All About Spike

Milkshakes & Honey
By Annie Sewell-Jennings

Sequel to Bowl of Oranges

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The title of this randomly-named story is from Sleater-Kinney's "Milkshake & Honey", because it's a pretty title and a hot song.

Honestly, Spike has no idea how this happened.

Not supposed to be this way. He's supposed to be running about hitting things with sharp sticks or what have you, making nuns cry. Supposed to be killing things. He was supposed to come back here, get what he wanted, wreak havoc on this joke of a town, kill the Slayer, and go back to Dru, a triumphant and better vampire. And then again with the hitting things with sharp sticks.

But now? Impotent. Helpless. Living off the goodwill and good sex of a human boy, in a dilapidated basement that looks like it was decorated from someone's 1979 vomit.

No, Xander Harris never did figure into Spike's equation.

And neither did his dirty dishes.

Spike grits his teeth and grips the brush tighter. "Stupid bloody coffee stains," he mutters under his breath, scouring the circumference of the ceramic cup. "Stupid bloody chip, stupid bloody Slayer, stupid bloody Xander."

Boy's got it all backwards, he does. Thinks that it's Spike's fault all this happened. Ha, bloody ha. Like he planned this. Like he wanted this. Relegated to serving as bed-warmer and fucktoy to a neurotic nineteen-year-old geek. God, if Dru could see him now. Scrubbing out coffee stains from a novelty mug while the little tosser's off peddling hot dogs or some sort of greasy rot.

He growls under his breath, attacking the mug with the stupid brush. "Get out, you fuck, get out!" he snarls, and then, with a snarl, he throws the mug to the floor.

It shatters into pieces in a satisfying clatter, and Spike smiles. Always liked the sound of breaking things. Nice stress reliever.

"God, you really are the worst housewife ever."

Spike whirls around to see Xander standing at the foot of the stairs, dressed in the latest humiliating fast food uniform. Brown and neon orange this week. Spike glares at him. "Not your bloody housewife, you sod," he growls, throwing the brush down on the floor.

But now Xander's on a tear, looking around the apartment with a horrified look on his face. "Cleaning!" he says. "Cleaning, Spike! You were supposed to pick up while I was at work!"

Spike shrugs and flops down in the recliner. Tosses a leg over the arm, picks up a TV Guide and idly flips through the pages. "Started. Got bored. Watched cartoons instead."

Sneaks a peek at the boy. Watches his mouth open and shut, like he's got something to say, but doesn't know how to say it. Finally, Xander just throws up his hands and starts picking up the chipped mug. Spike hides a snicker.

It's funny, the way this thing works. Still hasn't quite figured it all out just yet. Hasn't figured out why he sticks around, or why Xander even keeps him around. They spend seventy percent of their time just arguing. And yeah, half the time that's when they're fucking, and it's more fun if they're swearing at each other, but still. This shouldn't be happening.

But here it is. Happening. Right in front of him.

And Spike can't quite seem to make it stop.

"So, oh great undead waste of space, how did you end up spending your day?" Xander asks as he tosses away the pieces of broken cup. "Since you obviously didn't do anything I told you to do before I left this morning ..."

Spike rolls his eyes. "Oh, please. Like you could tell me to do anything."

Xander jabs a finger in his direction. "You know, I'm a man!" he declares. "A man with credit card debt and a job, and a car!" His face falls for a second. "Well, I used to have a job."

Spike frowns for a second, and then a smirk blossoms on his face. Sticks his tongue betweens his teeth and sneers at Xander. "Oh, so that's what's stuck up your ass today," he says, and then smirks. "Well, other than me, that is."

Distraught, Xander slumps down on the bed and takes off his ugly Taco Shack visor. The boy's all sweaty and dirty-looking. Smells like greasy hamburger meat and suspicious taco seasoning. Spike really wishes that Xander would've stolen him one last burrito before he got fired.

