Anya had noticed. Well, thankfully she hadn’t noticed his morbid interest in death. He shuddered slightly, hoping she never did. Or maybe she had. She packed him off to Spike’s crypt every night with a small smile, telling him to have fun. His girl was over a thousand years old. She must have learned a few things in those years.
But she’d noticed him staring at Spike. She’d mentioned it, which for Ahn normally meant she’d almost hounded him to an early grave about it. But this time it had just been a mention. You stare at Spike, she’d said.
He’d only nodded, staring at her and waiting for more. But there had been no more. Not until that night in bed. A bed they shared, but rarely touched in anymore.
That night had been different. She’d lifted her head from the pillow and looked at him, eye glittering brightly in the almost-darkness of the room. Anya looked at him, really looked at him.
He tried to ignore her gaze, letting his mind drift off to that night’s patrol. She’d leaned in and whispered in his ear. One word.
Xander gasped, hands reaching out blindly to grab her slim body. Anya came to him eagerly, dripping slit grasping eagerly at his sudden erection. She’d ridden him hard that night, and when they came, both of them called out for Spike.
Spike, who was standing in front of him now, white blonde hair glowing in the moonlight. Xander almost flinched at this sudden brightness. His life revolved around the dark corners now, of Sunnydale and his mind. He didn’t want anyone shining a light into those cracks and crevices anymore.
“More,” Xander stated flatly, hopping off the headstone.
Spike raised an eyebrow, lifting a hand up for Xander to inspect. One of the knuckles was split, a drop of blood tracing a sluggish track down the slender hand. Xander’s tongue snaked out tentatively.
Spike smiled, and raised his hand to his own lips. As Spike’s tongue rasped over the broken flesh, Xander swallowed sympathetically. He could taste the blood, sharp as pennies, poisonous as mercury.
The moan that bubbled from Spike’s lips echoed the one reverberating in Xander’s skull. Blood is life. Xander remembered every word of Spike’s speech. It’s what makes you warm, makes you hard.
Xander was hard now. Spike stared back at him, demon eyes cold and canny. The sound of buttons slipping free of cloth thudded in the still night, each one setting Xander’s erection pulsing. Spike pulled away to stand illuminated in a security light set up over a crypt.
Security lights in cemeteries was such a Sunnydale thing. Only on the Hellmouth would anyone worry about their cemeteries being safe for living. Xander let these thoughts wash over him as he stared at the devil in front of him.
Spike was jerking off, hand tugging mercilessly at his dick. Xander staggered, dropping to his knees as he watched. His own cock ached, throbbing in time to the rhythm of Spike’s pleasure. He wanted to stop this, to join in, to be the one getting cranked in a cemetery filled with dead bodies and live demons.
He grunted, hips pumping forward. He thought he could feel Spike’s fingers on him, Spike’s cock in his hand. The need to feel coiled in his belly, hot and painful. This was why he sought out Spike every night and Xander knew it. Life is wasted on the living.
The dead body in front him was more alive than he was and he fed on Spike’s life. It kept him warm, kept him hard. Made him something other than dead inside.
As the first drops of clear semen gushed from Spike’s cock, Xander fell onto his hands. His orgasm hit him hard, and Xander panted as he came in his jeans. Dazed, Xander didn’t move until strong hands clasped his shoulders and dragged him to his feet.
As Spike kissed him, mouth lush and cold, Xander sagged into his arms. The taste of blood and the smell of leather had his cock twitching in desperation. He wanted this, to lose himself in the sweetest kiss he’d ever had.
“Think you’re coming home with me tonight,” was all Spike said, breaking away from Xander’s lips. Xander could only nod his agreement.