Fandom: Buffy The Vampire Slayer
Disclaimer: No profit but pleasure.
Summary: The first time was pants.
Notes: Thanks to herself_nyc for betaing it. The title is Latin for "Bridge of Asses."
The first time was pants, both literal and figurative. Specifically, when Harris dropped trou, what should've been sexy turned out to be just Harris, down to wearing a sweat-stained wife-beater and shiny blue boxers printed all over with little black Martians in push-broom hoplites. Harris' jeans were down around his ankles and going no farther because the git had forgotten to remove his boots first.
Spike watched as Harris hopped first on one foot, then the other like a demented Crog demon doing a ritual coal-walking. It was a performance to rival the boy's Snoopy dance (which he'd had the misfortune to witness years ago), and very nearly enough to send Spike out the door in search of a tan.
But somehow, he held his ground, feeling a bit looney tunes himself for even considering fucking someone who could neither dress nor undress himself with any style.
After managing to finally remove his jeans and boots, Harris looked up at him, apparently expecting praise instead of the well-earned disdain Spike had on offer. Spike stared pointedly at those googley-eyed knickers, wondering if it was poor form to set fire to them before Harris removed them from his person.
Harris glanced down and then up again, his cheeks flushed pink beneath his five o'clock shadow. "Oh, these? You think I bought these? They were a gift. From, uh, someone. Someone I like. And they have, um, sentimental value. They have deep, personal sentimental meaning you wouldn't understand, being a vampire without sentiment and--"
"Not sure I want to understand those."
Harris shrugged and put his hands out, palms upturned, his smile turning broader in inverse proportion to Spike's own scowl. "Okay, yeah, sure, fine, Spike, you got me. I bought them, I wear them, and I'll have you know I like them. I mean, who doesn't like Marvin? 'This makes me so angry, very angry indeed.' It's classic."
Harris' impression, as it turned out, was spot-on, and Spike forced himself not to react, because it would do no good to encourage funny voices in the bedroom. Already, he was having a difficult time remembering what made him first think of sex and Harris in the same sentence.
"Actually, Spike, he kind of reminds me of y--"
"Finish that thought and I will castrate you," Spike said calmly. "Probably won't even bother the soul much considering the affront to good taste you're wearin'."
"My front has very good taste. So does my back. See?" Harris turned around to give him the back view which wasn't bad at all, though the Martian eyes staring out at him ruined the effect.
Spike knew full well the boy was fucking with him. The boy didn't read books without pictures, but he wasn't a complete idiot.
Harris kept grinning, staying just outside of arm's reach as he looked him up and down. Spike held still, not minding being looked at.
"Hmm. Bossy, check. Glowering expression, check. Questionable morality, check. Less than average height, check. And yet you bear a striking non-resemblance to the immortal megalomaniacal kaboom addict."
"Megalomaniacal. Big word for such a small mind. You really must enjoy masturbation."
Renewed color touched the boy's cheeks and he started to stammer. "I, uh, well--yes, actually I d--but I really don't think--"
"No, you really don't. So best shut yer gob before I shut it for you and let's do this, quiet-like, before I change my mind."
"Right. Okay. You should definitely not change your mind about the, um, sex. With me. Yeah, so I'm--this is me shutting my, uh, gob now. See--it's shut. Locked, even. Sex can now be had." Harris mimed a key turning but then opened up again to add, "Unless... do you want me to, um, y'know, master my, uh, domain, because if you do, I could--except I haven't actually had an audience before for that, but I, uh, could if it's a thing that you, if it's your thing. I mean Anya had her kinks but that--that wasn't really, though there was that one time that we, uh, but you don't want to hear about that. Probably. Do you? Anya was big with the sex talk, but I don't--I mean I tried, but it's not really my forte as far as foreplay goes, and hey, that rhymes. Foreplay forte. I'm guessing that's not the kind of poe--nevermind. Mouth is on standby."
Spike said nothing, again regretting one drunken confession which he would take back if he could. But Harris' standby lasted only a few seconds before he moved on to babble further about his willingness to "perform before a live, er, undead audience," his voice going a bit higher than normal and the words tumbling out at record speed.
Spike waited until Harris finally looked to be nearly out of both drivel and breath, holding onto the faint hope that once he had his hand in, or rather on, Harris would lose his capacity for inane speech. If he were feeling generous, which he was not, he would've put the babble down to nerves on Harris' part.
