*****

Blowing the boy who used to beat you up in grade school is a serious weird-on. There's excitement of course, plenty of excitement as Xander's head bumps back and forth, slicking hungrily over the pulsing flesh of Larry's cock. But there's guilt, too, as if he's betraying his own younger, beat-up self. Plus a big old can of worms over the fact that he, Xander, has recently figured out that he's enchanted. Marked by a magic spell.

Irresistible.

So that means Larry can't say no.... ?

Which is nothing that Xander cares to think about. And Larry's not complaining. His hand's on the back of Xander's head, big, callused, gently pushing. Shoves which are less about impaling Xander's mouth than they are imploring him to speed up for Chrissake. He squeezes the base of Larry's cock, sucks hard on the head and is rewarded with a groan that puts a serious mute on the weird. You're putty in my hands, bullyman. It's fun.

His own cock is singing in time to the rhythm, trapped in a pair of light summer shorts but getting a good healthy bump and grind just the same. They're in the Bronze equipment hole, and there isn't nearly enough room. Xander's crouched, folded up so tightly that every time Larry moves the pressure on his own, excited flesh increases.

Another groan. Larry shudders and Xander's mouth fills with hot and salty. He savours the tang of it, traces lines down Larry's thighs with his one free hand, and then attempts to tuck Larry's cock back into his pants. Not because he wants to, but because quarters are so cramped it might get a friction burn if Xander manages to stand up.

"Music, Harris...." Larry hisses as he lifts Xander to his feet. They're nose to nose in the tiny space now, cock to cock and toe to toe. "No music."

Xander kisses him, not thinking about what that means. Rubbing Larry's nose with his own reminds him, again, of their past of mutual antagonism. Blowing the bully. Weird.

Then the penny drops. No music. The Bronze has closed while they were in here. They're probably locked in. "Come on," he says, nearly dislocating his arm because that's the only way to unlatch the equipment room.

***

Getting out of the Bronze after hours is no harder than getting in. There's a whole menu of options for escape--skylight, the broken window by the rafters from the last big vamp attack, even the back door. Xander could have them out in seconds but Larry's never done the night prowling thing, and he's oddly fascinated. Which makes him seem hopelessly innocent. Xander realizes anew that the life he's normalized to has been touched by strangeness and the dark.

Which gives birth to a whole new experience--suddenly Xander's feeling protective. Of the school bully. Who's roaming the empty Bronze with this delighted, silly look on his face, climbing the pool tables, tiptoeing across the bar.

"You got any money left? We could help ourselves to a couple beer, leave the cash out with the bottles so they know they weren't ripped off..."

"Shhh!" Xander cuts him off suddenly. Did he hear something outside?

Yes. There it is again. And this time he recognizes it. Cockney accent, crooning what's almost certainly a Sid Vicious song.

"Time to bail." He drags Larry across to the stage, shows him the ropes and the skylight. The oft- demolished door to the Bronze is already rattling.

"Fee fi fo fum, ducks!"

"Who the fuck is that?" Larry asks.

"Just a guy," Xander says. Still wanting to protect him. "Listen, Larry. If I'm not right behind you, go to the library, okay? Tell whoever you find there that Spike's in town."

"I smell the blood of...."

"Spike's in town." Larry's suddenly businesslike. "Got it." He slings himself up the rope as the door bends, shatters, letting in a woosh of outside air.

And there's Spike, as advertised. Cocky smile, narrowed eyes, leather jacket. Good humored and sober. Xander wonders if that means Dru is around.

"Hullo, Xander. Need another little favor from your witchy friend. You wouldn't be hiding her back there, would you?"

"No." Behind him, the ropes rattle.

Spike's face grows fangs and demonic knobs. "S'all right if it's not her. I'm feeling a bit peckish, as it happens." He crosses the floor with breathtaking speed and catches him by the throat, a loose grip, but still unbreakable.

Xander hears--but can't raise his eyes to check--that Larry's at the roof now, fumbling to open the damn skylight.

"Gonna try something, ducks? I can still see where I cracked your head last time." Spike traces a line on Xander's forehead, parting his hair. "Why don't you go sit pretty like a good hostage and after I've had a nosh we can go looking for Willow together."

"Let him go," Xander squeezes the words through the vise grip.

"Go and get help? Go fetch the Slayer? I don't think so." He's reaching past Xander for the rope with his free hand.

And Xander's not keen to have his head split again, but he's not about to reel Larry into the ongoing Sunnydale nightmare. Or revisit the 'Spike terrorizes Willow into doing a spell' thing. Life's too short to waste on reruns, after all.

