The Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Rating: NC-17

Spoilers: BtVS through season 6 - includes the wedding that wasn't.

Summary: This is why he hates Spike, why he couldn’t tie the knot, this is why everything in life is mediocre.

Warnings: Essentially PWP, emotionless sex ahoy.

Disclaimer: It should be fairly self-evident that Buffy the Vampire Slayer belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Kazui Enterprises – not me.

The Why

Rayne Jelly

Xander Harris was no one that people went out of their way to remember. He was no one that people crossed the street to avoid, or talk to, it was almost easier to bump into him and mutter a meaningless apology than it was to step aside. Simple, unimportant, easily dismissed Xander Harris. Slipping out of his socks and shoes, falling backwards on his bed, plain and very human Harris.

He wasn’t complaining. Rarely in his life had things gone differently, ignored by parents so wrapped up in their petty vendettas he had raised himself, he had perfected average to an exacting degree, C student, head down in math class, slept through history, never shirked off gym. As a kid, growing up in Sunnydale with his two best friends he was noticed, loved, and tended to look on from over Jesse’s shoulder as a sidekick. Willow was the brains of the operation, always had been, Jesse was the almost-love-interest or would have been if they’d known at the age of 5 what a love interest was and that cooties do in fact exist but have nothing to do with kisses. Xander was there with the bad jokes (even at five) and the big feet that he constantly tripped over. Willow would roll her eyes, shoot him the ‘Oh Xander’ look he’d come to know so well and leave him brushing the dirt off his knees as Jesse followed Cordelia Chase with rapt attention and not much else.

Xander kissed Willow on the cheek once when they were standing at the bus stop waiting for the big yellow contraption to come take them home. Willow blinked at him, and smiled, and kissed him on the nose. The next week he’d accidentally broken her Barbie’s arm and Willow had cried for an hour.

Cordelia had been ashamed of him. Which Xander was used to because his parents were ashamed of him, and his teachers mourned his so-called potential, and even deep down he was ashamed of himself because he knew that he should be expecting more and he wasn’t. It was the best single relationship he’d ever had with a girl. When he was about eleven he’d flirted with the idea of marrying Amanda Winchel until she’d kicked him very hard in a spot that little girls should not know about. Cordelia’s constant degradation and humiliation was a perfectly normal behavior, and in return barbs and insults had become his haven and forte.

Cordelia Chase was the best thing he’d ever seen in a mini-skirt, all long legs and long hair, and a long tongue. Cordelia was long lasting, long hating, strong and terrifying as hell when she wasn’t saying anything fashion related, or anything at all. Cordelia had led him straight to Anya, or led Anya straight to him. There was a certain amount of dwelling a demon had to do, Anya had explained it to him once; to really curse a person you had to know their ins and outs, to really get under their skin with Egyptian scarabs, to really constantly rake someone’s intestines with dull nails, to stick someone doing filing for eternity you really had to know them. She’d been inside his head as a vengeance demon, seen his worst fears, seen his ambitions, Anya had tried Cordy’s temper against him, and in the end the curse had gone wrong, horribly wrong and while she loved him she resented him for it nonetheless. “Xander Harris,” she’d say, “I’m human because of you,” and it wasn’t always a good thing.

Anya, his Anya, god he loved her. Didn’t deserve her, didn’t deserve anything nearing her. She was the motivation in his life, the inspiration to get out of his parent’s basement, the reason he’d become a foreman, kept a job for more than a month, had a life and a world that wasn’t crumbling, a life and a world that could. The one thing in his life that wasn’t mediocre, wasn’t average, wasn’t almost bad, or almost good. It WAS good, it was life, it made his heart pound and his palms sweat and she couldn’t be more blunt or frank, or insulting, but even her utter lack of tact made him gooey on the inside. And cold, so cold because there was something better than normal, something better than ‘this’ and he was terrified of losing it, the thought would cross his mind and his heart would stop beating for just a split second, and all of his apprehensions about the engagement and announcing it to his friends and making it official, and walking down the aisle would flood him, he would panic, and it wasn’t enough in his mind that he didn’t deserve her, but he thought of stupid things like self preservation, and the future, and the alcohol sitting in the cupboard and the cold would grow. “God I love you,” he would tell her, and meant it so much that it hurt.

