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Notes: I know you can hear me, Saussy. And I just want you to know, this is all your fault. A few days ago I said I'd post Spander in waves until saussy begged me to stop. She hasn't begged yet, which has forced me to dig deep into the hard drive and expose things better left unseen. Like this, for instance. A third spinning plate, to go along with the boglescatverse and the busstopboxerverse. I was trying to think of a catchy name for this 'verse as well. I came up with "pornverse."
So, yeah.
Saussy? Nobody will judge you. Except _flaming_june_, but she judges everyone.
First part of this shameless kinkfest resides here. Events herein bear zero resemblance to events on the show. Timeframe's off, for one thing, and there's more gayness. Though not as much as on Angel.
Prawnverse part 2
He lies on the couch watching dogs, drinking a whiskey, and listening to the shower. Been a while since he wasn't the only one in his place. Been a while since that girl left the alarm clock behind. He has no idea why the gap; he just knows that he hasn't been interested, that he's felt weirdly out of it, out of the whole competition. Like when he was with Dru - he didn't look at other women, didn't much think about them one way or another, because he was with Dru. But he's not with Dru, now. And still it all seems sort of stupid. He needs to plug back in, he tells himself, watching his dog come in sixth. He's not surprised. It's a rerun.
Seeing Harris on that corner - recognizing him, that was a shock. Just thought he was another little tart, and not a very good one at that. Well, there was a market for the hesitant look. But those hurt-me eyes were going to get him into trouble in a gig like that. Act of mercy, picking him up.
The shower stops running, and he rolls his head on the arm of the couch, listening for the faint sounds of emergence. This could all be a big mistake - Harris could be throwing some kind of tantrum, might have run out alone for no good reason, and after a day or two of the real world he might turn right around and go straight back to the Slayer. With a long tabloid story of exactly how Spike had treated him. Which would be bad for Spike.
He takes a sip of his drink and considers his feet. He could be - no, he definitely is doing something fairly stupid. No idea what drove the kid off, no idea how he got here to the city, how long he's been cut from the others, whether he's really cut at all. It's an uneasy deal he's got with the Slayer - she doesn't trust him, she trusts the soul, so she doesn't hunt him down and make his life miserable or really short. A fine balance. Dicking her sidekick could definitely throw that out. But. Dicking the Slayer's sidekick - He's a little hard, a little ready to be careless, just at the thought. And that's it, really. That's how he's always operated, for better or for worse.
The bathroom door opens and Harris pads down the hall to his room, where the cot's now unfolded and crankily waiting to snap closed on him in the wee hours. It's the cot Spike used to sleep on when he first took the place. Went straight, took a job - Jesus Christ, he still can't believe it - and didn't have any money. The only furniture was the cot and a couple of milk crates. Sad punter he was, begging advances on his first paycheck to buy ferret's blood so he wouldn't starve.
He lies there sipping his drink, thinking absently that maybe he should turn the heat on, and listening to Harris get dressed. There's a smell of shower in the air now - hot mist and Spike's own shampoo. And Harris. He smells warm and bloody delicious, and if he doesn't hurry up and get his freeloading ass out here, Spike's going to get up and go take the first month out of him on the cot.
A minute or two later, Xander's in the doorway. Same beat-up jeans and workshirt, because in all likelihood he has no other clothes. Not with him, anyway. The shirt's just half-buttoned now, he's working on the rest as he stands there, and Christ, he must know. Wet head still dripping down his shoulders, face flushed pink from the shower. He's shaved, which makes him look even younger. How old is he, again? Spike tries to remember if he ever knew, can't, and takes a flying leap. Eighteen? Nineteen? Not twenty yet, probably. Somehow, he feels like twenty would show.
"Hey." Xander's still buttoning, not looking up yet. He sounds normal enough. Like... just a guy, a couch-surfing friend, and again the soul tries to make a suggestion. Spike reaches over and pours a few inches of whiskey into the second glass, waiting on the coffee table.
"Here." He shoves it over a few inches with one finger, then goes back to the television. Harris gives up buttoning, wipes water off his forehead, and comes over to take the glass. That close, he smells so good that Spike flashes involuntarily on a few frames of a lurid mental movie. Warm limbs, begging. He rests his glass on his crotch, the cool base some comfort.
Xander doesn't seem to have noticed. He's said a thanks that Spike has hardly heard, and retreated with his glass. Spike's stretched out along the whole couch, and he's not moving, so Xander, after a moment's hesitation, sits down on the floor with his back against the couch by Spike's legs. There's nowhere else to sit. It's still not an overfurnished flat.
