Sports Line



Spike was screaming at the tv.  This wasn’t an unusual thing in the Harris household, but the diatribe of virulent and possibly not-English terms being hurled at the 35" flat screen tv, bought for one bored and whining house-vamp, was unusually scathing.  He’d yelled at the newspaper first, tossing away the sports section and stomping over to listen to one of the thousands of sports channels they had.  There had been maybe five minutes of announcer-voices, not enough for Xander to understand what had put his lover in such a bad mood.

“You can’t do that!” Spike finished, voice growing hoarse from his ranting.  “It’s Beckham.  You don’t bloody well sell him off just for a few bob!”

Xander knew that ‘bob’ was money.  He wasn’t sure how much money, since Spike’s answers changed depending on his mood, but he knew that it was more than a few ‘pounds’ and therefore in the ‘a lot’ category.

“And to blinkin’ Spain?”  His window of opportunity to get a word in edgewise vanished before he’d realized it was there, Spike off and running again.  Fortunately, Xander enjoyed these surprisingly uncommon fits.  He usually learned some great insults.  And watching Spike pace in a pair of sweats and a frayed undershirt was always entertaining.

Angry Spike was hot.  Duh.

“You know, if you’re that bloody desperate for a few quid—” ‘Quid’ was also money and often used interchangeably with ‘bob’.  One day he was going to have to look these terms up, just for his own peace of mind—“sell another advert-gig, it’s what he spends all his free time doing regardless.  Or sell somebody else!  The Norwegian—Solskjaer.  Don’t want to lose him, very good on the closer, but he’s a better choice than Beckham.  Have they all gone mad?”

When Spike got upset—really upset, not just pissed off or annoyed—his accent changed.  The lower-class slang he liked to cultivate melted away to reveal the still slightly prissy, oddly proper, and sweetly possessive man underneath.  It didn’t happen all at once, of course, but the angrier he was, the less harsh he sounded.

Xander loved it—but didn’t force Spike to use it very often.  If it came out in the middle of sex, well, who would object to orgasms so powerful you blacked out?  But since Spike sounding prim and proper usually meant he was scared out of his mind, Xander had developed a love-hate relationship with it.

Not this time, though.  This was just Spike getting worked up over his beloved Manchester Utd.  And the secret crush he had on Beckham, the one Xander had sworn never to tell anyone about and he actually didn’t mind the shirt and shoes Spike sometimes asked him to wear.  Although the cleats were hell on the bedding.

“Xander!  Those insufferable tossers are going to sell off Beckham to Barcelona!”

Oh!  The lightbulb went ‘ding’—which sounded just wrong, somehow—and Xander suddenly understood what Spike was going on about.  “Er, they’re selling him?  Isn’t he, well, one of their best players?”

Spike looked devastated.  “He’s a national hero!  You don’t just sell off the most popular player in the world.”

Xander thought about the sports he kept half an eye on.  “Trading happens?” he ventured.

“Not with Beckham!  He—he is England!  How’re we going to have a decent chance at competing if our best player and—and—icon is off in Spain?”

“You find new players?”  It worked in basketball, anyway.  Um.  He thought.  Okay, so he wasn’t a big sports guy.  Dawn’s voice floated through his mind, gleefully relating a few choice stereotypes.  He flicked it irritably away.  Screwing a vampire, no matter how male said vampire was, did not automatically mean the sheets had to be paisley, dammit.

Their sheets were blood red.

“Are you even listening?  This is Beckham!  You just don’t do that!  Does—does Man U even want to be competitive anymore?”

“Uh.”  This was one of those ‘no-win’ situations.  Any answer Xander could possibly give would result in Spike ranting at him for a while.  Since he was the untutored American who could never understand a proper game of football—which did not have pointy ends on the ball, thank you—despite Spike’s many heartfelt and sincere attempts to correct this horribly glaring oversight in his lover.

They’d had those conversations before.

Determined to prevent yet another one from happening—he didn’t want to have to buy more new sheets—Xander decided to switch tactics.

“They must be going mad.  Utterly barmy.  There’s no other explanation.  Xander, you wouldn’t mind if I hopped a flight back to Merry Ole, would you?  Got a few favors I can call in and—Xander?  What the hell are you—”

Xander bit down very lightly, just enough to. . . clue Spike in.

