander shuddered hard. “I’ll call Jim. He’ll come out in an hour. Hey, what’s name, anyway?”
“Alex.” Andy was grinning. He could hear it. “Can you believe it? Sexy Lex. Perfect.”
“I’ll tell him.” The other man faded away.
The itch came back. This fucking sucks.
“Now …” Andy whispered in his ear, making his blood turn ice cold. “Let’s take a good look at you.”
Have I mentioned that I hate my life?
It took some threatening, but after a good hour of calls he finally found someone who knew what the fuck was going on. A demonic bartender by the name of Joey, who apparently knew his patrons like a second family. He knew Xander, practically gushed about the boy’s good looks, then happened to mention he was at his bar the night before. With a fucking trapper called Andy Reese.
“Jesus.” He muttered, slamming the phone back onto its mount, dropping his head into his hands. Fucking Jesus Christ… Alright. Okay, let’s think for a minute.
Andy Reese. Otherwise known as Andyreise, a crass little demon who practically owned the human slave market in the States. He’d heard that name before, been and seen the wares in fact. Playthings for the demon in you. Sweet, innocent girls and young, strapping boys, all smelling like sex and teasing little hints of pain. Enough to make Spike’s demon very, very happy.
But not when it’s Harris.
Reaching for his duster, he started a mental tally of all the weaponry he had. Fifteen stakes scattered all through this bloody apartment, a few throwing knives, a sword in the bathroom, an axe behind the television set…
Jesus. He couldn’t just run in there with an axe and a few knives. They’d stake him, and be off with the boy in five seconds flat. And they’d be within their rights, too. Unless Spike held a claim to the boy, they could—
His head shot up, eyes blinking open wide. Oh, Christ, he couldn’t.
But he had to…
He picked up the phone, then put it down again.
Jesus. No, no, no. He was not going to have this conversation.
But… There was no other way. God, Fuck, there was no other way.
He picked up the phone again and dialed. It rang four times before he heard the clack of the receiver rising from its hook. The voice on the other end sounded absolutely exhausted. “Harris. Why the fuck are you calling me so fucking early?”
His hand dug into his duster pocket, searching for his cigs. He’d need one for this conversation. “S’not Harris.”
There was a pause. He could hear his pouf of a Grandsire struggling to sit up, fast. “Spike?”
“But now that we’re on the subject,” Spike lit up, cutting to the chase. “We’ve got a problem.”
“A problem?” Angel parroted, groaning like he was being asked to wash the gel out of his hair and re-sculpt it.
Taking a drag of his cig, Spike breathed it out, letting the familiar feeling calm him before he said the words. “I need to accept your pressie.”
“You- I never-” It took a moment for his gears to turn, and when they finally did, he made a sound somewhere between “Why Me?” and a toad being stepped on.
“Not joking.” He growled, annoyed with his inability to simply say the words and be done with it. “Boy’s been taken by trappers. Andy Reese. I need a claim.”
“Today, Peaches.” Blowing out smoke through his frustration, he stabbed his cig into the table a couple times, snuffing it out.
“Okay, I--” He sighed, sounding totally exasperated. “I can’t just give him to you. You know that.”
“Dammit, ‘Gelus, I don’t have the boy here to get consent—!” He roared, throwing his hand out, smacking everything on the table to the floor. “Just make the bind work!”
“I can’t!” Angel snapped. “Unless you have evidence of his consent—”
“—Bloody spell won’t…” He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as he looked to the floor and saw Harris’ lunch bag and its contents spilled everywhere. Empty water bottle, half-eaten packet of peanut butter crackers…
… And a piece of paper with his name on it.
He reached down and picked it up. It was draft paper, cut into a rather misshapen heart with scalloped edges that didn’t match and holes cut through to make it look like lace or sommat. But there was his name, plain as day, scrawled across the fold in atrocious handwriting that could only be Xander’s. He turned it over.
I’m yours. Be my Valentine.