Spike dropped by the new apartment one night. Must have been at least midnight when Xander was tired and ready to drop because the shifts hadn’t been completed and there was a stupid demon on his walk home ready to mince him and would have if he hadn’t run away. Anya was away, she was spending the weekend at her apartment, cleaning, packing, refusing to acknowledge Xander’s phone calls because he was refusing to acknowledge their engagement publicly, and he was almost grateful because waking up the next morning wouldn’t come with the stab of fear and pain for the future. So when the knock on his door came it hardly startled him because his night couldn’t get a lot worse, demon insurrection, apocalypse, it was all the same, might give him back the sense of adventure, danger, life that he’d been feeling shorted by. Instead he got Spike, and if that just didn’t prove his existence was mundane, never an apocalypse for Xander Harris, never any good news or excruciatingly bad, just Spike. Neutral, trying to be good, and evil, and so fucked up over the important girl that even Xander pitied him.

A lot of things sprang to mind about neutered vampires and bleached menaces haunting his doorway because the pathetic little sods had nothing better to do. It was brilliant, the carefully crafted greeting and insult that was building behind his eyes, the opening gambit of his favorite activity before Spike ruined it all by saying “Can I come in?” as though the answer should be ‘yes’ and this was a stupid formality. In a way it was, Spike was everywhere else, at Buffy’s, Anya’s, Giles’, why not here too?

“Yeah.” Xander stepped aside, away from the portal and the vampire moved through it swiftly, as though the invitation could be revoked with a word. He’d never been here before, never seen the way that Xander was moving up in the world, the glorified bricklayer away from the rotting basement smell and the constant fighting of drunken parents and he felt a vindictive surge towards his mouthy associate. “Why the hell are you here?”

“Got any blood?” Was the cool response as Spike strode across the apartment, god the bastard thought he owned everything, king of the world and it bothered Xander, because this was supposed to be his world.

“I can’t say I keep an external supply for castrated Vamps, no. Go bug Giles.” A horrible thing to do to a good friend, sicking a hungry and useless vampire on him, but Xander thought he would understand. As patriarch of their bizarre and makeshift little family Spike was his responsibility.


Xander smirked, “Change the locks on you blondie?” Spike snorted and shot a sneer in his direction, he wasn’t bothering to dignify that with a response and just once Xander wished he was right. Spike, locked out, could only be a good thing. But Dawnie liked him, he and Anya got along for reasons Xander didn’t want to think about, Spike helped them and the protests of one insignificant sidekick were only token resistance to his integration as a Scooby. Xander hated to frown, but felt himself doing it anyway, their association was tumultuous at best, and underneath the waves was nothing but resignation – “What do you want Spike.”

“I want to shag you.”

“What?” And the Vampire hits one completely out of left field, nobody saw that comin’ folks! Xander felt his stomach twist into tiny, perfect little nauseated knots of ‘huh’ and his throat went drier than sand. Spike was obviously fucking with him, and that was an incredibly poor choice of words. “I’m sorry… that didn’t come out with enough invective. WHAT?!”

“I. Want. To. Fuck. You.”

“Eh heh. No.” If Spike hadn’t looked so serious Xander would have been laughing hysterically, but he did look serious; Spike looked dead serious, dead, serious, and dead. Xander’s mind spun in revolted little circles, granted his fiancée was over a thousand years old but, and Xander refused to let himself think any further than that because it didn’t matter how old Spike was, he could be twenty-four and living and the answer would still be the same. “A Resounding No. An echoing ‘the hills are alive with the sound of NO’ no.”

“Why not?” The bastard was being completely and totally nonchalant about the whole thing. Xander may not have had a lot of self respect, he may not have been memorable or worthy or any of the other drunk and broody things that came to the forefront whenever Anya wasn’t around and his life wasn’t in immediate danger, but he had his pride. Spike actually had the gall to act… ugh.

“Despite the fact that I’m practically married, hate you, and find your entire species revolting?”


