Requirements: S/X, theme? Hyena Xander and Spike, snark. Post chosen
A/N: Sorry othercat, it's not terribly snarky, as the story, for some reason, wanted to be mostly dialogue-free.
The Masai tribesmen told me that hyenas are capable of understanding human speech. They follow humans around by day, learning their names. At night, when the campfire dies, they call out to a person. Once they separate him, the pack devours them.
- The Pack
Spike swears he’s seen Xander Harris lurking about, swears it. He thinks he sees a flash of dark hair, tanned skin; a glimpse of a tall man with an eyepatch, and how many of those do you see in L.A.? But he turns quickly toward those flashes and nothing’s there. Vaunted vampire senses don’t help… super sharp eyes and the sense of smell God gave a shark don’t seem to make any difference and after a few days it’s starting to get on his nerves.
Angel’s no fun – the puppet spell wore off and he went back to the brooding Olympics; Charlie’s swamped with work and won’t go drinking. Wes and Fred are swanning about like the lovebirds they are and it makes Spike’s heart hurt for something he’s sure he’ll never have again. So, he’s on his own. The tiny apartment loses its limited charm after a thousand XBox games, so it’s out to the streets to wander like some magnificent poof, hoping for a vamp to stake between bars.
After the eighth vamp and the fourth bar it’s just too boring. He’s barely drunk and barely paying attention as he heads for his building. The outer door is dented metal and the lock is old and damaged – it always takes a few tries and couple of well placed kicks to get it open. He’s finally got the combination right when he hears it.
“Spiiiiiiiike…” The voice is masculine, but high and sing-songy, floating out of the darkness of the mouth of the alley across the street.
“Not in the mood, whatever you are,” Spike snaps, and it’s true – even he can have enough of the old rough and tumble some nights. “Bugger off like a good beastie.”
The voice floats out again, a little deeper, a little more urgent. “Spiiiiike…”
He turns, and a figure steps out into the light and leans against the brick wall.
“Harris,” Spike says, relieved that he isn’t crazy, but confused also. It’s Harris, all right, but he’s different. No loud shirts, no plaid, no baggy pants, no “don’t kick me” posture. The other man is leaning casually, wearing black jeans and a dark shirt, one black boot planted firmly on the concrete, the sole of the other pressed against the wall behind him. His head is up and he’s staring, dark hair pushed back from a tan face bisected by the strap of the worn leather eyepatch. He isn’t smiling.
Spike opens the door, gestures. “Well, come on, then.”
Harris doesn’t even seem surprised, just pushes off from the wall and crosses the street without looking. Spike notices the way he moves; smoothly, with his large body turned a little to the side, leading with chin and shoulders, never looking away from Spike’s face. There’s something new at work here. Things have changed.
They don’t speak on the way up the stairs, but Spike feels the eye on him, and Harris stays a little too close, just enough that Spike’s instincts are piqued and he finds himself pulling up to his full height and squaring his shoulders, jutting his own chin forward and managing to stay half a step ahead of Harris like it’s important that he do so.
Spike opened the door to the apartment and ushered Harris inside. “Beer?” he asks. At the other man’s nod, he steps to the fridge, stripping off the duster and tossing it over one of the kitchen chairs. “Thought you were in Africa.”.
Xander holds out a hand and takes the offered beer. “Kenya,” he says. “Interesting place, very… freeing.”
“What did you do there?” Spike asks, still getting an uneasy vibe. Harris is still looking at him, into him – that single dark eye watching his face, still staying just an inch too close. It feels like a contest, one Spike might lose if he looks or moves away.
“Found a couple of Slayers, built some huts and shit,” Xander says, sipping his beer. “Spent a little time with a Masai tribe. They helped me out.”
“Helped you out? With what?” Spike asks, sipping his own beer.
Xander takes another step closer, invading Spike’s personal space, and places his beer on the table. He deftly removes Spike’s bottle from his hand and puts it down, too. And then he laughs. All the hair on the back of Spike’s neck stands up at the manic quality of the high, quiet noise coming from Harris’ mouth.
“They helped me see things a little more clearly, Spike. Then I talked to Andrew – he told me you were back, and I just had to see for myself.” He leans in and inhales, his nose an inch from Spike’s neck, then does it on the other side. Spike’s knees nearly buckle from the proximity of so much heat and life and the waterfall of arousal pheromones pouring over him off of Harris’ body.
“What… what are you…” Spike begins, but the words turn into a long groan when Harris pushes his hot face against Spike’s neck and licks a long stripe from collarbone to jaw.
“I don’t particularly want to talk to you, Spike,” he says, taking Spike’s chin between his fingers and turning his head to repeat the long, hot lick on the other side. “I’m mostly here to fuck; we can talk later.”
Spike considers fighting, saying something smart or rejecting the advance outright, but Xander is hot and hard and Spike’s had about enough of hanging on the periphery of Angel’s little gang, being the one nobody wants. Harris might be the Slayer’s boy through and through, but his intentions at the moment are simple and clear. He’s rubbing an iron-hard cock against Spike’s hip and gnawing lightly on his neck, his hands sweeping up and down, nails digging in.