While he waited and listened to the hum of nonsense trickling from the boy's mouth, he undressed himself, stripping down to the skin, at which point Harris finally did shut the hell up and just stared at him
Unfortunately, the brief respite of Harris' silent appreciation for his admittedly near-perfect form was the high point of the evening, after which it all took a turn for the worse when Spike moved in to touch him and Xander "Foot in Mouth" Harris, a man not known for his grace on or off the battlefield, seemed to grow a few extra limbs, all of them getting in Spike's way. They both went left and then right and Harris bashed him in the noggin, their teeth clicking together like castanets.
It took a bit of effort before Harris let him lead, and while Harris was distracted, Spike made short work of ripping the shirt and boxers off him, revealing a substantial but not excessively large erection, bigger than his own (though not quite as pretty). Spike himself had got over privileging size a half century ago when Dru picked up a demon that nearly skewered him with his monstrous schlong, putting him off being the bottom for several decades. He still preferred to top, but if he was going to let Harris fuck him (and he was by no means decided on that), it was good to know it wasn't likely to rip him in half. A bit of pain made the medicine go down, but he tended to think Harris wouldn't be into much blood-play.
Harris did turn out to have stamina, managing to keep it up once they got going despite Spike's best efforts to bring him off just to calm him the fuck down. But once they established some sort of rhythm (or as close to rhythm as someone like Harris could manage), Harris seemed to at least stop thinking.
They didn't get beyond a mutual wank, and Harris gave Spike a paradoxically anti-climactic climax only seconds before spilling over onto his hand and conking out, leaving Spike a chance to assess the length and breadth and oh so shallow depths of his error.
Pondering it, it wasn't difficult to pin down why it had all gone pear-shaped. Xander Lavelle Harris being the fuck in question, he'd've been daft to expect much better. He'd only just got over actively disliking the man, and even then, it'd taken a soul and the end of the world twice over to manage that much goodwill between them.
It wasn't even that Harris was unattractive, by demon or human standards. He had even enough features, a soft, wide mouth always a bit too quick with a grin or a quip or, more often than not, an insult sent Spike's way. Ears stuck out a bit, but that was not enough to put him off his stroke, and when Harris let his hair grow out the jug-ears weren't quite as noticeable. Decent head of hair on him, no sign yet he'd lose it all to age, though Spike reckoned there was little chance of finding out if the temples would grey before they receded, given Harris' predilection for taunting vampires--one in particular.
Spike pushed a lock of hair back from Harris' forehead and traced the edge of Harris' eyepatch with his fingertip, wondering if Harris usually slept in it. He drew a line down Harris' face, under his chin, and down to the small bit of wiry hair at the hollow at the base of Harris' throat, his restless fingers moving lightly over skin where tan lines faded into pale flesh. Harris slept deeply, undisturbed by his scrutiny or touch. If Spike wanted, he could kill him, and Harris wouldn't even have time to twitch. Not that it'd matter if he twitched or even fought back. Spike could easily overpower Harris, though it might be fun to see him struggle--to feel those muscles straining against him. That was how it should've gone--should've been erotically maddening having Harris writhing against him. Instead, it was just plain maddening having Harris nattering on at him, reminding him of why he'd never wanted him when Angelus first put him on offer so long ago it sometimes felt like another unlife.
He hadn't given Harris' age much thought one way or another, but seeing him unclothed for the first time since he'd shared that flat with Anyanka, it was clear that Harris was long past the days when teenage hormones ran amok and Harris saw himself as the Scoobies' resident cockblocker, always out to protect the Slayer from Spike's attentions, as if she couldn't protect herself well enough from the likes of him. Not that Spike himself was carrying any grudges.
Sunnydale was, after all, history and the Slayer'd moved on.
As had he.
To Harris, an entity who Spike used to wish were a non.
How the mighty had fallen.
Sure, Harris was fit enough for a human without looking like he spent all hours at the gym, though he was still soft in the middle--still mortal and weak and warm. Seemed to follow after his mum's side of the family in that, though somehow he'd avoided the family drinking problem.
In fact--and here, Spike squinted and then frowned, considering--stripped of those peacock colors and face lax in sleep, Harris looked a bit like Angel tended to get when he was feeding properly, blood-drunk and flush with borrowed warmth. Not at all unattractive. Spike, recognizing the inanity of his thoughts, laughed, and Harris' heart sped up and then settled back to its normal rhythms. He'd bloody well like that: being compared to the great poof.
Better still, to tell Angel that--torture him good. "No one's ever mentioned it? Strange, that. Could be brothers, the two of you. Haven't looked in a mirror lately, have you?" he'd say, and he'd have Angel running off to deny it. Ah, but Angel wouldn't manage that, could he, because then he'd have to bloody well ask one of his crew if they thought he looked anything like Xander Harris, and that conundrum alone would put him off meals for a bit.
