Pairing: very, very brief Spike/Xander/OMC, leading to Spike/Xander
Parts: 1/1 (Oneshot)
Summary: Spike witnesses Xander shotgunning weed with an idiot named Steve. And decides to join them.
Warnings: Recreational Drug Use And Sex
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I make no money off of them. This story is not intended to promote the use of recreational drugs.
Dedication: To the entire Spander fandom, for its awesomeness.
Thursday night, one A.M. in a grimy back-alley that reminds him of home, Spike’s axis is shifted from beneath his feet, because the center of his earth’s rotation is no longer the preservation of his own skin, but the fly that has been buzzing at the corner of his universe for the last too-long.
It happens like this.
He’d gotten a little drunk. Not drunk enough for a poet, certainly not drunk enough for a vampire. But he was delightfully buzzed, running a pool table, taking shots so that the balls bounced and clacked into each other almost in time with the music. Buffy was dancing in the corner of his eye, arms wrapped around Soldier Boy, promising things he was absolutely certain she could deliver. He didn’t look her way-- he didn’t want to. Red was at the bar, laughing at something Droopy Harris was saying. Glinda had her arm wound around her, and while she wasn’t laughing, she had the grace to smile. The demon bint had ditched the gang to watch the Magic Box, so the boy was flying solo tonight. No doubt he’d stick close to the bar and wander home reeling.
Spike had been playing an idiot called Steve. Steve was not a fun idiot, but he lost gracefully, and he let Spike take his money when he did, usually with a drunken smile. He was a kid, around Scooby-age, with a pale and pimpled face and funky curls that he’d let grow too long. He got drunk here when he didn’t have night classes. He liked Spike. In fact, he liked to look at Spike, because Spike was ten times his age and still hotter than anyone or anything else in the room most nights. He liked to talk with Spike, because Spike had stories that would fascinate any drunk man. He liked to flirt with Spike, because Spike was not above flirting back if he felt like it, and particularly not above flirting back while playing pool with an idiot.
But about halfway through his third run, he looks back at his opponent for what feels like the first time in twenty minutes (how long has he been running this game?) and finds Xander Bloody Harris with his arm slung over his shoulder, watching Spike demolish the table.
“I’m telling you, man,” He’s saying to Steve, waving his other hand to Spike’s billiards magic. “Never play him for money.”
“Jesus, Alex?” Steve jumps, like he hadn’t realized who he was leaning on, which is possible considering his current state. “Fuck, man! C’mere!”
Spike watches out of the corner of his eye as the man gives the pup a sloppy half-hug, then shrugs it off and takes his next ball.
“I know, I know. How’s things at the Slice? Rob still riding you hard?”
“Fuck no.” Steve sounds only too happy to fill him in. “Rob quit three months ago. Beth took over.”
“Damn. How’s it feel to be screwing the boss?”
“Pretty fuckin’ sweet, man.” The kid grins, and Spike rolls his eyes so hard they almost pop out of his skull. If it was pretty fuckin’ sweet, the kid wouldn’t be checking him out like he is right now. Like he wants to bend him over this pool table. “So what’chu doin’ now?”
“Construction.” Xander grins, his pride in the accomplishment clear on his face. “Got a promotion a couple weeks ago.”
“Good for you, man!” Steve is stupid enough to sound genuinely happy for Xander, and not at all envious. Which just goes to show what kind of brains it takes to be a delivery boy, in Spike’s opinion. He slaps Xander on the back just as Spike cleans the table. It’s irritating to watch, even out of the corner of his eye. Like watching two chuckling baboons.
Then, as Spike straightens, the skinnier baboon leans close to Xander and murmurs conspiratorially. “You know what I miss about you, though?”
Spike turns and watches as Xander’s eyebrows shift way up beneath his dark curls. His eyes are heavy, rich with something that looked like trouble, but can’t be, because Harris doesn’t do trouble. Not on purpose, anyway. But he says his “What?” in mock innocence that makes Spike wonder if the kid’s been practicing his cool—except it sounds too natural to be anything but him.
Steve leans forward and says nothing, grinning like a shark and tilting his head just slightly, just enough. It’s a look that says Let’s Play, and Spike knows it, because he invented it. It’s a look that has led many a mortal to their happy ends. But Xander meets it head on, eyes flooding with that richness that makes the demon in him hungry, and after a moment of completely silent conversation, his lips curl in a smirk that looks so tantalizing, it’s a wonder every eye in the Bronze hasn’t turned his way. His lips purse and drag one side up, cupid’s bow sliding into a lovely sort of crescent, and for a minute Spike wonders why he’s staring so hard.