“Works for me,” Spike says, pushing hard against Harris’ shoulders. Xander takes a step back and draws one hand forward to cup Spike’s cock. Whatever Spike was going to do is lost to him then, and he helplessly thrusts into that hot palm. Xander drops to his knees and practically rips Spike’s pants open, and before a word or a gasp can rise to his lips, Spike is making choked sounds deep in his throat. It’s all he can do, because Harris is holding his cock in one hand and licking broad, wet stripes from root to tip. It’s methodical, almost ritualistic, the way he’s carefully covering every inch of skin, his eye never leaving Spike’s face.
He stops once Spike’s entire cock is wet with his saliva and smiles, that eerie laugh tumbling from his mouth. “Hi,” he says.
Spike can’t help the answering laugh that bubbles out of him. Wild, cocky, horny – this is not the usual Xander Harris. This one, he likes.
Xander’s grin turns into a gasp when Spike threads a hand through his hair and pulls him to his feet. Wrenching his head back, Spike kisses him. Harris’ lips are full and soft, and he opens so sweetly to the dominating kiss, taking it like a bitch. Spike can’t help but growl into it. He’s mildly shocked when the boy growls back.
They make their way to the inadequate bed, Xander pulling, Spike pushing, until they’re suddenly there. They break apart and strip quickly – this isn’t romance, the need here is to be bare, to be joined, so shoes and socks fly, jeans are stripped from legs and kicked away, and Spike finds himself turning Harris roughly, pushing him onto the bed face-down. He clasps the back of the kid’s neck with one hand and shoves his face into the mattress, groaning in appreciation when his hips rise, legs spreading, showing Spike his most vulnerable spots.
Reaching to the bedside table, Spike grabs the tube of lubricant he keeps there, popping the top and squeezing a dollop into his hand, all the while pressing the boy down. From the sounds and pheromones rising up, Harris seemed to be in his element, all the alpha posturing gone, clutching the sheets and wiggling like a worm on a hook. It’s a metaphor Spike can live with.
Harris’ hips twitch and Spike’s done with thinking, done with waiting, slapping his lube-coated hand down and pressing inside with a finger. Jesus, the kid is vise-tight and blood-hot, and he groans and pushes back. Too eager to wait long, Spike pulls away and slams back in with two fingers, making Xander yip loudly. It crosses his mind to inquire if he’s OK, but he shakes it off and pulls away to slick his cock. He’s so fucking hard that his own touch nearly sends him over the edge, so he has to wait a second. He laughs out loud when Harris waggles his ass like a puppy, asking for what he wants without words.
So Spike gives it to him. Hard and fast and with less care than he probably should. He realizes that once he’s inside. Harris is painfully tight, virgin for sure, and the soul actually pipes up and tries to make him feel bad about it. Fuck that. And fuck this – this beautiful, slick, hot tightness that holds him like a glove and makes him groan.
“Fuckin’ hell – so tight,” he’s babbling, and the kid is making those yipping noises and shoving back, ramming Spike home. He finally lets go of his neck in favor of a two-handed grip on Harris’ hips, vaguely noting the whiteness of this strip of skin, like he’s been outside in shorts. The rest of his skin is smooth and bronzed and sheened with sweat, and if Spike wasn’t quite so caught up in the primal joy of fucking, he’d lean down for a taste.
But tasting will wait; right now its all about sensation, slamming in again and again, feeling his balls slap against Harris’; being held punishingly tight, giving it to him good, taking out every bit of rage and frustration on this willing body, in this willing hole. Spike loses his rhythm then, because the kid is coming hard, shaking and shooting without even a single touch on his cock, like he’d been primed for this, just waiting for Spike to fuck it out of him.
Harris’ ass clenches and Spike’s hips jitter and he falters in his stroke, howling as his balls tighten and he lets go, fingers digging in as they freeze in a tableau of debauchery; spines bowed, heads back, necks corded, mouths open. One, two, three heartbeats later they collapse onto the thin mattress and Spike manages to keep his cock buried inside as he manhandles the panting body in his arms into a spooning position, the only way they’ll both fit on the bed.
When the phone rings, he contemplates not answering it, but he picks it up anyway.
The voice on the other end of the line is high and fast. “S-Spike? It’s Andrew Wells. I know this is weird, but have you heard from Xander Harris?”
Spike doesn’t answer; waiting for the wild rush of words he knows will be forthcoming.
“You see, he was in Africa, and apparently there was an incident with some Masai tribesmen who didn’t know about him being possessed by that hyena in highschool. Do you know that story? Anyway, turns out the hyena spirit wasn’t banished, only caged and something these guys did let it loose and it didn’t turn out so good for them. They’ll all recover… eventually. So, we’re trying to find Xander so we can get the spirit back under control. Have you heard from him, by any chance?”
Spike glances down at the body in his arms, and Harris chooses that moment to look over his shoulder. Dark eyes flashing and a beautiful, sated smile – he looks like the devil’s own darling and Spike makes his decision.
“Not a word,” he says, and hangs up the phone.