They watch dogs for a while in silence. Or at least Xander watches, his knees pulled up to his chest and his whiskey cradled in there somewhere. A couple of sips have him glassy-eyed, he's so skinny. Big dark shiny eyes, fixed on the screen like he's fascinated by the technology - how do they fit those little dogs in there? Eighteen, must be. And raised on the cathode ray tube. It's a comfort, no matter what channel it's on. Just light and noise. Spike can appreciate the appeal. He can also appreciate the appeal of the water running down Xander' neck, and the soft set of his lips, from the side. After a while he puts his glass down on the coffee table and reaches out to brush his fingers through Xander's hair, just behind his ear.
Immediate reaction: Xander flinches, turns, and gives him a distracted, uncomprehending look. He's been lost in the television, he's forgotten why he's here. Spike raises an eyebrow, then leans up a bit and curls his fingers into a fist in the collar of Xander's shirt. He tugs.
Xander pulls back automatically, sloshing whiskey down his shirtfront, and Spike lets go. Pre-soul, he wouldn't have done that. Well, pre-soul he'd have yanked Harris's innards out in the street. But that's not the point. The point is, he doesn't want it to go like that. He wants Harris - well, if not willing, at least resigned. Cooperative. Wants him with open eyes and open mouth and that look on his wide open face. Look of a man taking it because he has to. Because he has no choice.
Even the soul seems to feel he's entitled to see that look on someone else for a change.
"Door's there," he says. And waits while the realization blooms across Xander's face, pretty and pale, bleaching his cheeks, and damn if he wasn't thinking this was a free ride after all. Where's he been all this time, exactly? It's almost enough to make Spike smile. Except that Xander's still staring at him like he's found a fly in his soup, and maybe he's going to go for the door after all. Must have thought Spike was a friend, so no strings. But Spike's not a friend. Not his friend, at least.
"Up to you," Spike says, keeping his voice calm, like he doesn't give a damn what Harris does. He doesn't, really. He's no worse off if Xander walks out; he's got whiskey and dogs and a roof over his head. Xander's the one who'll be cold tonight. Who'll be trying to figure out some other way to make forty bucks for a motel room. "Won't stop you if you want to go. But if you want to stay... " He lets it hang, takes a sip of his drink, cool as you like. Sees Xander's eyes flick automatically, just for an instant, down to his fly. That's the feeling he wants - that little rush of power. He could get used to feeling that.
Xander opens his mouth, seems about to say something, then licks his lips and keeps quiet. The whiskey in his shirt is soaking through, hazy alcoholic perfume. Finally he says quietly and without conviction, "I don't do that stuff."
Spike laughs. This is worth the price of admission, even if it goes nowhere. Harris's eyes are big and black and desperate, his fingers tight around his glass. Probably doesn't even know he's still holding it. Spike just lies there, smiling a bit, rocking his feet back and forth on the arm of the couch. "Cold out," he says after a minute. Just making conversation.
Harris stares at him, two circles of color high up in his cheeks now, and for a second Spike thinks of the temper he used to have, the one he inherited from the yob who lived upstairs and yelled all the time. If he's still got it, now's the time it'll come out. On the other hand, Harris isn't much of a threat these days. Hasn't seen a square meal in a couple of weeks, by the look of him. You could fold him up and stow him under that cot if you had a mind to. Especially if you happen to be a chipless vampire with a soul you've spent a year learning to bargain with.
He lifts one hand, one finger out of it, and crooks it. Gives Xander a choice: in or out. He's had a shower and a drink and a bite to eat, that's charity enough.
They stare at each other a few more seconds, Harris shaking slightly, and Spike has to suppress the grin that wants to spill out across his face. Finally Xander's eyes drop, and he stands there staring into some alternate dimension in his glass. Not going to scrap, then. All right. Well -
Xander sits back down on the carpet, same spot he was just in. Eyes back on the television, like nothing's happened. Spike puts his hand out and runs his fingers through Xander's hair, and Xander doesn't move. One thumb presses the rim of his glass, over and over again. After a minute or so he seems to realize what he's holding, and takes another quick, long drink. His cheeks are pink, flushed.
Spike lets himself grin now. "Good boy," he says, and finishes his drink.
They watch television for a while, Xander obviously not really seeing it, Spike not really caring, and then Spike's fingers close in Xander's hair and he pulls. Xander doesn't get it at first, and Spike pulls harder, until Xander makes a low, persecuted whimper and gets half up on his knees, awkward, head tipped back and eyes rolling to try to see Spike's face, figure out what's going on. One hand half-raised toward Spike's, but not touching.
