It hasn’t happened in thirty years or more, and the night is humid for the season, and Xander is lying naked beside him when it does. He is warm, pliant and solidly there, so there is nothing about him that isn’t right for the moment when it comes. It’s for this reason that when it comes, Spike falls in love with words, and—by consequence—Xander. It’s not the first time he’s fallen in love with words, but it’s the first time he’s felt anything for Xander besides contempt, amusement, or the occasional lust, on their better days.

It’s one of their better days.

Stretching his arms above his head, too lazy and too high to reach past Xander for the remains of their second spliff in the ashtray, Spike looks to the boy with bleary-eyed awe for a moment. “So you actually like fucking blokes.”

With a soft, derisive snort, Xander leans up on one hand and brings the butt to his lips with the other. “Wow. You’re quick.” And, like he tends to do when he’s stoned (as Spike has discovered in the last four times they’ve gotten stoned together), he starts giggling like a fucking nimrod. “Good Job, Spike. A for Attention Span.” His giggles pause for a minute as he grins. “Hey—that rhymes.” He continues, lips pressing the butt between them. He has gorgeous lips. They’re fucking ace to jam his cock through. Xander didn’t mind that either. He found that out last time. “Wait—wait—” He croaks after a moment, sighing the smoke out through his teeth in a bluster that makes it clear he has something to say. “No it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t, no.” Spike confirms, turning his head to look at him, his eyes kind of rolling in their focus for a moment as the room fishbowls.

“It does something though.”

“Yeah, it does.”

There’s a long moment of silence where Spike just drinks him in, taking in his silhouette, trying to figure him out. “So… You. You like fuckin’ blokes.”

“I like fucking.” He replies, sitting up, his form and its shadow hovering above Spike for a moment, his head and hands suddenly way larger than the rest of his body—like he stepped out of a funhouse mirror. Dropping the last of the butt into the ashtray, he snaps his baggie open and pulls out one of the three remaining joints inside.

He had no idea Xander was this big of a pot head.

He doesn’t think it’s the pot anymore, so much as the really high sex.

“Got yer demon bint fer tha’, yeah?” He asks, lazily reaching up and taking the joint from his fingers. His lighter is somewhere… by him. Somewhere. Ah, well. At least they’re on the floor. They’d discovered the second time ‘round that too much smoking and fucking in succession makes Xander dizzy. Which leads to him falling off the bed in a rather hilarious spectacle that Spike still wishes he’d videotaped. “From what I hear, yer not ‘sactly lackin’.”

A hand floats into his face. It’s holding the lighter. It’s probably Xander’s hand. He raises the joint to his lips and Xan lights it for him, and for some reason he finds himself sitting up again, looking around the room, bewildered with the very state of the universe. Everything’s lost all its edges…

“I’m not.” He hears Xander sigh. “I get plenty. That woman has got to be the master of sex weaponry.”

For a second he turns back to Xander’s prone form, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I mean, you know—Using sex as a weapon. But actually, that phrase works both ways.”

Visibly shuddering, Spike turns back to where he was looking. He saw something there before that caught his eye. Some sort of bright blue… After a moment’s search, he spies it again beneath a pile of catalogs and snatches it from hiding. A blue Sharpie. His now, natch. “So then what’m I doing here?”

“You don’t treat me like a butler with a built-in ATM?”

“My dick is also a nice feature.”

“Meh. Variety. It’s the spice of life.” He sighs, reaching over and taking the joint from Spike’s fingers. Spike pulls the cap from his marker and starts coloring his nails, marveling at how the color stains his skin like blueberry juice. Does it smell like blueberries? He breathes in slowly and finds that, no, it does not.

After a sigh of release, the boy drops back to the floor and lets the joint hang between his fingers. “She’s cheating on me, right?”

“Yeah.” Spike confirms without thinking, looking down at his fingers and wiggling them a little, letting out a soft laugh as the color blurs in his vision and his fingers grow and shrink and grow again.


“Observant, aren’t you?”

“Fuck.” He sighs, and Spike looks at him sprawled out on the carpet like that and wonders why he looks relieved. And then he giggles, and Spike realizes A) it’s probably the weed, and B) he looks really good like that. Like… Something he’d want to take home. “I’m a loser.”