Then he exhales a soft sigh and says “Yeah,” as if Steve's said something that warrants agreeing to. He nods to Spike, not even looking at him, though the way his dark eyes flick toward the table, it’s clear he’s noticed his stillness. “Pay Sid Vicious here his due.”
And Steve does. He hands Spike three twenties without batting an eye. But then again, his eyes are all over Xander. Spike takes the money, soft frown on his face, not really sure why he’s unnerved or… Well, not unnerved, not really. More like… More like wary. Like he’s witnessing something that he’s not supposed to see.
Then Xander and the kid leave out the back door, and he forgets about them, intent on another beer and another round of pool with another idiot. Except he doesn’t forget them. Not really.
Not the hot richness of Xander’s grin and the way Steve had centered his eyes on him—like he knew he’d had very little chance of landing Spike, but Xander was a sure bet.
The not-forgotten thoughts burn a hole in his focus, and he gives up halfway through the game, handing the guy one of Steve’s twenties and feeling in his pocket for his cigarettes on his way out the back.
At one A.M., he breaks out of the Bronze and into a grimy alleyway, clinging to a doorway speckled with dried gum and graffiti, and his world tilts toward the two figures propped against the other side, causing his body to stumble and his cigarettes to drop from his hand.
Steve, skinny pockmarked Steve, is pinning Xander to the alley wall, one hand on the cement behind him, the other secreting something between them. Their mouths are close, but they’re not kissing. They’re doing other things, though, if the way he’s pressing into Xander’s thigh is anything to go by.
Spike’s eyes narrow on Xander, and he sees it. His gaze is hazy, half-lidded, and his hands are working Steve’s fly, and a thin stream of smoke is pushing from Steve’s lips to his. Then Steve lets his lips go lax, and Xander leans in and takes his mouth in a soft, lazy kiss.
That’s when it registers in Spike’s brain, and his jaw goes slack, and he forgets his cigarettes on the ground.
Xander pulls back with a slick groan, head hitting the wall and curls falling into his eyes just as they open. He’s taking the joint from Steve’s fingers when he spots Spike, and for a minute he looks irritated, but then he seems to decide that he doesn’t give a shit who sees him getting high and making out with blokes, at least, not if it’s Spike. “You get bored fleecing frat boys, Fangless?”
“Fangless.” Steve snickers, forehead falling to lean against Xander’s as his hips slowly rut against the boy’s thigh. “Who’s Fangless?”
“The dude who just scammed you at the pool table.” The Scooby sighs, taking hit off the joint and letting his head fall back, eyes falling closed again, lips pressed together in a plush, tight line. His throat is exposed, and for a moment he is completely still, and it has to be one of the most enticing sights Spike will ever burn into his memory. Then he leans in, letting go of Steve’s fly to take hold of his curls, and presses his lips to his in a kiss that will no doubt taste like grass and beer and make lucky idiot Steve twice as high, because it’s Xander.
Spike can only imagine how fucking high Steve must be right now.
Loopy, the kid pulls away, pushing a slow, clumsy—but deliberate—thrust against Xander’s thigh. “I’m not fangless.” He chortles, pants slowly falling down his ass as his fly splits, and the brunette’s hand teases its way into his briefs.
“No. You’re not.” Xander kind of smirks, eyes falling closed again for a second before opening again and shooting to Spike.
Who’s just watching.
Because the sight is something that not only wrecks the image he’s always had of White Knight Harris, but also makes him want to break Steve’s neck and take his place.
With the chip, this is not an option.
So instead, he heads toward the toasted couple in three quick strides, stepping on his own carton of cigs as he goes. “Share.” He demands, and Xander smirks at him a little wider, a smirk that’s just too fucking gorgeous on his face. Makes him wonder why he never turned him while he had the chance.