The sheer incredulity made his jaw hang open slightly, the gag-factor had it shut, and though he was across the room, twenty feet away, Xander felt like his personal space was being rudely invaded. The all-pervading sense of ‘what the hell’ coupled with deep and unsettling twinges in his stomach made him feel almost dirty. There wasn’t actually a leer on Spike’s face, but just the thought was making his skin crawl and Xander was pointing at the door like it was a sacred portal. “Get out, Spike.”


“Out now.”

Spike didn’t move. Didn’t take a step towards the door, wasn’t intimidated, wasn’t put off and Xander was so angry and confused he was shaking. Spike could see him vibrating from across the room. “What for?”

“What for exactly!”

“You don’t deserve her,” said Spike cryptically, a complete non-sequitur that in no way answered his question, and Xander had had enough cryptic for three life times. He was getting angry now, angrier, more disgusted, this was so much worse than when Larry was hitting on him. Less awkward more revolting and oh god he wanted to boot Spike out of his apartment, foot-to-ass, smacked-by-door sort of booting but he would never manage it. Spike couldn’t hurt humans, but he could prevent humans from really hurting him, especially Xander, especially now when he was tired, and not thinking, and probably hallucinating. Oh how nice a hallucination would be, Spike was in here asking for blood, or possibly money, and Xander was blowing things completely out of proportion. “Your demon bint I mean, you don’t deserve her.”

Then again maybe not.

Xander didn’t actually have an answer to that. In his head he was willing to say ‘Well of course I don’t’ because no one did; but outside the confines of his skull he couldn’t admit it, couldn’t contradict it so he said nothing and settled for leaning against the wall with a glare. “Make your point.”

“Did didn’t I?” Spike dug his cigarettes out of his duster, carefully tapped one out of the pack and lit it, Xander scowled and he smirked around the cancer stick, taking a long slow drag. There were a lot of things that would kill him, cigarettes weren’t one of them, they were his best habit, cleansing and purging all the stale air that settled in his unmoving lungs over the years. Besides, Spike loved making the Scoobies as uncomfortable as possible with his rude speech and smoking habit, and Xander was about at the breaking point. “I want to shag you,” he said again to clarify, and Xander squirmed.

There were a lot of reasons for an adamant no, disgust and disbelief not far from the top. Anya was among them, Harris men weren’t known for their fidelity but Xander figured if he were ever to cheat he could do better than Spike of all people. He had a lot of reasons, a lot of well formed arguments besides ‘hell no!’ – he wanted to say that “hey! Even I have standards!” He wanted to ask ‘why’ again even though he would never get an answer, wanted to ask if the chip had actually fried Spike’s brain and if he could smell it roasting. Wanted to know with absolute impunity that this was all a very strange dream and Xander would wake up in the morning with a headache and absolutely no idea that his subconscious was such a twisted little freak. It was, of course, a dream, nothing else explained the surreal swimming feeling in his brain and Spike’s tone of absolute sincerity. Still, he wanted to ask “Are you insane?” but all that came out was, “Yeah, okay.”

“Excellent!” said Spike, and that’s all either of them said for quite some time.

Spike moved first, his idea of a subtle seduction was crushing the stub of his cigarette under his boot and into Xander’s carpet. Xander was unusually quiet as Spike came across the apartment and tugged on his arm, closing fingers and thumb around his elbow and leaning in for a kiss. Xander let him, let him run his tongue across his upper lip, let him scrape his teeth against the pliant skin, let slick tongue and cigarette invade his tastebuds and pull across his teeth. It was completely unappealing, cold and wet, slick, the tongue wasn’t Anya’s, there was no hot press of flesh, completely unappealing, and yet not, a body he could almost imagine wasn’t there, chilly fingers causing shudders down his spine. He wasn’t really using his hands, he told himself, they were just dream hands that found themselves resting on Spike’s bony hips, and it was only a mental thumb that came up to rub the cool and pristine skin beneath the ever-present black t-shirt. Smooth and hard beneath his fingertips, completely opposite Anya’s soft warmth and the way her skin yielded to his touch and seemed to melt beneath his fingertips.