"What do you want her for?" he asks. Buying time. Just a few seconds, to swallow his nerve and see if he can really do this. If he's really enchanted. If he can really have anyone he wants.

Wanting Spike, though, that's gonna be a bit of a mental exercise.

"Dru's gone to ground. Hiding from me. It's fun, but I'm getting impatient."

Look at him, Harris, Xander tells himself. He's pretty, prettier than Larry. Way prettier than Angel. He's got a sense of humour, and Mom always said that was important in a man. Nice build, good clothes... and he does smell good. Spicy and strangely devoid of human odour. Clean like rain.

"Spike," he says quietly, as the demon tugs the rope. Larry curses and the skylight rattles, but Xander's getting hard again.

"In a moment, love," Spike says, distracted but still on the hunt.

"*Spike.*"

And just like that the vampire forgets about Larry. His head swivels and his eyes widen and he's staring at Xander. Hungrily.

Shit, oh, shit.

*****
Part 2:

"Come on, Xander, you didn't expect me to fuck you in the Bronze?"

Xander doesn't say anything as Spike drags him down the back streets. Willow's forgotten, Larry's forgotten. What he needs to do now is get away himself. But Spike's cold hand is clamped on his wrist like a manacle.

"Setting myself up for the Slayer, back to the door, cock up your ass?"

A bit of a chill. He's still horny, still concentrating on wanting Spike, but hearing it put that bluntly puts the squeeze on his guts. Xander and Larry had barely proceeded to mouthplay. Now he's gonna get fucked. By an undead, inhumanly strong...

"Though it would almost be worth it to see their faces."

Don't think about it. "So, where are we going? A tacky motel? Or did you maybe take over the rent on Angel's old bachelor pad?"

"Leave it out, man."

"I was just thinking, you know, since staying out of town seems to be a part time thing for you..."

"Angel's bloody apartment. I'm a romantic, remember?" Spike spins on one toe, swivelling so Xander's next step takes him dancing close. The iron grip doesn't loosen, but Spike's free hand is behind his neck, pulling Xander in. Cool electric lips press hard on his; a clove-scented tongue slides into his mouth. There's a possessive assurance to Spike's touch that makes Xander weak and horribly aroused all at once. His heart overdrives--he pushes himself into the embrace, feels his neck stretching as the tongue probes deeper and the force bends his head back.

Then the pretty, bad-boy mouth is beside his ear. "Captain of the football team, Xander? I thought you had better taste."

"I thought he tasted just fine.." He chokes the last word down as teeth graze his throat.

"Fear's sexy, isn't it love?"

Eyes huge, he nods. Not because he wants to, but because he's got an erection the size of a stake. Lying seems less than smart.

"Come on. We're almost there."

"Great," he rasps, and then Spike's towing him again.

***

'There' turns out to be the sex store. Spike drags him over the threshold, kicking in a back door and then brushing a negligee-clad blow-up doll off a plush blue chaise-lounge. Dildoes crowd a shelf on the far wall and vibrators jut--like trees in a plastic forest--from the sterile soil of a counter near the till.

"You know, I always wanted to come in here..."

"Oh, I can make all your dreams come true." As Spike shoves him onto the chaise, Xander sees lube, books, videos, strap-on harnesses, massage oils, powders, body paints, racks hung with crotchless panties and peekaboo bras, with teddies and slips.

And on the wall, above and behind him...

Cuffs. Whips. Gags.

Xander tries--involuntarily--to sit up, but Spike's holding him against the couch with one bloodless hand. He straddles Xander's hips, pressing his ass against Xander's cock as he bends over to pin and kiss him all at once. Xander closes his eyes. Spike's arms, his shoulders are moving and there's a whunk as the leather jacket hits the floor. Then Xander's shirt separates, shreds, becomes a non-factor.

"Spike," he tries to say around the tongue in his mouth. The vampire doesn't answer, just humps Xander's shorts-clad cock until he can only writhe and moan.

"That's it, son. Give it up for Daddy."

The friction continues, slow and merciless, until Xander's on the edge of coming. He's digging his fingers into Spike's shirt, gasping. A little less scared but so turned on, arching his back, trying to buck and grunting, frustrated, when Spike won't let him move.

Then Spike's hand is inside his shorts, past the waistband of his underwear. He's pumping Xander's cock, nudging up his chin with a face that's changing. Fangs and demon eyes blur past Xander's face as he screams into a hand that's suddenly locked on his mouth.