Steve’s had his hit, blowing it out into Xander’s neck as he rocks himself into the hand that has wrapped itself around his dick—too sluggish to move as fast as he likes it. Xander plucks the joint from his lips and offers it to Spike, who takes it between his own, sucking in his hit and holding it. His eyes grow a little hazy, but they never leave the boy’s, and he finds himself leaning closer, peering into their bloodshot darkness, picking out every shade of brown from gold to charred timber, and some he didn’t even know existed. And then he drops his gaze to that pink, supple mouth and it meets him halfway, pressing their lips together and breathing out, letting every muscle in his body go lax and limp and halfway boneless.
His universe uncenters itself to revolve around the fly that is no longer the Pluto to his Sun but the Sun to his Earth, and he's suddenly Galileo, adamant before the church of his mind, demanding that it recognize the simple fact that his soul has just proven—and this is why poets should never get high.
Xander collapses into him, taking the exhale and swallowing its pungent taste, allowing their lips to touch and their tongues to brush, but no more. And his head falls back again, and he lets the breath slide between his teeth, and Spike feels him still, hand freezing where it is. He looks blissed out, and it’s beautiful, and the vampire lets his lips fall to his helplessly ecstatic Scooby’s throat—maybe in warning, maybe in invitation. He breathes out a soft sigh against that skin, turned on and hungry, and he knows it’s hot. He knows the weed makes his breath feel like steam. What he doesn’t know is how turned on Xander is, because just that little sigh makes him moan like he’s being touched.
Spike looks down.
Steve takes the spliff from his mouth and takes a hit, but Spike is no longer paying attention to him.
He reaches between them, pale boney fingers wrapping around Xander’s wrist and pulling his hand from Steve’s jeans. It’s sticky, a little shiny. Steve makes a sound of protest that he ignores.
Xander’s eyes open again, and they watch with deadly focus as Spike takes each finger between his lips, one by one, and sucks them clean.
The sound he makes is somewhere between a very gravelly moan and a hoarse little whine.
Steve leans in to give Spike a taste. Spike narrows his eyes on him and takes the joint away.
He growls it low, baring his fangs a little, and the kid’s eyes widen. He takes off, just like that, and Xander offers him an amused grin for the trouble, leaning back against the cement and stretching out, arms crossing above his head in clear invitation. Spike takes it, replacing Steve instantly, one hand slowly spidering down the boy’s stomach to the fly of his jeans where he finds exactly what he was expecting to find—a bulge.
It’s very, very nice bulge, Spike realizes as he offers the last toke to him. “Didn’t know you played with boys, Harris.” He murmurs, dry as sandpaper.
Xander takes the joint between his fingers, soft smirk on his lips. “I have played with too many dangerous things not to give boys a shot.”
Spike scoffs a little, one hand flicking open the boy’s fly, the other running his black fingernails over the warm skin of his cheek. “Yer demon bint know ye’ll cheat on ‘er for a toke?”
“S’not cheating if I’m shotgunning.” He murmurs, neither confirming nor denying. He takes the hit slowly, savoring it, before pulling the blackened remnants from his mouth and dropping them to the ground. Spike leans in, takes possession of his mouth, and this time he doesn’t leave the taste without tasting. His tongue slides along the boy’s, coaxing it alive, and they’re kissing, colors riding between their breaths, Xander’s hands gripping his hips and pulling him in, and fucking hell, when did he get so hard?
The second you collided with this alley. His mind tries to tell him. But he’d stopped listening a while ago.
When he pulls back he can still hear Xander’s heartbeat, thrumming double-time, and he knows it isn’t just the high.
“She’ll fuckin’ flip if ye come home smellin’ like this.” He hisses against his mouth, so happy that he doesn’t need to breathe, so sad that Xander does.
“So don’t make me go home.” Xander sighs, eyes wild and bloodshot and gorgeous as sin.
It’s then, when Xander rocks his erection slowly, carefully, against his that Spike remembers how much Coleridge loved opium. And why.
He takes Xander in hand, the hot, sticky cock already red and hungry for his touch. For a minute he just stares, because his mind is hazy, and the skin he’s holding his hot, throbbing with blood. It makes him groan, heavy, needy—he’s never felt someone this hot. He’s never felt skin so feverish, blood so quick. It’s a vampire’s dream, and he relishes it, tightening his grip on him and listening as he keens desperately.
“Fuck, Spike-!” He cries out, hoarse and uncontrolled.
For a second Spike forgets he’s high and whispers “You must be the Sun.”
And then he kisses him, no smoke between them, and his universe adjusts to the new planetary rotation.