Sulky brown eyes lift up to meet his. "You know, this is all your fault," Xander says. "If you hadn't gotten in the shower with me this morning, I wouldn't have been late to work. And I'd still have a job, and a paycheck, and friends, and a girlfriend, and something of a life."

"And I'd still have free burritos," Spike says wistfully.

Instantly, Xander throws the visor at him, his face twisted in fury. "Goddammit, Spike! Don't you get it? Everything I've lost? And it's all because of you! Because you had to get all flirty and bored and now we're having sex! And my friends won't see me, and I don't have a girlfriend anymore, and I've lost my job because I stole burritos for you!"

"And because of the sex in the shower," Spike adds helpfully.

It earns him a withering glare. Spike cocks his head at him, grinning thoughtfully. Funny, you wouldn't think it at first, but that indignant look on his puffy little face starts to grow on you after a while. Starts getting cute.

"Are you completely missing my point?" Xander asks.


"My life is shit."

Spike shrugs. "Then do something about it."

Xander gives a small, desperate little sound. Strikes Spike in a funny place, that noise. Like breaking things, again, but not in a good way. He hides his head in his hands and closes his eyes. "I don't know what to do."

Bewildered, Spike stares at the boy. Doesn't know what to do. His first instinct is to point and laugh at him and call him a sad little bitch, but then something else pipes in. Something ... strange. But not foreign. That feeling that's been creeping in and out ever since this idiotic thing started up.

He thinks it might be sympathy.

Big gold hands in curly brown hair. Got good hands, this one. Square and large. Carpenter's hands. But now, in this doubled-over position, the boy just looks small, and young, and very, very fucked-up.

"Oh, hell," Spike mutters under his breath as he gets up from the armchair and crosses to the bed. Sits down next to Xander, wincing a bit at the blaring colors of his taco uniform. His hand hovers uncertainly over the kid's shoulders, his neck, his back, before finally deciding on the base of his skull. Thick hair. Rich and soft. Leans in close, and makes a confession in his ear:

"I don't know what to do, either."

This isn't supposed to happen. He's a powerful demon, a really kick-ass vampire, not to mention more talented than a French whore in bed. Kills who he wants, takes what he wants, does what he wants. Big Bad in black leather, ready to take on the world. Spike's not supposed to be sleeping in dirty basements with human boys like Xander Harris.

But honestly, he's not really sure who he is nowadays.

The two of them sit there, side by side. Spike keeps sliding his fingers up and down over the base of Xander's skull, drawn to the heat of his skin, the curl of his longish hair. Xander sighs under his touch, leans into his palm. These two men, shadow-men, trying to figure out what the hell was happening around them.

So maybe that's it. Maybe that's why this whole disaster is happening.

Except it doesn't really feel that disastrous. Not at all.

They kiss then, and as always, the kissing's good. Easy, really. Soft lips, warm mouth. Hungry for this body. For his heat. Can smell all the blood moving just under the surface, but that's not the draw. This time, it's the surface that matters. The rough plane of Xander's stubbly jaw. Callused hands sliding around his waist and under his tee shirt. Shivers, arches his hips a bit. Something about the hands. That's got to be a factor in all this, too.

When Xander pulls away, Spike swallows. Looks at him. "You know, if you wanted ... maybe I should find my own place."

He blinks. "Huh? Where, in a refrigerator box on a street corner? You're penniless. I have to pay for you all the time."

Well, in all actuality, Spike's not really penniless. He just says he is so people will buy things for him. "Don't have to pay rent or sign a lease, you know. Could just swing by the cemetery, see if there are any crypts open for residence. Wire it for lights, nick a telly and some illegal cable. Bet I could even get free porn."

Xander rolls his eyes. "God, is it all about sex with you?"

Spike looks at him closely. Holds his gaze with as much sincerity as he can muster. "No," he says quietly. "It's not all about the sex."

And the sex is good, don't get him wrong. Brilliant shag, this boy, and you'd never guess it to look at him. But that's not why Spike stays. He stays for the arguments. For the warm bed, and the warm body in the morning.

