Pairing: Spike/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's deeper than that; something primal as a wolf's midnight howl, and just as instinctively compelling. Spike has a problem, to Xander's benefit.
Words: ~4600
A/N: Written at [info]entrenous88, beta'd by the phenomenally fast and excellent [info]crazydiamondsue.


Lady Cat

It's not an itch. Whoever came up with that particular euphemism was a stupid piker, and almost definitely straight and male. It's never an itch that drives women into his arms, their centers hot and fluttering and far too empty, and he should know. He's had enough of them, ripe and wet as they let him push inside, hard as he wants, the slick give of muscle tight around his cock, to know that itch. is the wrong way to describe it entirely.

It's deeper than that; something primal as a wolf's midnight howl, and just as instinctively compelling. It's hunger, raw and powerful, a feeling of emptiness that cries out to be filled, a cold ache that needs to be rubbed into languid release.

Spike knows this, because he feels it. As a human he'd hated it: he wasn't stupid enough to miss the comparison to the lovely flowers he wrote sonnets and bad couplets to, and not masochistic enough to admit his growing desires - so polite, that word, for the torrent of need that cycled through him - aloud. William Peckham had had enough trouble in life to give his tormentors any kind of credence to their claims of 'sissy' and 'wimp' and occasionally the blunt 'woman'.

But in death, though. In death it was easier to think about. To actually think on.

Naked on Harris' bed, the boy safely busy chasing the Slayer's skirts, Spike reaches down to cup his balls, weighing them against his palm. They're full and heavy, as they always will be - he'd died unfulfilled, and so he walked his unlife with that same need. Or at least, that's what he thought; some of Angelus' requirements made him wonder if it was less about the body right before death and more about a vampire's insatiable need for flesh and blood. Either way, it works for him, and he likes it, caressing wrinkled skin that's petal soft where it isn't covered in coarse strands.

The need creeps up on him occasionally, another similarity to womanhood he could do without. It builds, a tropical squall in his belly that grows with twisting momentum until he can't think for want. It's not a good situation, really. Spike's allowed his body to lead him wherever it wants for decades, only occasionally taming it to his mind's - or Drusilla's - limitations. Allowing himself free reign is habit now, and his mind is too easily short circuited by the spreading cold, like winter racing across Wyoming's featureless landscape.

It makes him stupid, basically. It makes him do stupid things, desperate to give himself some kind of relief.

Lying here on Harris' bed is certainly one of the stupider things it's driven him to. Thinking about the cock he's caught glimpses of, big even dangling soft between Harris' thighs, veiny and promising to be thick.

Before, back when he'd first given credence to his needs, there'd been Angelus. Laughing, cruel, Heaven-touched Angelus with his ever-ready cock. He'd held Spike's need above his head the way William had always feared, doling out taunts of girl and priss and whatever insults had been fashionable - for Angelus was always fashionable - spinning his words until Spike was practically frothing, incoherent with hate and need that melded into something even more potent.

But for all that, Angelus had always given Spike what he'd craved. He'd given it eventually, sometimes, and often with promises to behave like the good boy Spike never was. But Angelus had loved to spread him over white satin sheets, studying the musculature of his body; following meandering, useless blue veins until Spike was incoherent with need, ready to rut himself back onto Angelus the moment he was given word. Given permission for it was always Angelus who ruled those little games. And when that permission was gifted, Irish brogue curled around Spike's need like a blanket, it'd been so sweet.

Spike gasps, yanking his fingers back up. Not yet, he promises himself, forcing his palm to curl around his cock, foregoing the smooth skin he wants to touch instead, tugging on it to fight pleasure with pleasure. For later.

Twenty years of discovering just how disgustingly powerful Spike's need to be taken had not taught him how to handle it himself, though. It'd been Angelus' rules he followed, Angelus whose cock he craved. But then Angelus had vanished into the sack-cloth and ashes Angel clothed himself in, and all Spike had had was Drusilla.

Not that Drusilla didn't have her own charms, of course, and Spike certainly enjoyed the sweetness of her cunt. But that only satisfied him for so long, red dappling his vision as his internal barometer dipped and the cycle started again.

She'd known, of course. Drusilla was dazzlingly mad, but never stupid, particularly when it came to Spike. She could read him the way a child read a picture book, his thoughts blocky and splashed with bright colors to her greedy gaze. Back in the early days, when she was still so lost without her Daddy and often even coherent, she'd occasionally tried to fill his role in their little family. She'd floated through the parts, terrible at impressions and even worse at the delicately powerful commands Angelus had issued, but she'd tried, curse her black heart. Toys were harder to come by back then, but she'd found what she could, strapping herself to things that glistened and wielding them with no finesse whatsoever as she forced him open and ready for the assault.