The excitement ramps up--he comes, just as the teeth dig into his throat. Erupting and draining all at once--wonderful, terrible--and he screams again.

"Mmmwfff!"

"Oh, hush. I'm not killing you." The teeth have come out suddenly. "Just helping myself to a little juice, you know?"

And Xander realizes that, through all of this, Spike hasn't had an erection. Not until now.

The thought hardly gels before his sticky, spattered shorts are sailing across the room, tossed with gleeful abandon. Strong hands flip him over,and the chaise's velvet upholstery rises to greet him, pressing against his belly. He stiffens again, only to get shoved deep into royal blue softness.

Then the pressure disappears. "Let me see. Water or oil based lube?"

Holy water, Xander thinks. His body is jangling pleasantly from the intensity of the orgasm, but the bite has left him well and truly freaked.

Buffy's mom got bit, and she didn't turn. Of course, she got rescued.

"No preference? Well, I like the packaging on this one. Night Passion, it's called. Mmmm. Mango scented. Xander?"

He tries to open his eyes, finds a leash dangling in his field of vision and shuts them again.

"Unscented," he says. Thinking: I don't want to smell like a bordello when they find my body.

"Right you are." There's a snap of plastic and then the purr of a zipper. "You done this with your football hero?" The words are casual, but the vampire's voice is strained, boiling in desire.

Breathless, he shakes his head. There's a clack--lube bottle hitting tiles--and then Spike's on him, knees crowding Xander's off the chaise, a hand gripping one shoulder. Something blunt and wet and big grazes his ass and a slick digit slides down from his tailbone to the nerve-loaded pucker of his bud. The thumb's inside him then, a pleasant shock, and the lube feels surprisingly good. Maybe this will be okay.

"I hear," Spike says hoarsely. "The thing to do is relax completely and take in a long breath through your teeth."

He nods. "Do it." Empties his lungs and tries to go floppy.

Spike shifts and they're cheek to cheek as his weight flattens Xander against the upholstery. His hips shift, pivot, and there's a moment when he's outside, against, pushing on resisting tissue. Then he's in.

Penetration brings incandescent pain, more intense than anything Xander's ever felt, no mere sensation but a nova that's as much emotion as neural sensation. Bright, hot, impossible to categorize, like falling into a sun--and not entirely unwonderful. It dims as Spike slides deeper, and he remembers to stay loose and remembers the breath thing, and it does help. He's tingling, sensitized, burning but in a good way, and as Spike falls into a rhythm of thrust and release Xander finds himself groaning, enjoying it even though it really hurts quite a whole lot, actually. Good pain--who knew there was such a thing? He feels like his soul's being scrubbed with wire brushes dipped in sand.

Above him, Spike is groaning, too. "Been so long," he says dizzily at one point, and "Piccadilly Circus," at another. He's thrusting faster now; Xander imagines his hips blurring, and the increased friction makes the burning thing increase and the pleasure thing decrease. But it's still nice--stay relaxed, he thinks, hang on, we're in the home stretch. First time sucks for girls, he's heard, he can't really expect to have a third orgasm today and this is pretty satisfying motionally...

Faster. Too painful now. Quite scary. He's separating from himself, can hear his throat making inarticulate whine noises and Spike is losing control, is fucking him blindly with more and more of his inhuman strength. His face against Xander's is hard with demonic lines, and his skin is too rough. Big fingers are squeezing Xander's shoulders so hard he can hear the sockets grinding, feel his hand tingle as they fall asleep. The jolts against his pelvis are bone-breaking hard and it's all pain now, stop it, Spike, stop, please, it's not fun any more. Screaming it or thinking it? He can't tell.

It goes on. It goes on. It goes on. Vampire growls in his ear, throaty monstrous sound he's heard so many times and there's no question of emotionally satisfying now, it's all terror and black despair. If he could figure out which way to turn his head he'd shove his neck against those teeth, get it over with, how long can Spike do this, how much hurt can there be...

"Oh, Dru..." A last thrust, so hard it feels like it's tearing right up to his lungs. Above him, Spike goes stiff, keening, before he collapses. His skin softens into faux-humanity again and his cock shrinks like a punctured balloon, weird magic that leaves Xander emptied and leaking.

They lay like that for awhile. Xander's stunned, numb. He can hear birds outside, singing over the voiceless rasps of his own breath.