Spike looks at him lazily, and nods at his own crotch. Xander's eyes roll away, and he swallows again. With his head pulled back like that, it makes his throat click loudly. Spike's mildly amused.
"Go on," he says, and lets go of Xander's hair. Xander hesitates, and Spike takes a drink and watches him. It's started to rain; he can hear it on the windows.
Finally Xander turns around and kneels beside the couch, undoes Spike's zipper with shaking fingers, and then doesn't seem to know what to do next. Spike's not really hard yet, just... interested. The other thing that can happen here is that Xander can flub it, and be turfed. No points for effort.
But Xander's looking so unnerved, so outright freaked, that Spike takes pity on him. Takes some of the responsibility away. He puts a hand around the back of Xander's head and exerts gentle pressure. Downward.
Xander resists the faceplant, but lifts one hand and touches Spike's cock lightly with his finger. His fingernails are clean and neat now, right out of the shower. There's nobody as fastidious as a street kid, once he has the means. His finger trembles slightly. His face is scared and fascinated, and his lips are wet. Spike lets him look, while his cock hardens under Xander's pale, trepidant finger. Maybe he overestimated how much experience the kid has in doing this. Opens up whole new angles, actually. Could be interesting.
"Go on," he says again. He can feel warm, nervous breath on his skin now, and he strokes the back of Xander's head gently. Xander blinks fast a couple of times, then turns his face to the side. Just sits staring at Spike's belly, and watching the wheels turn, Spike's suddenly sure he's going to just lean back on his heels, stand up, and walk out. Nothing stopping him. And no matter what he's done on his street corner so far, he probably hasn't done it for anyone who knows his name.
Then Xander's eyes go a little darker, a little flatter, like the thin skin of ice over a puddle. He gives a little sigh. Turns his face back, opens his lips and leans down. A quick, light lick over the foreskin. God, he's got a pretty tongue.
"Good," Spike says softly, hand still buried in the kid's hair. "Now let's see what you can do."
Xander gives him an unreadable sideways look, then leans further down and rubs his cheek along the length of Spike's cock. He's shaking all over; his shoulders are trembling, his hands are fists against the side of the couch. He pulls back, frowns in concentration while he pulls the foreskin back, and then opens his lips and takes the wet head of Spike's cock into his mouth.
It feels amazing, feels so fucking good. He lies there grinning, watching the kid try to do a decent job, feeling him try to keep his teeth clear, use his tongue over the tip. God, yeah. Why hasn't he done this in so long? What's wrong with him? He gets a hand on the back of the kid's head and pushes. The kid automatically tries to push back, but Spike doesn't give ground. He holds him there by his hair and the collar of his shirt, feeling him struggle and choke, start to panic, then somehow talk himself down till he's quiet again. Good thing. Spike's not sure he could let go if he wanted to, and he doesn't want to. Not hardly.
It's fucking great, it's all fucking great. His hands in Xander's wet hair, the little sounds the kid makes when he starts thrusting, slow and shallow. The smell of fear and angry, humiliated lust. The view. The Slayer's boy is sucking him off, doing a pretty crap job of it really, but Jesus, he could come from the sight alone. His cock shoving between the kid's friction-pink lips, wet halfway up its length with spit and precome. The black lost look in Xander's eyes, the way his fingers twist at the fabric of the couch. Jesus.
"That's good," Spike tells him, not really lying because sure it's clumsy, but if it was any better it'd have been over already. "Good boy." And pushes in a little more, while the kid's hand clutches his hip in panic, and Spike's fingers soothe him behind his ear.
It's so good, so new and unconsidered that he gets a little closer to the edge than he means to, and has to grab Xander's shoulder and yank him off. Not the politest thing to do, but Xander doesn't seem to care. He's coughing, wiping spit from his lips, water from his eyes. Starts to lean back on his knees, but Spike's hand keeps him there.
"Not done with you yet." Xander gives him a startled look, mouth still wet and wide, and he grins. "Bedside table," he says, shoving the kid back onto his heels. "Top drawer." Xander just sits there, slack-jawed, puffy-lipped, eyes too shiny to be tracking. Staring. Thinking he's earned his keep already. Well, he hasn't.
"Top. Drawer." That gets through, and the kid gets up - front of his trousers tented, that's a nice touch - and stumbles off to the bedroom. There's the sound of the drawer, a few seconds of thoughtful or appalled silence while he looks over some of the stuff that's in there, and then he's coming back. Slowly. Not a complete idiot after all; smart enough to know it's lube that's called for.