“Nah, mate. She’s just a cunt.” He takes the joint from his fingers, shifting to lean over him and look down at the expanse of skin and man he’s got to play with. All his, in his opinion. He presses the tip of the Sharpie into that golden skin and signs, huge and sprawling, all the way up his side: Spike’s. The boy squirms for a second, looking down at him like he’s crazy, but Spike growls, “Nit-- ye just bollocksed my ‘K’.” and he drops back to the floor again, stretching his arms above his head like a display. A willing campus. How could he possibly refuse that? He finished his last ‘S’ and leaned back to take a look, kind of smiling at the way it tilted. It was sloppy, but the golden hue to Xander’s skin made the ink look almost purple, and he found that hilarious.

Below him, Xander smirks up at him a little, spliff between his fingers and his eyes only half open. “You done?” He laughs, offering it to Spike.

Taking it from his fingers, Spike slides a touch over his hand and tries not to smile at the heat of his skin. He fails. “No.” He mutters around his drag, closing his eyes and letting his brain buzz for a long moment. He hasn’t been this high since the last time they were together. It feels like Xander just keeps bringing more weed every time he sees him these days. It feels better, he supposes. Hooking up like this—even wanting to—makes more sense when you’re stoned. Particularly when you’re Xander “I Hate Spike” Harris. The smoke melts through his lips, making them hot, and he hands the joint back to the boy, using the Sharpie to write as much over the strong muscles of Xander’s chest.

Harris places the joint in the ash tray. “What’re you drawing on me?” He asks, going almost cross-eyed as he peers down at his chest, trying to read it.

“Jus’ yer given name.” Chuckling a little, Spike leans back and examines his work, laughing at the way Xander looks, covered in his graffiti. But the colors his eyes are seeing are a little wonky, and when he sits up the whole room looks purple, including Xander. He laughs out loud. “Ye look like a Trkehs Demon.”

“No I don’t!” Xander frowns, still looking down at himself.

“Yeah, ye do. When yer purple.”

“No—I mean, I don’t hate you.” He corrects him, pushing up on his hands, but then letting himself drop down again with a huff, like the movement was too much effort. “I wouldn’t’ve just tugged you off if I hated you. And I definitely wouldn’t share Steve’s weed with you if I hated you.”

“Oh.” Raising his eyebrows at this, Spike peers down at his words dumbly, trying to figure out how to fix them. Finally, he just leans down and adds a “^Don’t” just below the “I” and the “Hate”, technically making it Xander “I Don’t Hate Spike” Harris. “So it’s Steve’s weed, is it?”

“As opposed to, like, weed that… Just appears out of thin air? Yeah.” He laughs, turning over onto his stomach to reach for the spliff he’d placed in the ash tray.

Rolling over, Spike rocks his body onto Xander’s, mounting his waist so that his own ass is seated on the boy’s fine, tight one. He’ll get there eventually. When Xander gets over the anti-label bullshitte and realizes that getting head from Spike makes him lose it a lot faster than pussy from Anya. Not that he can really talk when it comes to anti-label. But Xander? C’mon…

“How come we only fool around when we’re stoned?” Xander asks, sounding bewildered by the concept of getting stoned at all.

Smirking softly, Spike takes the Sharpie and writes the question across the boy’s shoulder blades, his writing leaning in, then out, like wings. “How come we only fool around when we’re stoned?” He asked—The words stopped abruptly as he realized he didn’t know how to respond. Why do they?

“Would you fool around with me sober?”


He smirked, deciding not to think any more of it, his thighs tightening around that prone form so that it would take more give to roll over. Half-hard with just the heat of living flesh, his cock and scrotum dragged slowly over the boy’s crack as he arched over him, bowing to write more. Even as he wrote he got harder, his fingers drooping lax around the Sharpie, eyes falling half-lidded, making the words nearly illegible.

“How come we only fool around when we’re stoned?” You asked

and I wondered why too, because if given the chance to

taste sun and suspend madness and

feel mostly halfway sort of alive

I would like to do it while I know the difference

between your body and a journal.

“I suck at this game.” Xander sighs, shifting below him, which just makes it harder for Spike to focus. “What’re you writing?”

“Don’t know.” He replies, because that’s as honest as he’s willing to be right now. His Sharpie moves lower, to the small of his back, and he writes,

you’re both rot for my brain,

and the worst place for secrets

After a moment, he finds himself smiling, tracing that blue tip over the rounds of his ass, drawing lines up the cleft. Beneath him, Xander tenses hard. He can smell the nervousness, hear his breath hitch, and he closes his eyes and breathes it in, tasting it. “S’wrong, Harris?” He asks in a near-whisper, his body now straddling the slayerette’s muscled thighs, one hand spreading those cheeks apart as the other hand continued to draw, outlining that sweet ass, showing off its curves.