*****
Part 3:

The sex store makes cheesy t-shirts, has an iron-on machine and a shelf of grey shirts. He uses one as a washcloth, soaking it in the bathroom sink, using it to sponge the fluids out of his shorts. He puts a second one on, covering the handprints already standing out black on his shoulders. The bite mark looks surprisingly raw under the fluorescents. He doesn't look at it, doesn't want to disturb the dull feeling which he knows is only temporary.

I saved Larry, he tells himself. Kept Spike from hunting down Willow. Worth it. His eyes fill, it's so exhausted out and he's incredibly unsure of himself, but nothing falls.

He comes out of the bathroom. Time to find out if he's going to become a Spike McMuffin.

Spike's just setting the doll back on the chaise. Pointless exercise--even if you couldn't see the blood and semen, the place smells. The world wobbles, but Xander hangs on.

"Bastard," Spike says. "What the hell did you do?"

"What did I do?" Words that come out a hoarse squeak, because he screamed so much his voice is gone.

"How could you, oi? I'm in love with Drusilla."

He doesn't answer, just fishes in his pocket for a five dollar bill.

"She's going to bloody kill us, you know."

"You don't even know where she is."

"You listen to me, son. I am in love with that woman." Shaking hands clutch the t-shirt. "You won't tell her, will you?"

"Yeah, Spike, sure. I'll be phoning Vampire Directory assistance tomorrow. For what area code, please? Ah, that would be the Hellmouth. A new listing? Oh, can I have her voicemail..."

"Shut it." Spike's face twists--guilt and hatred and self-loathing�an expression Xander has seen riding Willow. "You bloody well better stay away from me."

Then he's gone, vanished out into the alley and the pre-dawn garbage-truck noise of Sunnydale.

Xander bends like an old man, sand grinding in his spine as he retrieves the bottle of lube from the floor. Sets it and the five dollar bill on the counter next to the sex store till. Then he slips into his sandals, noticing dispassionately that at least his feet don't hurt, and shuffles out into the coming day.

***

It's Oz who finds him wandering the alleys of downtown, less than lost but not by much, knowing he should go find the others, that they're worried sick, but unable to absorb any of it--that he's alive, the collective meaning of all these aches and pains and how he got them, whether to backtrack to the Bronze or go to Giles in the library. Most of all, what the fuck's he gonna say?

So it's a mercy, really, that it's Oz, who falls into step beside him as if they were headed to school, who doesn't look at him sidelong or radiate concern.

"Hey."

"Hey, Oz." They walk in silence for another half a block before it gets to him. "Spike's in town."

"I heard that."

"Willow..."

"It's covered. Buffy's with her."

He wheels to turn another random corner and Oz catches his arm at the elbow. Xander freezes to sudden brittleness.

"Van's this way, Xander."

"Yeah?" Face blank, but inside his head, he's raging. I could have you, too, Oz, you want to fuck with me? I'll put such a head trip on you... His stomach heaves and he breaks into a sweat.

And Oz--thank God it wasn't Cordy who found him--just raises an eyebrow. Says: "I'm thinking you're looking for some serious scene avoidance."

Faces--Buffy, Willow, Giles, Wesley, Cordelia, all mugging worry and asking questions. He can see it all too clearly. Probably inevitable, but does he have to do it now? No. Avoidance sounds good. He nods.

"Van's this way," Oz repeats. "I'll drop you off at the library, then come back and tell the others to call off the search."

He shakes off the hand still holding his elbow and nods through his bangs. Follows without speaking.

***

Oz actually takes him to Giles' house, phones the library from there. Masterful scene avoidance. If Willow wants to marry the wereboy someday, Xander will have to buy the groom a flea collar. Giles turns up maybe ten minutes later--speed much, Gilester? Xander hasn't been still the Whole time. He fidgets with the things on the desk as the two of them pass the torch.

"I'll find the others," Oz says, and he's gone, no backward glance. Xander is already sick of feeling grateful.

Alone with Giles, whose worry is more intrusive, even when he disappears into the kitchen. Shaking kettle noise is followed by running water, gas ticking on the stove. Cupboards open and close. He probably thinks Xander will start babbling if he's just quiet long enough.

Dammit.

"Sorry about the scare," he rasps, as Giles emerges from the kitchen.

"I rather imagine you were more frightened than we." The strained voice.

"I dunno. I think I prefer knowing what the big scary thing is to wondering..." He falters, remembering how big, how scary. "When someone's missing..."

"Perhaps you're right," Giles agrees. He's moving into the room slowly; Xander can't keep from backing up, but he doesn't freak or raise his fists when the older man probes the bite marks on his neck with gentle fingers.