Spike smiled, deciding that, while the fuck was mediocre, it did at least lead to a few cheery thoughts. Post-soul, there were not enough of those to go around, and he'd take what he could in the way of amusements, sexual or otherwise.
It was no more than a superficial resemblance, though--Harris and Angelus comparable only in the dark, if he ignored Harris' hot, sweat-scented skin and the strong beat of his mortal heart going lub lub lub at a nice, even pace as Harris slept on.
So, in sum, the sex was nothing to write home about but good enough in a pinch. Like that sodding armchair he once loathed, Harris was workable if you had a yen to put your feet up. But spend the night? Damned uncomfortable and humiliating, besides. Have to be at loose ends and without any better options to be tied down to that.
Which he apparently was.
And that thought should've warned him off, because loneliness, desperation, and horniness were fair reasons enough to lower one's standards, but why not just go out, get pissed, and find a willing stranger as clearly, he and Harris...well, there was obviously no chemistry between them--no "fuck or die" desire--just a slow, simmering disinterest overcome by proximity and convenience.
Still and all, it was not a complete loss. He'd got it up just fine, even for Harris, easy as a bit of hand to palm encouragement, and he'd come in the hot grip of Harris' fist, then again rubbing against Harris' unremarkable arse.
Harris himself, he could take or leave. Did both, as it turned out, though Harris had passed out before Spike could make it clear he was not spending the night, which was just as well, as he could feel the itch under his skin that signaled the sun's rising. He'd spent the night awake as Harris slept, caught up in pondering the great non-mystery of why the fuck was as mediocre as it was... and why he was still planning on a repeat performance whenever Harris was up for it.
Second time was a bit better, though that wasn't saying very much. It was a week later, and the pillock fell asleep right after, just as he had the first time. Last of the great romantics there--the rumored Viking nowhere in evidence.
"Not living up to the hype, Anyanka." Spike raised a glass to her in a half-hearted toast. Figured she'd build Harris up to great heights--always the good saleswoman, pawning off the lemon on an unsuspecting hard-up vampire. Buyer fucking beware. Should've seen the revenge play coming a mile away.
Low mileage on the boy, though. Likely a virgin before Anyanka put her claws in and nearly drove him into that three-tiered wedding monstrosity. Still fucked like a virgin, though, fumbling with Spike's tackle as if he'd never touched another man's body and paying rapt, puzzled attention to Spike's foreskin (though to that he had no real objection, drawing the line only at answering questions he couldn't answer without bloody well circumcising himself, and though pain was sometimes pleasure, he had no interest at all in doing so even if, as Harris pointed out, it would likely grow back).
Harris continued to be unable to shut up unless he had a prick in his mouth, and Spike willingly obliged, though again, Harris lacked in technique and finesse.
Afterwards, Harris slept sprawled on his belly with his arms up, his big hands tucked under his pillow. He looked peaceful and snored loud enough to wake the undead, if Spike could find a comfortable place to sleep.
Spike poked Harris in the soft flesh of his side and poked again until Harris moaned.
"Shift yer fat arse. Got no room, mate. Shift. Over."
Harris let out a soft sigh but didn't move from his snoring, and Spike pondered smothering him--the fantasy enhanced by the lack of chip but dimmed by the soul's chiding. He also considered getting up and going home, where there was more room in his own bed and fewer idiots with whom to share it.
And yet he stayed, finally curling up on top of Harris, soaking up the heat of his body and ignoring the renewed stirrings of his own erection as it pressed against Harris' sleep-warm skin.
The third time--and yeah, there was a third--was hard, fast, and it was him that shot his load like a randy teen, leaving Harris to finish off with his own hand, eye nervously flicking to the opening of the alleyway, despite Spike's assurance that he'd warn him if he heard something.
So all in all, he couldn't complain. Well, he could, nothing stopping him, but post-coital etiquette meant that Spike wouldn't be so gauche as to point out that not everyone appreciated the scrape of teeth against the sensitive underside of their prick.
Lucky for Harris, Spike wasn't everyone, which led to the thought that perhaps Harris was worth another go, if nothing better came along.
"Spread 'em. Yeah, that's a good--more."
"Like--this? I--I'm not so sure this is a--"
"Shutting it. But--"
Harris snorted out one of his high-pitched giggles and Spike slapped his arse hard enough to get his attention.
"What--it was funny. Punny, even."
"No it was... yeah, alright, I should have chosen my words with more care, seeing how you've got the funny bone of a pre-adolescent wanker."