For the slow, almost shy smile sweeping across Xander's face. "Yeah?" he asks hopefully, and Spike shrugs, a little embarrassed.


More kissing now, and touching, too. Hands wandering, legs moving, hips arching. Spike runs one hand down Xander's face. Strong jawline. Smooth, warm skin. Everything about this kid is warm. Like wine Spike can't get enough of.

And those hands. Big hands on his back, moving down the ladder of his spine, and when Xander roughly grabs Spike's ass, he hisses and growls under his breath. Now the kiss is a little less than sweet, and at some point in the middle of all this, they managed to get all tangled up on the bed. Grinding against each other, hips moving and thrusting, and he's so fucking hard. So fucking hard.

Xander pulls away with a gasp, and Spike feels dizzy just looking at him. Brown eyes gone black, dilated with lust. His skin's flushed with pink, made all dusky gold, and the sharp, rapid rise and fall of his chest mesmerizes him.

Spike ducks his head down and starts licking at the boy's long, strong neck. Nips at his Adam's apples, longingly scrapes his blunt teeth over his jugular. Oh, all that sweet, young blood. If the sex is like wine, the blood must be ambrosia. Just a sip would-

Suddenly, Xander lashes out and smacks Spike on the back of the neck. Not hard, not really, but not exactly playful, either. A dark, hungry scowl. "Quit looking at my neck. It freaks me out."

Spike smacks him back, and hates the chip for only letting him slap lightly at the boy's face. "Like I'd bite you anyway. You smell like tacos."

"Yeah, well, you smell like ... fuck, you smell really good."

There's that hunger again. Startling in its intensity. Because this is a brat he hates, a little wanker he honestly wouldn't have thought of biting two years ago, and he's desperate for him. It's got to be the chip, some blasted side-effect that makes him susceptible to shaggy-haired losers, but God, it's intoxicating.

William the Bloody, infatuated with a kid living in his parents' basement.

If this ever gets out, he will never in a million years live it down.

Spike pushes him down on the bed, pinning him down by the upper arms with just enough force to hold him, but not enough to trigger a migraine. Looks him up and down, assessing his options. "First off, not going to miss this awful uniform," he says. "Look like someone's shag carpeting, you do."

There's a snappy retort on Xander's tongue, but Spike pushes it away with his own. Distracts the boy with teeth and hard lips, and when he's not thinking about it, he reaches down with one hand and rips the shirt off.

Xander gasps and his hips fly off the bed, and Spike darts out his hands and catches him by the waist. Holds him tight against him, hard dick to hard dick. Oh, so good, all that warmth right up against him. Rocks and slides, shimmies and grinds, and Xander makes funny little "oh-oh" noises and looks like he might pass out.

Spike gives him a wicked grin. One of those smiles he's perfected over the years. "Like that, don't you," he purrs in Xander's ear. Takes a lick of his salty, sweaty neck. "So hard, you are, all wanting and throbbing." A slow circle of his hips, his own erection brushing Xander's through layers of polyester and denim. His hands dance across the waistband of Xander's ugly pants. "Mm, and so am I."

"Spike," Xander rasps, and then all his words get scattered to the wind as Spike undoes the kid's awful shorts and slides them down Xander's hips. "Oh my ... Oh my God ..."

He can smell it. Feel it. The need, the desperation, the desire. See, that's another thing. The boy always comes home reeking of whatever bad job he's working at the time, but it's all surface. Underneath it, he always smells the same.

Underneath it, he smells like heartbreak.

Underneath it, he smells like Spike.

Ah, no. Don't think about that. Don't get all deep, cause this is just about the sex, right? Just about a good shag. A great shag. Except that it's not, and he's admitted as much to Xander, and now they both know that this is more about teeth and tongue and cock.