It'd had its charms, Drusilla's solution. And there were times when Spike missed the way she'd frown her little girl's frown, shifting her hips to try and find that elusive bit of pleasure she could never truly give.

But it hadn't been enough. It hadn't even been right, not satisfying him so much as stoking him into craving more.

So, like a good vampire, Spike had learned to take.

Harris' bed squeaks as his hips roll, creaking at the unusual activity it's supporting. The demon-chit is long gone, and Harris is unable to buck years of repression to simply do as he needs. Not while Spike there, anyway, and Spike's there. Often. Haunting the shadows Harris leaves, watching broad, strong muscle under ridiculous clothes, hands that bore calluses and roughened knuckles, fingers strong enough to send Spike nearly to whimpering.
And then he does whimper, body in control as it drives his fingers down past the sensitive strip of his perineum to find his own entrance. There's no graceful way to think about this, even fewer ways to do it, and Spike loathes each one even as much as he loves them.

The first half of the century had seen him go through a succession of minions, dusted as part of the afterglow since sex equaled power to a vampire. Things were almost feudal with Drusilla, and the possibility of someone forcing Spike's submission, capped with charming his dark goddess into forgetting about him ... That had been unacceptable.

Minions were abandoned except for those horrible, desperate times when he'd chained them down and had Drusilla suck them hard, then rutted himself on them. Even that wasn't enough, not with the memory of Angelus' hand hard and heavy against his back, holding him down. But it was something, and that was sometimes enough.

The rest of the time it was humans. Big, bruising men - Daddies to modern parlance - with cocks bigger than a child's forearm and a grunting, stevedore power that'd left him sodden and sated, hot from their sweat and their come, filled to brimming.

They were stupid men, more often than not and preferred that way. Any with a spark of intelligence were killed, never turned, no matter how much Drusilla cooed over their raw virility. They'd shared those mountain men, using their bodies and frequently draining them for afters - although not always. Sometimes, the best were allowed to live, wandering around with no real memory of the last few hours, bite marks bloody and glistening on their skin as they returned to their humble, meaningless lives.

For later, Drusilla used to call them. The for laters.

Spike wishes desperately that there was a for later here in California. He could go cruising, of course, since there are plenty of dumb beasts, all their muscle between their legs, wherever he goes. But the chip changes the balance, no longer a temporary gift of control but the potential of a permanent one. Spike's good at picking the stupid ones, the ones who'll vanish after a sneer and the swinging door shut in their faces. But if he makes one mistake, lets one with even the tiniest of brain cells swimming in decayed grey matter, well. He can't fight back against a grabby human, and he has no desire to become someone's bound and broken sex-kitten, a needy arse to squirt into whenever the whim arises.

No matter how appealing the thought is right then.

He catches himself moaning, a rumbling rise and fall like a sigh when the third finger slips inside. Toys are always fun, and Spike knows Harris has got a few left over stashed in the chest, under all his older clothes. He could take those out, find the one Anya had saved for those stressful days when she wanted something big to slam inside her and Harris just wasn't enough.

Stupid bint, Spike thinks. Toys are good, of course, and fun, but they aren't enough. They aren't real, not coming with powerful bodies to hover over you, blood thrumming to a beat Spike's hips always catch. Toys don't sweat or grunt or take control of the rhythm so that Spike is helpless and held down, his body given over to someone else's whims. Toys don't have hands to pinch or hot, hot mouths to kiss and bite with, finding all those good places that don't cease to exist just because he feels so empty, aching like a fucking girl with a fucking cunt, not wet and not hot, but craving to be both so he could just be -

"Oh, my god."

He looks a mess. Muddy pants, his shirt torn to expose a perfect arch of scrapes that stutter and disappear from one red line to the next, like he's been dragged over concrete. One eye is puffy, a vessel burst against milky white, and ready to swell up dark come morning. But it's his mouth, though, that catches Spike's attention: long and mobile and slashed with blood that glistens with bright, crimson drops in the light.

Spike wants that mouth.

He's got to play this careful. He knows that, slowly withdrawing four fingers from his own arse and lowering his legs so he has a better angle. Harris is exhausted and aching, but he's a bloke and there's nothing a bloke likes better than a good fight and a good fuck, with maybe a beer before he falls asleep. Spike's got to be a damned attractive offer with his arse exposed and prior position indicating just what kind of fucking he wants. The only problem, though, is this is Harris, who's more chit than man half the time, and other then being careful and subtle, Spike's got no ruddy idea how to get him on the bed and between Spike's thighs, where he damned well belongs.