Big, rounded eyes stared at him, startled and just a bit dismayed.  “Xander.  What are you doing?”

His tongue slid under foreskin, the very point of his tongue tracing a random pattern.

“Oh.”  Spike glanced up at the announcers who were now talking about horse-racing.  At least, Xander thought it was horse racing.  The Belmont was a track, right?

Then the heavy flesh on his tongue twitched and Xander stopped caring.

“Er, now, I’m not asking you to stop,” Spike started as lips slid down to the base of his cock, which always made him squeak.  Which made Xander chuckle.  Then there was more squeaking.  “But—oh!—what brought this on?”

Xander rolled his eyes and then glared upward.  Didn’t Spike know it wasn’t polite to speak with your mouth full?  He bit a little harder, teeth making indentations in soft skin.

“Eep!”  Panting, Spike fell back against the sofa.  “Never mind,” he gasped out.  “You just—you keep on—I thought they wanted to sell him to Barcelona!  Now they want to—yeah, cause his wife is gonna love living in—hey!”

Closing his hand a little tighter around Spike’s balls, Xander used his free hand to point at the remote.  Spike, still blitzed from the painpleasure, looked at Xander’s hand and then his face.  Then his hand again. Then realization dawned.

“I am not giving you the remote control!”  Snatching the item in question, Spike held it above his head and behind the couch, expression utterly outraged.

Oh, so that’s how it was?  Xander bit a third time, loving the way Spike’s eyes spun, sliding a single finger down past Spike’s balls to the strip of skin Spike hated.  Because playing with that was a guaranteed way of making Spike come.

And after those orgasms, he was a nice, pliant Spike who did everything Xander told him to, just to get Xander to touch him there again.

“Hey, no, you little—I’m trying to watch the telly, here—no, please, no, Xan—Xander!”

Xander smiled around the cock still in his mouth, scraping a nail over the same path.  Spike gave a full-body twitch, liquid sounds coming from his mouth.  His hips started thrusting uncontrollably and Xander replaced his mouth with his hand, knowing he stood a good chance of getting choked if he didn’t.

Settling onto his heels, Xander stopped playing long enough to push Spike’s sweats a bit further down, repositioning his hips so that he was just barely sitting upright on the sofa.  There.  Much easier.  Holding cock and balls with one hand, Xander trailed a slow, wet lick down Spike’s perineum.  That earned him a strangled shout, so he did it again.  And again.  And again.

Pretty soon, Spike was a screaming, writhing mass of nerves, babbling desperately with the need to come.  Xander sat back and surveyed his handiwork.  There wasn’t much coherency in Spike’s words, but the occasional ‘Xan’ and ‘please’ did make it through.

Not a single ‘Beckham’.

Pleased, Xander pressed tongue and finger on a place he’d found after much trial and error.  The balls half-resting on his forehead immediately contracted and Spike went absolutely rigid.

Then there was howling.

Xander continued licking as the sound died away, Spike slumping into unconsciousness.  This was much better, he thought as he climbed onto the sofa and took the remote from Spike’s unresisting hands.  Hey, cartoons were on!

The show was almost finished by the time Spike started making coming-to noises, his body shifting to drape bonelessly over Xander’s.  “Maarsligot?” he asked.  Xander didn’t bother responding, since even if it was repeated slowly it still wouldn’t be English.  Instead he just spread his legs a little as a hand landed on his sweats and tugged the material down.

“Mm, nice,” Xander hummed as he was stroked and pulled.

Spike murmured his agreement, curling up closer.  His eyes were shut, his expression extremely content.  Threading his free arm around Spike’s waist, Xander decided that he could handle a morning like this.  Watch Spike get pissed, have sex.  Watch a little tv.

“Hey, see if there’s a footie game on?”

So long as he didn’t mention—

“Up for a game later?  I can dig the shoes and the jersey out. . .”

Xander thumped Spike.  Hard.

“What!  I just though maybe we could play goalie.”

Xander thumped Spike again.

“Oh, fine.  American.”

Then Spike’s mouth was busy.