It wasn’t really him as they shuffled towards the couch, Spike’s feet moving forwards with confidence, Xander’s stumbling backwards until the backs of his knees met the oh-so-solid arm of the sofa and his little “Oo” of surprise was swallowed by Spike’s tongue. A hand that wasn’t Xander’s reached up, cradled the vampire’s jaw, ran its fingers across the delicate skin on his neck, tilting, repositioning, drawing him closer so that it was easier to kiss him without their noses getting in the way. There was a heat that started somewhere in his belly and dripped in red-hot swirls, building to an erection when Spike reached between them and lent his knuckles to the exterior of Xander’s jeans, softly stroking and fondling him through the denim; heat that shouldn’t have been possible because Spike was dead, but maybe Xander was generating enough for the both of them when his breath hitched and he jerked into the hand that had gotten that much rougher.

He couldn’t breathe, even when Spike freed his mouth to lick and nibble at the column of his throat, teeth scraping gently over his collar bones, too gently to be satisfying. Xander’s head was back, panting as his hands ran under Spike’s shirt, scrabbling at the cool hard planes of his back and chest, so different but still skin, and he tugged at the shirt, hiking it up around occupied arms and pulling until it was off with an impatient growl from its owner. Sharp angles and alabaster skin that Xander traced and kneaded, holding, dragging, bruising to get closer, to have contact and his belt snapped under the pressure of Spike’s insistent hands. Their lips crashed together again, heated, almost angry, tongues dueling not exploring and the hand in Xander’s hair was just shy of painful while his pants were ripped away at the expense of a button.

Spike grabbed at his hips, gripping hard enough to bruise and grinding them into his own as Xander gasped and squirmed, raking dull fingernails across Spike’s back. Again and again, rocking into each other hips crashing and teeth knocking together because Xander always wore damned boxers until they too were torn away and the button on Spike’s trousers finally yielded to frantic tugging and clumsy hands. It wasn’t hard enough, or close enough, it didn’t hurt enough with the chip refusing to die and Xander squirmed in just the right way, scraping a rough thumb across Spike’s nipple and they both went over the edge of the couch struggling, and grinding but never close enough to what they really wanted. God the denim HURT but it didn’t matter, rubbing against him, creating friction and Xander dug his fingers into Spike’s shoulders while Spike pinned him down on the upholstery that he had never liked anyway as Xander bucked up against him unconsciously.

Fumbling in a pocket and Spike settled between Xander’s thighs, holding him down, tracing muscles and veins with his tongue following the pulse of thick, heavy blood that he knew would be desperate if only he could have a taste. Licking and moaning and it was so close Xander’s heart was pounding real and hot while he thrashed and gasped for air that seemed so far away. Spike tongued a path from collarbone to sternum, pressing hard against the pounding organ that was just under the surface and he couldn’t give it up, following the trail down and dipping his tongue into Xander’s belly button, cock nudging into his neck but he ignored it. He retraced the line, dragging his teeth across sensitive ribs and circling one painfully hard nipple with his tongue as his fingers found the head of Xander’s penis, circling it gently, smearing precome down the shaft with delicate ease and Xander cried out at this first real touch, bucking gratefully into the hand until it disappeared and he cried out for that too, mindless.

Spike was teasing him, fingers ghosting everywhere but his penis, tracing painfully light touches across his balls, running down the smooth skin of his thighs and buttocks, delving between the cheeks and pressing gently against Xander’s hole. “Jesus, God!” and he didn’t care that he was thrusting mindlessly into the air, desperate for more friction as something wet and cool pressed at his entrance, and he didn’t care about that either because Spike was finally finally stroking his erection, gently, maddening and he was desperate for anything. Fingers scrabbling at the couch cushion and it was strange and invasive, a finger, because Spike had such clever hands, twisting and curling, moving so slow it was agony and he begged for more as Spike’s hand curled around his penis, dragging across this skin, heated and dark.