"Were you bored?" There's an edge to Harris' voice, one that doesn't preclude the expected whine of on my bed Spike?. This one's older, rougher, harsh with a kind of resigned frustration that's aging bitter. "You knew where the toys were. Or were fingers enough?"

He's angry, Spike sees, and it's naught to do with Spike and his impromptu show. He's always been a shy lad, except when pushed, so when he yanks his shirt off without a hint of blush Spike has to swallow, and hard. Harris is bruised, all that golden skin over hard muscle softened like overripe fruit. There's not much discoloration yet, but Spike's nose is telling him all the parts that'll be so spectacular the next day. "Been run through a thresher, have you?"

"I don't know what that is. Unless it's the name of the demon that decided I was his chew-toy." Jerky, hard motions start in on the button to his trousers, exposing paisley-print boxers that are as dirty as his outer clothes, and torn along the inside seam.

Spike's eyes zero in on the half-hard cock pushing against worn, wash-softened fabric. Big. Fuck, he'll be a monster when he's fully hard, red and veiny and fucking perfect.

There's a harsh inhale, like it's nicotine laced and not just pure, mildew-stained air, and Spike yanks his gaze up to see midnight eyes watching him. Thoughtfully. Harris doesn't have the face for pensive, but those eyes of his glow against the whites, frankly considering as they run up and down Spike's body.

"Tell me no," he says. Demands, with a curl in his voice like a lazy cat, batting against prey already caught. It's incredibly sexy. As is the hip beaded with dried blood that's exposed when the boxers slide down a touch.

Now it's Spike's turn to feel lungs squashed into flat nothing. That's an offer, as subtle as any back room or reeking alleyway without the words to offer confirmation. Harris is smooth and precise as he takes a measured step forward, eyes still glowing embers as they study Spike's face.

"Tell me you don't want me to."

Spike licks dry, cracked lips. This is counter and cockeyed to the way Spike's imagined this scenario, and oh, he has. With all of the scoobies and their too-fast mouths and too-pretty bodies, but with Xander the most. That cock of his. "Want me to lie, then?"

He sounds like he's been guzzling whiskey straight from the damned still. The light catches just right and Spike can see as Xander's pupils blow wide, his cock twitching harder, pushing against the opening so that a strip of flushed skin is just barely visible.

Fucking yes.

Even with the stupid boxers, Harris looks sexy and smooth as he climbs onto the bed, kneeling to one side. That's a frustrating set-back, and Spike's about to order the boy to where he should be, stripped and lining up like the youthful mule he is, but a hand on his belly dissolves the words on Spike's tongue. He can only watch, helplessly panting, as a broad, broad hand travels down his belly to cup and curve over Spike's cock.

"You've been watching me," Harris muses. He tightens his grip, prompting Spike's hips to jerk up, but then the little bastard releases the pressure. Spike glares, trying to convince his body to move, to push and take - without pain - what he needs. But it's not moving, effectively pinned by Harris' gaze. "You've been jerking off to me."

Another squeeze, and another hip-jerk, shoving his cock against work-rough hands. Spike groans, humiliated and turned on more because of it - and then the little bastard lets go again. "Yeah, and? Not like I've been hiding it."

Harris' smile is ... cruel. Pleased with its cruelty and abruptly Spike is hurtled back to satin sheets and a fire crackling in the hearth, Angelus' beauty twisted into -

Swallowing hard, Spike deliberately rocks his cock against Harris' palm. A glittering smile is reward, the nod permission, and Spike mewls as he begins rutting himself steadily.

"That's better, isn't it?" Harris' voice is velvet over brick, a hard shove of a cares it slips down Spike's body. "The way you do it, sometimes, when you're so busy watching me."

Is it true? Spike doesn't know, can't make his mind work well enough to remember how it is he jacks off. It could be right, more proof of the deviant twist inside him, the one that wants things no man, no vampire should accept.

"You just hold yourself," Harris narrates. His eyes are on Spike's face. "Keep your hand steady and open, fucking into it like you can't wait for someone to actual pull your cock. Not even you. And when it's really good, Spike, when I'm in the shower with only the bottom half down, do you know what happens then?"