“... Does written work?”
“Answer the bloody question.”
“Where the hell did you get written consent--?”
“Never you mind that, id’jot. Just say it.”
After a long moment of silence, Angel finally sighed. “Alright. Both parties willing, the boy is now yours, to do with as you please.”
Hanging up on him, the blonde vamp grabbed his duster and bolted out the door, shoving the paper into his pocket. If he was lucky he’d catch them before they tried to brand what was his.
Because Harris was his.
He paused, the seriousness of that thought stopping him in his tracks.
Christ, this no time to fucking overanalyze yourself, you git. The bloody Valentine said so.
He headed for the basement, mentally thanking the boy once again for choosing an apartment complex with access to the sewers. Made saving his ass a whole lot easier.
His ass hurt.
Fuck, it hurt like a bitch. The stinging just wouldn’t go away, apparently, but he’s never gotten a tattoo before, let alone a brand, so he’s not sure how long the pain’s supposed to last. He thought he was going to pass out when the iron sunk into his skin, practically melting it off. On the bright side, he didn’t have to pee anymore because he wet the bed the second the thing touched him, and his ass now said Sexy Lex.
Yeah. Wasn’t much of a bright side, but hey.
“Isn’t that pretty.” Andy/Todd/Ted/Dickweed sighed, tracing a finger over the brand. “I just love fresh meat.”
Jim, the brander, made a sort of grunting noise. “You breakin’ him in yourself, then?”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll let you play when I get bored.”
Rolling his eyes at that, Xander took a deep breath and breathed out nice and slow. It wasn’t the thought of rape that made him nervous—Nothin’ Daddy hasn’t taught me—it was the thought of… Of making this his life. Because that’s what it was going to be from now on, wasn’t it? These guys, others, demons, vamps… Taking him just like this. No friends. No crappy job to take his mind off things. No Spike to… Well, no Spike, period.
His heart started to pound. In fact, it started to pound loud, fast, almost drowning out all the other noise. And it was like his lungs were too tight, too shallow for the air he needed. And he barely registered the sudden skitter of magic through his veins as his way-overdue panic attack set in, because all he could think was that he would never see Spike again, and that was too much, Hellmouth. Too Fucking Much.
“Oh God.” He gasped, feeling nauseous as his entire being called out to the fucking Powers that Be, screaming that they owed him one, they owed him like a thousand, and this was the only thing he was ever going to ask for, and please, if They’re going to deny him this, please just let him die in the next hour because he doesn’t want to live longer than that knowing he’ll never see him again.
“Huh.” Andy muttered, poking the brand, a frown plain in his voice. “Something just happened here. Magic. Smell it, Jim?”
“Yeah.” Jim sounded alert. “What the hell is that? It’s like something just-”
And then the bedroom door was kicked off its hinges. And Xander smelled cigarettes and slightly singed hair, and he went slack in his ropes and thought Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The sight Xander made tied up like that made something erupt inside Spike that he’d never felt before.
Never. In his whole unlife.
And the smell, Christ, the smell of his urine, blood and burnt flesh made him nearly nauseous. His body moved, and where his mind was still trying to figure out what this feeling was made of, his hands were busy grabbing Andy Reese by the throat and pinning him to the nearest wall. The demon, the fucking smarmy-faced prat of a demon, didn’t even get a chance to scream. Spike’s fingers dug harshly into his throat, squeezing it, choking him. He was tempted to kill him just like this. Nice and slow and agonizing.
“What the-” The other one started for him, but he turned, fixing his now amber eyes on him with all the malice he could muster.
“Got my boy tied up over there. Suggest you cut him loose.”
“But—” The minion looked confused. “But he has no bitemarks. And he’s—”
“I know what he is, you piece of shit.” He hissed, rage biting every word. “He’s a gift. From me GrandSire. He’s mine, and if I don’t feel like bitin’ him, it’s my business, innit? Now, do as you’re told.”