But oh, what a glorious cock it is. Hard and jutting away from the cradle of Xander's hips, hard and pale in the dark thatch of pubic hair. Little moist at the top, and Spike flicks out his fingers. Takes a sample and tastes it. Hears Xander's muttered curse, and Spike slowly, lightly traces the harsh angle of his erection with one light, airy fingertip.

Instantly, Xander's bucking and moaning, his eyes all glazed over. Dark brown eyes, like chocolate. Like decadence. Going wild, going crazy, while Spike drops him back on the bed and keeps that one fingertip moving. Just the one, not too many, not just yet. Spike knows better than anyone that there's nothing more erotic than a promise.

Nothing more dangerous, either.

He's dangerously close. Every time Xander squirms, every buck of his hips, every bob of his Adam's apple. It all just makes Spike crazy. Gone mad over a boy, a stupid boy, a sweet boy. Four fingertips brush the head of his cock, and Xander writhes in the sheets, kicking and flailing, gasping his name.

"Spike, oh God, you bastard, you prince ..."

They do that. Call each other names. Asshole, darling, dickhead, sweetheart, fuckwit. Doesn't matter, names are just names, and Spike's got a thousand of them. Call him whatever you like, just call him something and he's yours.

So Xander calls him a shithead, a son of a whore, an angel, a peach, and it all goes to his head while he breezes his fingertips over the dark purple tip of Xander's cock, and then he says the magic words. The words that never fail to make Spike gasp.

"Spike ... need you ... need you so bad ..."

Oh, thank you God, thank you-!

Everything goes haywire. Chaos explodes in the dingy, dirty little hovel that Spike's starting to call home. A growl, a snarl, a desperate cry, and Spike throws himself into a furious, blissful kiss before he takes his mouth lower and lower-

A pause. Flits his eyes up to Xander's face, but the boy's eyes are closed. "Tell me again," Spike demands. "Say it. Again."

Xander frowns. "What, the part about you being a dick?"

Spike grits his teeth. "No, you wanker. The other part."

Suddenly, everything's all business. All serious and solemn. Xander brings his hands down to cup Spike's face and manages to sit up, though he hisses in a shaky breath in the process. Dark brown eyes. Long, lush eyelashes. "Spike. I need you."

He barely gets Xander's dick in his mouth before the boy comes.

Long and hot, like he's coming forever, and Spike takes it all. Drinks it like blood, like oxygen, like something essential. Tastes salty like marshes, sweet like milkshakes, beautiful like need. Swallows it down, his lips caressing Xander's engorged erection, and the boy arches his hips and writhes with ecstasy.

Oh, you beautiful boy, you horrible mess.

Aching. Twitching. Hands shaking, senses on overload. Spike gasps for air as he pulls away, and before he even has the chance to rake his hands through his hair, Xander's pulling him back down to the bed again. A rough, callused hand grabs onto Spike's cock through his terribly tight jeans.

"Need you," Xander says, his voice still shaking, "and you need me."

God help him, but he's right.

Spike groans with relief as Xander undoes the flimsy buttons on his almost ancient jeans, and when his dick finally springs free of its restraints, it's like touching heaven. He shivers and moans, and Xander pushes him onto his back. Switcheroo, look at that. Boy's learned something from all this after all.

One warm, sweaty palm cups his balls in a strong fist, and Spike gasps and strains, eyes frantically crawling the cracked cement ceiling. Capable fingers roll the heavy sac around, and Spike's sputtering out words that probably make no sense whatsoever.

"Oh, you sweet ... oh, fuck, sod, you ... ungh!"

Before he knows it, Xander ducks his head down and takes Spike in his mouth. Long and swift, and the boy's mouth is so hot. Like a volcano. Like a tropical paradise. Like being alive. The rough roof of his mouth catches the sensitive ridges of Spike's cock and creates delicious friction. Xander's prickly, stubbly chin caresses his balls, all drawn tight and swollen from intense arousal.