The little shit had known, Spike realizes. Taunting him, safely hid behind frosted glass that only showed shadowed impressions without ever delivering the goods. "Fucking cocktease," Spike growls, a burst of wet easing the path of his cock.

Harris smiles. "Sometimes, Spike, when I look at you, you've got a finger inside you. Fucking yourself like you can't wait for something bigger and harder to do it for you."

Spike's too turned on to think straight, so he doesn't wonder at the deliberately perfect phrasing. All he cares about it is that there's a question in that dirty verbalization. A promise that Spike has never been able to turn down, not even when he got some regularly.

He needs, insides prickling as they wait to be scraped and pummeled, tightening into unbearable pressure. The pleasure of fucking himself into Harris' hand makes it worse, promising a release that will sate nothing.

"Tell me no," Harris repeats.

Spike's not sure he can speak, so he's surprised when Harris laughs - bitter dregs twined up in the kind of glory Angelus had personified for so long. It makes Spike moan, makes his cock grow hard, internal muscles rhythmically squeezing around nothing at all.

"Do you know you talk when you're turned on?" Harris moves, finally, fucking finally, roughly shoving Spike's thighs up and away so his arse is fully exposed. "A lot of it's gibberish, or British crap I don't care about. But not all of it."

Christ, Christ, so he's been babbling out his need to get pummeled like a two-bit whore on the docks. Tomorrow, he'll care about it. Tomorrow he'll rant and rage at his own idiocy putting himself in this position. But right now, this particular storm's been building for weeks, the need climbing knives into his spine when more days slip past with no release in sight. Now that he's got a cock nudging against his outer entrance, he's not going to do anything to make it go away again.

He whines, rocking up into Harris' hand, then back down to the head of his cock, just barely close enough to share heat. Harris makes a hm sound, clamping his hand around Spike's cock and twisting it until it sends him scrabbling up to try and get away, mewling as the pain makes the storm swirl more fiercely inside him.

"There's lube by your head. Give it to me."

Spike's hands shake as he scrabbles for the tube, holding it out to Harris like tribute when he finally finds it. Harris smirks at him, an expression that's never been so dark or seductive before, dribbling clear, sticky fluid onto his cock. He doesn't bother slicking Spike, which Spike has no issues with at all.

He wants the burn, the tearing heat of being forced into. Needs it.

"I know," Harris says, almost a croon but for the disdainful lust underneath. "You want to be fucked. You want to be taken."

'Like a woman' doesn't need to be said. Spike hears it even as his head echoes with his own screams, Harris' cock just as big and painfully perfect as he'd always imagined it would be as it slams inside him. He hears each taunt, carefully gathered over the years as Harris stills his hips, balls-deep, leaving Spike with the fullness and heat he craves, but not the friction.

Spike howls again, demanding that Harris just fuck him already, a litany of invectives and enticements tripping off his tongue. Harris doesn't move as the words grow shrill and loud and thready with desperation, not until Spike hears himself break. Hears himself say please.

Nodding, Harris rolls his hips so he's in even deeper. "If you don't stop moving and shut up, I'll tie you down. And gag you."

That sends him shivering, legs hanging uselessly in the air as he decides. Continue fighting and he'll be tied up tight in the ropes Anya had bought special. Or, go still and mutinously submissive... Both are familiar - loved - but it's the later that has Spike's cock leaking even harder onto his belly, so he holds himself still, glaring resentfully and trying very hard not to moan.

Angelus was never this good. He'd relied on cruelty too much, pain instead of control, and his cock had been grave-cold.

Harris' is warm, bigger and thicker than Angelus ever hoped to be, forcing Spike to accommodate his girth. Pulling back leaves trails of fire Spike desperately needs put out before he squirms his way into Harris' promised punishment, but the boy doesn't taunt him this time, shoving himself back inside almost immediately. It is a shove, Harris' cock a blood-hot battering ram against muscles too long unused to this kind of treatment.

It's also phenomenal.

Hands plant themselves on either side of Spike's head, Harris leaning forward. "Lift your hips," he growled. "If you want it to feel good, you get the angle right."

Another sound, almost a keen, and Spike wraps his legs around Harris' lean hips as he lifts and twists until Harris' cock is gliding into him like it's on silk, sparks dipped in acid and laced with frozen carbon dioxide racing up to short-out Spike's mind. The pace is slow at first, Harris intentionally teasing while Spike probably says a stream of humiliating, blackmail approved secrets, and he doesn't care.