"These aren't very deep."

"He didn't take much. It was sort of a snack situation."

"I'll have to wash them with holy water."

"Okay." For no good reason, his heart rate rises. The kettle whistles and he flinches. Could he look more like a trauma case? "In a minute, okay?"

Giles backs off, gesturing at the couch. "Why don't you sit down?"

Obediently he sits--perches really--on its edge. Watches his knees jitter up and down as if he's a heroin junkie. Giles eyes him for a breath and then vanishes teaward, cutting off the kettle's scream.

Sitting. His tailbone hurts. His shoulders and the backs of his thighs. What else? Mouth, neck, earlobes, gut...

"Here we are." Giles reappears with two cups, proffers one.

"I'm not much of a tea guy, Giles. I keep worrying it'll turn me all bookish."

A ghost of a smile from the Tweedman. "It will help you relax."

"Tactful. Just makes me wonder, how bad do I look? My boyish charms are..." It falls flat; he loses track of the joke.

"Drink the tea, Xander." Quietly, they both sip, staring at the floor. Looking up, they occasionally make eye contact that pains them both. Then, after the tea has had a chance to work, Giles says: "Can you tell me what happened?"

Giles must have a cupboard full of illegal in his bathroom. The pains have receded and he feels faintly serene, disassociated.

"Spike turns up wanting to eat Larry and terrorize Will. I decide to distract him while Larry goes for help."

Giles nods, listens, sips. Leave it there or say more? How much?

"Distract him, Xander?"

"He was... horny, Giles." Detached, he memorizes the reaction, face twitching as if slapped. "Missing Dru. So I came on to him. It seemed like a good idea, and... I guess he found me irresistible."

That soft voice, like Giles' mouth is bleeding words. "The bite was to facilitate an erection?"

Very serene now. "He'd have killed Larry."

"Yes. You saved him. Willow too, probably."

"Yeah, I'm Heroboy. Make sure you put in for my Purple Heart." Xander finds he doesn't want to say more, not yet. He floats to his feet. "How about that dip in the Holy water?"

"If you're ready. I've set up in the kitchen."

"Let's do it before this stuff leaves me completely wobbly."

Giles follows him to the flourescent-lit kitchen. There's a bottle of Holy there, a towel. The sink gleams silver and he's reminded of an infirmary.

"Not a stake in sight," he remarks.

"If there was any chance you had turned, Xander, I'd insist on having Buffy here."

"Yeah."

"Do you want to take the shirt off, or should we let it get wet?" Leaving it to him. Giving him the option not to expose too much.

He shrugs, decides he wants it gone. The cotton's nipple-scratching cheap and it smells like the sex store--dust and lubricants. Wincing as he reaches across himself to pluck it, he listens to see if Giles will suck wind when he sees the bruises on his shoulders. It's a way of telling how bad It really looks.

No windsucking. He does the hard-eyes thing instead. Bad, then. Really bad. Shit.

"It wasn't like..." Shut up, he tells himself, as he bends over the sink. Giles brushes his hair away from the throat punctures. "I wasn't being reckless, Giles."

"I don't think that." Room temperature moisture flows over his throat. He can hear the hiss and bubble, see the steam--a little bit of demon, escaping into the air. "He'd have killed Larry, possibly killed you. He might have killed Larry and... molested you anyway."

Xander bites his lip to keep from saying why that's not true.

"You did the right thing, Xander. It was--noble."

"And now I'm paying for it?"

"Sometimes that's how it works, Xander. I'm sorry. I know that's not very comforting--" Giles dries up, at a loss for words.

Suddenly he's weeping, slowly, drug-calm tears, and Giles is patting the wound dry and walking him to the couch, tucking him under a blanket like a little boy and murmuring things: I'm so sorry. It will be all right. Nice and solid and reassuring. Parental. For a long time. And finally--when it's obvious Xander's never gonna cry himself out--he produces a needle, slides it into the vein with infinite tenderness, drives the plunger home.

"Are they coming?" he asks.

"The others? If you want."

"Don't talk about me," Xander says. He's starting to feel groggy. "Don't tell them, not where I might hear it. Even if I'm out."

"I don't have to tell them at all."

"No conversations within earshot. I mean it."

"I promise, Xander."

Really dizzy now. "It wasn't like what I thought it would be," he says, fuzzily.

"Few things ever are," Giles says, and then Xander lets a different darkness claim him for awhile.

-end-