All About Spike

Bowl of Oranges
By Annie Sewell-Jennings

Sequel to Say Yes

It's just your typical Saturday morning.

Curled up in the fold-out bed, surrounded by half-eaten bags of chips and candy and half-torn clothes. The sheets are all sticky from fruit roll-ups and other kinds of fun. Xander's got his head on the pillow, eyes squeezed tightly shut. This is his sleeping-in day. The day for the sleeping in. No get up and go to work at 7. This is a good day. A day off.

"Bwahahaha! Take that, you wanker! Saw your balls off, I will, and paste them to your pointy little head! Bastard!"

But Spike won't. Shut. Up.

Reluctantly, Xander slowly opens up one eye, instantly wary of whatever mess Spike's made this time. The blond vampire is sprawled out across almost the entire span of the small, uncomfortable futon, his so-pale skin covered by the accidental folds of the bed sheets. He's lying on his belly, propped up on his elbows, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth as he furiously presses buttons on the PlayStation controller.

The television blares explosion noises as Spike manages to blow up a digital police car, and the vampire cackles as ash trickles from the end of his cigarette. "Got you again, you little fuck! Eat my ass!"

Oh, God, it is way too early to be dealing with all this.

Xander groans and covers his head with the pillow. "Can you please turn that down? It's giving me a headache."

"Quiet," Spike hisses, "I've got to kill fourteen more of these bloody gang members and then I get an Uzi." His voice turns wistful. "And I've always wanted an Uzi."

Xander still doesn't quite understand how all of this happened, and with each passing day, he's more and more certain that he never wants to understand it. It just happened. One day, Spike was all tied up in the basement, all nicely restrained so that he couldn't do any damage, and then the next, Xander was the one with rope burns around his wrists and the damage was already done. And now, he's got a naked vampire spilling ashes all over his less-than-clean bed and playing videogames way, way too loud for 7am on a fucking Saturday.

Nope, Xander doesn't understand it at all.

But he thinks there might have been beer involved.

Another eardrum-shattering explosion. Xander groans and tries to press the pillow harder to his ear. "I can't even believe this," he mutters. "I can't believe this is happening to me. It's a Saturday. It's Saturday morning. It's a weekend."

Spike grunts in irritation. "Will you knock off all your whining? It's breaking my concentration."

That does it. Xander spins around and sits up in the bed, staring bleary-eyed at Spike as he mows down an unsuspecting digital pedestrian and snickers with unrestrained glee. "Me? Breaking your concentration? What about you? You're the one who's getting all breaky with the concentrating?"

A snort. "Oh, and what were you concentrating on? Wet dreams about Captain Kirk? Pity."

"I'm trying to sleep! And you! What are you even doing up this early? I thought vampires were supposed to sleep during the day!"

Spike finally turns his head and gives Xander an indignant look. "What, and miss Saturday morning cartoons? Bugger that."

It's all too much. The empty bags of potato chips. The half-empty bottles of beer. The smoking. The videogames. Xander's head is about to explode, and here's this stupid-ass vampire that he can't kick out because they're both too lonely to be alone. Even if the company is killing him.

But dammit, this is Xander's house! This is his place! His basement of debasement, and why should Spike get to suddenly take it all over just because he's all chipped and maybe-kind-of-not-really dangerous and he can kiss without ever having to come up for air?

And then Spike shifts. Just a little. The bed moves underneath him, and the sheets pull down just a tad, and there's his smooth, perfect white ass, bare and beautiful in the dim light. All of those muscles, and he's such a tiny guy if you look at him just right. He can be such a tiny guy. And there's the nape of his neck, all vulnerable and sweet, and who knew that when Spike woke up in the morning or the night or whatever, his hair was curly?

But now Xander knows. He knows all sorts of things. Like that Spike has an absolutely incorrigible sweet tooth, and sometimes sprinkles Pixi Stix in his blood. Or that Spike laughs without any restraint, unlike anyone he's ever met before in his entire life.

Miserably, Xander slumps back against the pillows and closes his eyes. His head hurts already from the strain of all these thoughts and contradictions, and the constant noise from the television set isn't helping matters much. Nothing makes sense. It doesn't make sense that he's letting a vampire take all the covers, or that he's desperate for Spike to do that thing where he strokes his hands along Xander's inner thighs. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever.

Least of all this.

The sound suddenly goes away. Everything is quiet, and the only thing he can hear is the desperate hammer of his own heartbeat. Surprised, Xander opens his eyes. Spike's put the television on mute and the game on pause. It floors him. "Why'd you turn it off?" he asks.

Spike shrugs. Eyes so blue. Does anyone else know that Spike has blue eyes? Pretty eyes. And now they look so wide and guileless, like a child. The vampire with little boy eyes. God. "Don't know," he says. "You were pissed. I turned it off. Happy now?"

Oh, God, no. Xander's not happy. Not at all. If anything, he's more bewildered than ever. This isn't supposed to happen. Spike's supposed to sit around and eat all his food and be a pain in the ass. He's supposed to be mean and immature and get on everyone's last nerve. He's not supposed to have eyes like this, or skin this pretty, or lovely blond ringlets that Xander could twirl around his pinky finger. He's not supposed to be soft or sometimes sweet.

I think this is how it happened. He gave me those eyes, and I think I might've fallen in love with him for a second.

Xander groans. Covers his face with his hands. "You're not helping," he moans. "You're just making things harder. Stupid vampire, with the confusing double-talk."

One of those cool, strong hands snakes up Xander's calf. Instantly, his cock twitches like it's really not supposed to, not for him, not for this thing. But Spike's hand keeps touching and Xander's cock just keeps rising, and when Spike crawls up the length of his body like a lean, jungle cat, Xander knows that it's not going to stop. Spike is going to kiss him, and Xander is going to kiss him back, and then they'll be all with the fucking, just because Xander could never resist a set of big blue eyes.

Even when they're set in his enemy's face.

Especially when they're Spike's.

The softest, barest whisper of a kiss. "Poor little fool," he murmurs. His voice sends shivers down Xander's spine. "Can't suss out what you want, can you?"

"No," Xander replies weakly, his mouth helplessly responding to Spike's feathery kiss. "And I don't even know what 'suss' means."

Suddenly, Spike breaks out into one of those intoxicating, full-body laughs. His eyes twinkle with wicked mischief, and his smile's so bright with all those sharp, white teeth. Xander hates that he's starting to grow addicted to that grin. Those naughty, clever hands push him onto his back, and Spike growls. Oh, fuck. It's like honey. The vibration. The sensation. The sound itself.

Vampires should definitely not be allowed to sound this yummy.

The hint of tongue between Spike's teeth. Wicked eyes. That smirk that made Xander first think about boys in a less-than-wholesome way. He leans in and brushes the tip of his nose against Xander's, forehead-to-forehead, and the length of Spike's growing erection stirs against Xander's own stiff member. "Wicked boy, you are. Making me all stupid for you. Just because I can't stand that tired look on your stupid bloody face."

A sigh, a moan. Xander reminds himself to later smack himself upside the head for letting his hands wander over the smooth, sleek canvas of Spike's sinuous back. "Your face is stupider than mine," he sighs.

One hungry kiss. Just one. He's allowed to have that, right? Just one really desperate, really sultry kiss from a bloodsucking fiend.

And maybe one more after that.

"Yeah?" Spike breathes. "Well, at least I have an Uzi."

And then they're tangled up in the bed, kissing and touching, groaning and straining.

Yup, it's just your typical Saturday morning.

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