Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.


For estepheia.

Xander went into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He could smell oatmeal. He wanted bacon--holy cows of god, how he wanted bacon--but he'd eat the oatmeal and the Diced Fruit of Great Boringness, because Spike scowled at him meaningfully if he didn't. Sometimes he didn't even have to scowl. Even set to low-beam, eyebrows ever so slightly raised, his gaze could nail you, slap you, undress you.

In the kitchen, Spike.

Clearly Xander had not yet started taking his own personal, household vampire for granted, because his heart did a startling backflip that Buffy would have envied at the sight of him standing by the stove, black silk robe flowing loosely off his lazy shoulders, black silk pajama bottoms doing silky pajama things to his legs. When he saw Xander--strange, dipping turn of the head--he shifted and leaned back against the counter to face him, showing himself off: Xander's handiwork from the previous night, bites deep enough to have not yet faded; the gift of jade choker around his neck like a cat collar; the slim, muscular cascade of his body. His entire pose from the set of his bare feet to the lowered lust of his eyes said: I am your property, and you need to do wicked things to me. Now.

Okay, thought Xander, walking forward in a daze.


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