Because after too much of these slow, careful thrusts, Harris is finally fucking him. Each stroke is long and hard, shoving Spike against the rough weave of sheets that are polyester-based, not satin, and that's good, too. Sweat drips from Harris' body to Spike's, hovering over him so the light is blocked out and Spike can't smell anything but sex and sweat and Harris, alive above him.

Harris' blood is rushing, pounding through his body the way he pounds into Spike, and Spike loses himself in the sound of it, the faint scent of cuts dried to scabs. He's loud, he knows, moaning and begging for more - harder, faster, not gonna break, more, fuck me, dammit! Harris doesn't flinch under the assault, eyes always busy on Spike's face, not showing the lust that has Harris biting his lips and grimacing horrible sex-faces at him.

Spike shudders each time Harris bottoms out in him, balls slapped against his arse. His own sac is drawn up tight in preparation but he knows he won't come first. He can't, an amazingly mortifying fact that Angelus had always exploited. Harris is no different, offering him a sharp-edged grin as he looks down at a cock unable to flush as red and painful as it feels.

Their thrusts grow faster, harder, and Spike knows he'll have invisible bruises on his arse. Harris will have real ones on his hips and thighs that Spike can lick and suck on tomorrow, soothing them with his cool mouth. Christ, tomorrow, he thinks and knows he's said it moments later when Xander's eyes go obsidian hot.

After that it's easy for Spike to keep pace, to fuck himself against the monster that ruts inside him. He's begging, he knows, because even if he can't hear himself, Angelus gave horribly him falsetto imitations of it, often enough. Begging to feel come inside him, for his partner to take their pleasure while Spike still hangs on, unfulfilled and crazy with want. He doesn't know why this is a necessary part of it, but no matter who the partner morphs into, no matter how the steps change, the finale never deviates.

Harris is grunting like a bull, now, jackhammer thrusts that make him pant hot, wet breath all over Spike's face. Yes, yes, yes, Spike wants to chant and who knows, maybe he is? Because Xander moans like he's dying, the sound rattling around in his throat, fucking hard enough that he's practically in Spike's gullet, and then he's coming in hot, ropey spurts, filling Spike up, emptying everything into Spike's willing, pliable body.

Heaving, arms locked and damp with sweat, Harris pushes in a few more times, involuntary, as he forces his eyes back open. "Now," he orders, command as implicit as he knows obedience will be.

And Spike does, driving fangs into his own arm as he comes and comes until there's nothing but grey before his eyes and nothing at all between his ears.

When he starts seeing edges instead of hazy definitions, Harris is relaxing on the bed, hand tucked behind his head as he watches. Spike blinks at him, unable to do much of anything at all, which is a good thing. Otherwise Spike might inadvertently admit that no one, not Angelus with his games, not Drusilla with her enthusiasm, not even hundreds of men with dicks big enough for Guinness and his stupid book, has ever fucked him as well as one Alexander Harris.

Boy doesn't need praise like that. It'll go right to his head.

Harris purses his lips as he studies Spike. "Washcloth."

Spike doesn't have to feign his dazed blink.

"Bathroom," Harris extrapolates. "Get a washcloth and clean us up. Now."

Us? But Spike is already on his feet, shuffling drunkenly to the bathroom to get the requested wet washcloth. Back on the bed, he's the one to do the mopping, only getting up the worst of it before looking back at Harris.

The washcloth is removed from his hand, tossed negligently against a wall with a slap - but Spike can't comment on Harris' hygiene because he's being shoved onto his back, knees suddenly very large before his eyes while Harris' thumbs rub against the bottom swell of his buttocks, against skin too smooth and too raw from Harris' body.

He's fucking displayed for Harris, wide open for whatever the boy wants, and he blames how little he cares - how good Harris' touch is - on how sated he's feeling. It makes a good excuse.

Harris examines him for a moment, heat from his body soothing as it seeps into Spike's skin. "Red," he murmurs. "Red and swollen and tomorrow it's going to hurt when I fuck you again."


Spike makes a noise that lacks any recognizable consonants, and Harris laughs, slapping his arse companionably. "Sleep. And then tomorrow, I get to fuck you into the mattress again while you tell me all about this 'cycle' you have."

He wants to object. He will object. But Harris' body is warm and surprisingly nice to rest against after Harris drops him into the right position against chest and shoulder and the steady thrum thrum of Harris' heart. Strong arms wrap around his back, palms hot and hard against the curve of his arse, thumbs resting at the top of his crack. It's utterly, utterly humiliating - and Spike falls into sleep without so much as a wiggle.

It's not an itch, no. But Harris is certainly fucking good at scratching it.

The End

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