"Good job," Spike says again, and holds out his hand. "Give it here."
Xander hands it over and steps back right away, as if he can just dissociate. As if whatever Spike wants lube for, he can take care of it by himself. Spike gives him a skeptical look.
"Ever done this?" He flips up the top of the lube bottle, neat ominous click. The kid's eyes are drawn to it, as if Spike's flashing him a lit stick of dynamite. He doesn't even have the brains to cavil; he just shakes his head. Pulls his eyes away fast, but he still has the hard-on. Kind of a giveaway, that.
"C'mere." Spike puts out a hand, as if asking for help getting up, and after a second Xander steps forward and awkwardly takes it. He's hot, his skin is damp and flushed. Spike pulls him down onto the couch, onto his lap, so he's sitting a little awkwardly, sideways. Holds the bottle up. He's got a soul, after all. "Here." He takes the kid's hand, unfolds it, holds it out palm up and drops some lube into it. "Feel that."
The kid closes his hand tentatively, runs his fingers against each other. He doesn't look relieved.
"'s gonna feel good," Spike says, putting a hand into Harris's lap and unzipping his fly. He startles, eyes flying wide open. "Shh, it's fine. Just gonna let you feel - " He's got lube in his hand; he runs it over the kid's cock. Nice cock. Hot and thick, moving in his hand. The kid's eyes flutter, and he lets out a long, low breath. "'s good, right?" He starts jerking faster, takes the kid right up to the edge, then lets him fall back. "Now you do me."
The kid's still got the handful of lube; he looks at it for a second, then reaches awkwardly behind and runs his fingers over Spike's cock. Hot and firm and slick, and his eyes are so wide and dark, his lips wet, his cock bobbing against his belly; Spike closes his eyes for a second, wrestles internally, and thinks,fuck it. There'll be plenty of other times to draw it out. He grabs Xander's hand, runs more lube into it, and another dose in his own. "More," he says roughly. "And get your trousers off."
That takes a little doing, Xander shying away from it, but he helps out with a yank or two, and then the kid's basically naked, just the half-buttoned shirt dangling from him. Another time he'll get that off. Right now he's busy. He puts Harris's hand on his cock again. "The more you do that, the better it'll be." That takes a second to sink in, and then the kid takes firmer hold of him and he has to stop himself from just throwing restraint to the winds and launching into him.
Instead he lets it go for a minute or so, then sits up and gently pushes Xander down onto his hands and knees. He tries to buck it, get straight back up again, and Spike keeps a hand on his shoulder.
"Easiest like this," he says. "Trust me."
Xander still resists, pretty lamely till Spike gets a lubed hand between his legs and parts his buttocks. Then he jerks all over and tries to scramble to his feet. Spike yanks him back down, knees his legs apart, and runs a lube-slick hand from his balls to his tailbone. There's something about it, a man kneeling over like this, like he's waiting to be beheaded instead of fucked, that gets Spike every time. He's hard as iron, and he wants to screw the living daylights out of something.
So he does. He slicks Xander's ass with enough lube to keep him quiet, keeps a hand on his back so he can't squirm away, and shoves in. Xander sucks in a breath and gives a little sobbing cry, and Spike closes his eyes in ecstasy, slick tight hot ecstasy. He pushes hard, gets all the way in. The kid's tight as a glove inside, soft as satin. He's shaking, sweating, maybe crying a little. His cock is hard against his belly, against Spike's steadying hand. Spike pulls out, almost all the way, looks down, and watches his cock disappear into the kid's body.
"Oh yeah," he says, stupidly, completely lost. "Fuck, God, yeah."
Xander rasps something in response-Awgod-and he gets a hand up around his chin, his jaw, bracing and comforting. "'s okay, it's good, feels good - " He never makes sense when he's fucking. Just wants to praise the hell out of the kid for being such an unexpectedly sweet lay, for pulling him in like this, making him want to do this full time, all the rest of eternity. "Good, yeah, that's it - " And so on. While he drives his cock in, hips snapping, watching Harris's back strain and ripple, thin muscles under thin skin, and it feels so good, he leans forward and covers the kid, pins him and fucks him sharply, ruthlessly, while he gives little supplicating cries, inflammatory cries, and finally Spike loses hold of the thread completely and comes inside him, shoving him brutally, intentionally forward with the last thrusts, knocking him almost off his hands and knees and then falling over onto him in a near stupor, still buried inside him.
That's Xander's first night in the flat.