“I haven’t done that.” He finally responds, and Spike smiles, dragging the tip of his Sharpie over the round of his right cheek, marking it with an ‘X’. ‘X’ marks the spot. Now he’ll know where to start when he gets his fuckin’ bite back.

“Not askin’ ye to.”

“I hear some guys are into that.”

“It’s fun. F’ye do it right.” He hears himself say, dropping the Sharpie on the floor and spreading those cheeks apart, breathing out softly at the sight of his hole. Yeah… I’ll get there.

“Is it, now?” There’s a grin in his voice, and he feels him shift up on his elbows, and he has to look up and smirk back. The curve of his spine… With my words all over it… “Somebody’s been there, huh? You of all peo—Oh—Fuck-!

Gasping like he’s drowning, the boy arches back, his neck rolling forward and his fingers digging into the floor as Spike uses his position to taste what is almost his. That hole… Virgin-tight, tensing up just like he knew it would… Oh Christ, that taste. It’s not exactly appetizing, but it’s Xander, and he wants nothing more than to coax him open and feel the heat of him. Beneath him, Xander’s lost his mind, his hips spasming as if he’s not sure whether to jerk away or move into him—so he holds him open, dragging his tongue up the inside of his cleft, all the way back to that hole and lapping at it, tasting salt and sweat and Xander.

“Oh—Oh Jesus Fuck, Spike, What the Fuck--!

God, yes. Keep talking… He wants to urge him, because those words, those sounds he’s making—the breathless, semi-shocked moans of need—are making his cock stand to attention. But talking would mean pulling away, and pulling away would mean the end of those noises, and he just can’t bear the thought of that. He presses his tongue against that pucker, dragging it around the ring of muscle, begging it to open for him, to unclench.

Harris breathes out a harsh “Shit-!”, pushing up and scrambling to his hands and knees, his body slightly uncoordinated, but eager. Spike follows him, sucking at that hole, one hand winding around that body and between his thighs to toy with his balls.

The reaction is instant. “Fuck! Fuckin’—God, Spike!” He hisses through his teeth, finally cutting that off with a moan so hot that he has to reward him. With a rough hand, he grasps that heavy cock—Was he hard when I started writing?—and begins tugging him off, rimming him out as he does. Just feeling his hardness makes him groan, and he drags his tongue all around that hole, caressing it over and over, finally managing to poke his tip inside.

It doesn’t take much more than that.

“Oh, Fuck Yes!” He comes, spilling onto the floor beneath him, his whole body shuddering and his mouth hanging open at the sheer intensity of it. His hole clenches tight, then unclenches completely, and Spike can’t control himself. With a moan he abandons his sanity, dipping his tongue inside, causing the boy to spasm and shudder and moan like he’s still coming.

“Jesus…” He hears Xander whisper as he drops his arms back to the floor, his head resting on them, his ass still in the air. It’s beyond Spike now to keep from touching himself, his hand slick and warm with Xander’s cum, his tongue still dragging over the gateway to his insides, which is now pink and slick with saliva. God, when I have your arse… His mind whispers, and he grins with the thought, pulling away to look down at his handiwork, which just makes him want to…

“I… wasn’t expecting that.” Xander finally speaks, a little laughter in his voice, which still sounds like it’s about to crack.

Fuck, you sound good… Spike sighs, dragging his fingers up that body, leaning his head to the side to examine that ass. “Sound’d like ye liked it.”

That night, when Spike goes back to his crypt and digs out his old journal, he drags his thumb over the paper’s edge and finds it uninspiring. But he thinks of Xander, covered in his handwriting, groaning and gasping and coming all over the carpet, and he sets his pen to paper and doesn’t stop until the morning light.

Everyone is shocked the next day (particularly Giles), when Xander tells them that Anya has gone back to vengeancing. Everyone but Spike.

The boy’s shirt rides up as he carries a large, dangerous artifact to the back, and he can just see the faded wink of a buggered, misshapen ‘k’ peeking out from beneath the cotton.

He smirks. Then smiles. Then laughs out loud.

The End