Everything's going too fast. Bloody world won't stop spinning, and Xander's lips are hot and perfect, so perfect, and when Xander slides one finger between his legs and slips it into the tight bud of his asshole, Spike almost flies off the bed.

"Fuck! Bloody hell, oh fuck, gonna come, oh god, yes-"

And then it's all gone. The hand on his balls. The finger on his ass. The warm, sweet mouth. The loss of it makes Spike almost start crying, and he looks down with frantic eyes at Xander. "What the hell are you-"

His eyes are serious. Dark, so dark, hard to tell between brown and black. Voice rougher than the calluses on his hardworking hands.

"I need you."

Oh, bollocks.

It's better than the hands. Better than fingers and mouth. Better than sex itself. Because this is an ache that goes deeper than skin. It's that terrible thing he tries so hard to cover up, and now Xander knows. Knows that it's not sex, or murder, or chaos that pushes Spike's buttons.

He just wants someone to need him.

"I need you."

Again, he's thrashing and thrusting, eyes frantic, skin screaming.

"I need you."

Dying, oh fuck, the little bastard's going to kill him with this, with those big sincere (and slightly frightened) brown eyes, with those silky words.

"Spike. I need-"

And that's all it takes. No touching, no kissing, no caressing. Nothing but those ragged, perfect words, and Spike's gone. Explodes into orgasm, furious and fast, and ecstasy slams through him like a bloody freight train while Xander licks up every last drop of him. Takes it all, oh that darling, dumb little tosser, and kisses the very tip of his penis before they both collapse on the bed.

Can't help it. Feels all that warm, damp skin just bleeding heat beside him, and Spike has to have it. He draws close to Xander, wraps his arms around him, and hears Xander's sigh of resignation as he embraces the other man. Warm hand at the base of his neck, oh yes, this is perfect, the way his fingers stroke his messy hair.

They don't say anything for a long while. They just lay there, arms and limbs entwined, and Spike closes his eyes for a moment. Just a moment. Breathes in the smell of Xander's cooling sweat. The heavy musk of spent sex. And the tacos, yeah, but that's unimportant.

Underneath. That's what matters. Everything underneath.


It's a quick, soft word, and Spike turns his head. Must've misheard him. "What?"

But Xander swallows, and the word is firmer. More concrete. "Stay." A swallow, and then there's a note of desperation. "Don't leave me."

Oh, love, you don't know what you're getting yourself into.

"Yeah," Spike says faintly. "All right. I'll stay."

Xander sighs, and his relief is almost palpable. Shocking, that. What happened to the pissed-off little ingrate who stormed through the door and called him worthless just twenty minutes ago? Gone now. Need ... it'll do that to you. Spike knows that very well.

One more little sigh, and then Xander sits up. Gets out of bed, and Spike takes a second to appreciate the firm, gold globes of his ass as he moves and flexes his muscles. Stretches his arms, runs a hand through his hair, and starts to move towards the shower.

But just as he's got his hand on the bathroom door, Xander turns around and stares at Spike. "I've got nothing, you know," he says. "No job. No house. No friends. I've got a crappy excuse for a car and absolutely no future ahead of me." A brief pause. The bob of the boy's Adam's apple. "But I've got you, so don't you fucking leave me."

And with that, Xander turns around, goes into the bathroom, and shuts the door behind him.

Spike doesn't have a job. Not anymore. Doesn't have a house, or friends, or much of a future, for that matter. Got nothing now but this dirty little basement and a teenaged boy who used to steal tacos for him and told him that he needed him.

It's not supposed to be this way. This was never supposed to happen. This was all supposed to be a big joke, a tease, a way to pass the time. Amusing himself with the boy's terrible confusion. It was never supposed to happen this way. He was never supposed to care about him.

No, Xander Harris never did figure into Spike's equation.

But hell, neither did Harmony.

It doesn't take Spike long to jump out of bed and run after him, and when they get in the shower, it's so good that they're in there for hours.

And afterwards, Spike stays.

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