The minion took a tentative step back, then reached for the boy’s bonds.
“No!” The demon in his grasp cried, but it was more like a ‘ribbit’, because with the way Spike was choking him to death, he sounded like a toad. “Jim—Don’t just—He’s not claimed—”
The minion paused. Spike growled, low and deadly, turning back to the thing in his grasp.
“He’s mine. He’s been mine since he was sixteen. I let him out for his walkies, but he comes home to me, understand? So I’m currently well within my rights to rip out your intestines and hang you with ‘em, and there ain’t a single bloody thing in your customer base that would bat an eye. Because you went up against Spike. You tried to take what’s his.”
“But he’s not.” The bastard grinned. “Wasn’t yours last night. Wasn’t yours—”
Spike’s grip tightened. “S’mine now. Officially. Smell the bond, can’t you? Don’t believe it, got his consent signed right here.” He hissed it low, snarling in his face like he might bite his face off, before ripping the Valentine from his pocket and shoving it into view. “Believe me now, tosser?”
“I do.” Gasping for breath, the demon nodded frantically, hoping against all hope that the vamp might put him down if he agreed with him. “I do, we—We both felt the bond when it formed, but by then we’d already—”
“I see that.” Spike sneered, glaring at him ruefully and speaking in a careful, deadly tone that spoke volumes on how threatening a Master Vampire’s voice could be. “Had I known that the unofficial claim I’d had on the boy would cause such trouble, I would’ve made it legal years ago. You will reimburse me for the damage done, won’t you?”
“Y-Yes, of course. Jim!” Andy yelled, and the minion began to unravel the ropes around Harris’ ankles. By the time the boy was completely untied, Spike’s fury was lowered to a soft hum, and he simply smacked the demon’s head into the wall, knocking him out and letting him crumple to the floor. He was sick of wasting time.
“Hey,” The boy sighed, voice a bit muffled by the sheets. “I can’t… My legs are…”
“Quiet, Harris.” He growled, shoving the paper in his pocket and hefting the boy into his arms and throwing him over his shoulder, taking great care not to touch the burn.
It was as he was leaving that he realized what that horrible smell was.
That Godawful musk-scented soap.
He kicked Andy Reese in the stomach, brutally hard, on his way out the door.
The sewers stunk like fucking hell. But that was the least of his worries.
“Spike…?” Xander asked, peering down at the path Spike was trudging through, which looked like all the grime in Sunnydale had converged on one spot. “What…?”
“Told ye t’ be quiet, didn’t I?” Spike growled, hiking him higher over his shoulder. “Bloody id’jot…”
“Listen—I’m dumb, I get it.” Xander groused, trying to shift so that his gut wasn’t being jabbed by Spike’s shoulder. “I—I just wanted to try some things, I dunno—”
“You could’a tried ‘em with me!” He finally growled, sounding so pissed off that Xander tensed up in shock, hanging like dead weight over his shoulder in stunned silence for over a minute.
He could’ve… Could’ve what?
“Spike…” He began slowly, trying to figure out how to word this. “Are you saying that, all this time, while I was running around experimenting in the queer sciences with random, nameless test-subjects, you were there and perfectly willing to be my—”
“Lab Partner?” He finished in the same breath, eyes falling to the sweet rounds of Spike’s ass. Oh, hold on—Graph paper. Graph paper, sticking out of his pocket. Oh, Shi-
“Yes.” Spike growled, looking over his shoulder and glaring in Xander’s general direction, eyes smoldering a dark, smoky blue. “That is exactly what I’m sayng.”
“Oh.” Xander breathed, suddenly not quite sure how to do anything else.
Of course, the moment they got home, he remembered how to do a lot of things. None of which involved talking, and all of which involved Spike.
Spike, who for some reason, gathered the cool ash from his ash tray and spread it over his skin first-thing, muttering something about musk-scented soap.
- Current Mood: cheerful
- Current Music:Cranberries- Ode To My Family