"So says the... man with his finger in my--oh my. Yeah. That's..."
While there was nothing less sexy than Harris whinging on in his high-pitched, poncy voice when they both knew Harris wanted it, it turned out that there was nothing hotter than that same voice, slightly roughened and getting a touch rougher as Spike lined himself up and started to push into Harris' tight, hot hole, one centimeter at a time.
Harris exhaled, short panting breaths, and Spike stroked his hand over Harris' back, his fingers slick with lube and getting slicker with the way Harris was sweating, beads of it running down between his shoulder blades to pool at the center of his back, just above his tailbone.
Spike leant in and licked down and then back up Harris' neck, then over to the carotid, wanting to bite right there so that blood could join the sweat to trickle down Harris' bare back. Instead, he planned on tracing the line of Harris' spine back down with his tongue, one knobby vertebrae at a time until the boy begged for him to put it to him again.
Five turned out to be slow, easy glides, Harris on his back, staring up at him as Spike urged them on, the softness of Harris' belly a comfortable contrast to Spike's own harder abs, their pricks doing a little slow dance, trapped in the tight, slick space between them. Harris' callused hands were alternately resting and clutching at his back, heavy on his arse, fingers digging in and kneading. And then Harris' finger dipped down and stroked over his hole, presumptive about things he had no call to be presuming.
Spike rolled them over without comment, so that Harris' weight pressed him into the mattress, the worn flannel sheets wrinkling underneath him, a little nubbly from so many times through the wash. Harris held his upper body up with those bulging biceps and stared down at him with that one, precious eye, dilated to black in the darkened room.
Spike moved quickly, pulling Harris down on top of him full-length, crushing their mouths together. Quiet was better. Quiet but for a few animal grunts from Harris, more of those harsh, panting breaths hot in the crook of Spike's neck, and then--there was that kaboom he'd been expecting since they started this thing.
The human startled, a full-body tremor shuddering through him and rising up the dark hairs along his arms. Harris did another push-up and made as if to get away, but Spike held him there so Harris hovered over him, his body tensed, his lips now red-glossed with Spike's blood. Broke the skin, his boy did, tore right through it with those blunt, human teeth. Bloody brilliant. Didn't know he had it in him to pull a stunt like that.
Spike licked his own lips, swallowed, liking the stinging bite at his throat and the startled, wide-eyed look on that open face as the human caught up with his bad self.
"Jesus. I bit you."
"Yeah," Spike agreed, still buzzing with it, a little dazed--fighting off the smile that wanted to take over his mouth and force him to say wet, poncy things in three quatrains and a couplet.
And Harris--Xander--kept on staring down at him, his muscles tense and jumpy under his skin, his heartbeat fast and strong, measuring out Harris' blood through those many pretty veins and arteries.
Spike eyed the crook of that lovely neck where a pulse fluttered, wanting. He'd always figured when life gave you lemons, make a bloody Margarita.
He fully expected a protest, but none came, and instead, Xander relaxed, shutting his eye and taking a deep breath then letting it out as he lowered himself back down and rolled them both over in a slick move that was surprisingly graceful.
"Please." Just the one word--finally some restraint--and Xander tipped his head to the side, offering that fine neck, his eye still shut, though his body remained relaxed beneath Spike. Relaxed but for the erection pressing hard against him.
Spike reached down and took their cocks together in his hand, stroking just once and then holding on as he leant in and licked at that coveted spot that pulsed and waited for him, tasting of salty sweat with a tang of sourish fear, all of it sweetened by lust, waves of it wafting off of his boy.
His own bite was sharp and neat--slicing through the tensile skin, and he was not at all surprised when Xander's orgasm triggered his own as he drank and drank, savoring each perfect spurt before pulling back to lick over the marks and up the softly curved jawline, his tongue dragging a tracing of blood to stain that darkly stubbled skin. And when he reached the smooth bow of that luscious mouth, Xander opened to him, very likely about to say something Spike would very much rather he didn't.
Spike shushed him with his tongue, tasting himself in Xander and Xander in him, a recursive, seamless pleasure, an epiphany in coupling couplets and fucking poetry, and oh, yes, he was a man now well past saving, well past leaving this bed and this man's body. He was ensouled, enraptured, and enthralled to this soft-hearted, soft in the head sod, and he should've hated that he was waxing alliterative over a middling mortal man after five fucks and a ha'pint of blood, but all he could manage was a giddy relief that Xander's pulse had already slowed into the even meter of sleep, freeing William to decant in a hushed whisper things Spike would recant, upon pain of death, were Xander to ever hear them.
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