Two fingers now, scissoring and moving independently of each other, twisting and drawing out before moving back in and Xander twisted with them, bringing himself closer, thighs laying open, mouth begging for something “More more, please you’re killing me!” So Spike shut him up with a kiss that resembled a bite and crooked his fingers in a way that made Xander’s mind disappear and his whole body tremble. Invasive didn’t matter, the strange and uncomfortable had vanished and when Spike pressed at that spot again, deliberately eliciting a moan, Xander thrust his hips forward, twisting and dragging those fingers deeper into himself. He used his elbows as leverage, pushing impatiently against Spike’s hand while the vampire chuckled above him and added a third finger without warning.

Xander could feel his muscles shifting, the ache and the pervading sense of surrealism he had been desperate to ignore finally taking over and he clenched the new and unused muscles of his anus around Spike’s fingers, breathing in sharp and shallow gasps. Spike petted and soothed, wary of the chip and dying to get on with things because Xander’s wriggling and pained little gasps were making him harder if possible until he was aching and throbbing in time to a heartbeat he didn’t have, twitching and raining precome onto the couch. He was moving again, slowly in and out, turning his fingers slowly and repeatedly stroking Xander’s prostrate until the boy was gasping for another reason and he was rising up to meet that gentle insertion of fingers.

“Turn over, pet. Hands and knees.” Xander scrambled to comply, not willing to think of the implications of that command with Spike’s fingers still in him because his skin was on fire and if he thought about it things would be so much worse. So he was on his hands and knees, Spike pushing his shoulders down and his knees apart, pistoning those fingers in and out of him, full and stretching him until they were gone and Xander whimpered. He could feel Spike lining himself up against his hole, thick head of his cock just resting against the entrance before he pushed in with one brutal thrust and Xander screamed because it hurt, oh god it hurt but it felt so good too. Filling him up, breaking him in half and he sobbed into the ugly upholstery while Spike held perfectly still and the chip hadn’t gone off because he knew that part of him wanted to be reminded and the rest of him was screaming for release.

Xander was hot, and tight, and clenching the muscles in his ass desperately to make the pain go away, the pain that Spike could smell coming off him in waves, sharp and tangy and it blended so perfectly with the hot spice of lust and need. He wanted it, craved it, something he couldn’t have, the pain after the sour fear had worn away, and it smelled so sweet, something he needed, a victim, a body, hot and tight and desperate, and before he knew the boy could handle it he began to move. Out then thrusting back in, short strokes, hips and thighs smacking across Xander’s with punishing force, growing louder, and harder. Xander cried out and grabbed for the arm of the couch when Spike’s cock dragged across his prostate, in and out, striking that magic spot on every stroke until he was pushing back against Spike’s thrusts, meeting them with a soft grunt and an audible smack until Spike began to growl and the grip on Xander’s hips was so hard they might have broken. Oh please, oh please, oh please “oh” please “oh please, oh please, oh please” and he wasn’t sure when his mental mantra came pouring from his mouth, breathy and desperate on every stroke until Spike finally reached around and touched him, hand flying over his straining erection once, twice, and Xander was coming with a cry, Spike was right behind him, growling and snapping at flesh he couldn’t have, and the world flew apart.


It was after Xander retrieved his brain from the depths of space and he was able to move because Spike sat up, dug around in his duster, and lit another cigarette that he finally asked the right question. “Why?”


“Buffy…” It was not a name he had ever been able to say in post coital contentment, never bliss, and wasn’t his to say now. “You love her don’t you?”


“Sooo….” The word dragged out like a question that he probably needn’t have asked because most of him knew the answer.

“Only way I can hurt her innit?”

“She doesn’t know.”


In the very deep recesses of his tired mind Xander knew he ought to be upset. Indignant at least for having been so blatantly used, but he knew what he was getting into, knew and still wanted to rage and scream and verbally, passionately hate. Or sleep. “Oh.”

And on and on in absolute silence, Spike came back and again because Spike could hurt her like this, without her knowledge, without her consent, because Spike could hurt anything and this was how. Until it wasn’t; until Spike could scratch, and bite, and hit, and tear, caress, feel, bleed, nudge, touch her like he wanted to. They learned later that Buffy hadn’t come back wrong, hadn’t come back incomplete, she was as whole and human as any Slayer could be. It’s just, you always hurt the one you love.

The End

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