by Criss Moody

Looking back, I probably shouldn't have had the thirteenth beer. 'Cause, ya know, thirteen has all kinds of badness associated with it. And having another beer just because the DJ decided to play "Loser" for the fifth time that night was really pathetic. But, hey, I'm feeling pretty fucking pathetic right now. Like I should just get the hell over whatever's bugging me and stop drowning in the amber fermentation of hops whenever I can. Drinking isn't going to make it not true.

A month ago, we stopped the world from ending.

And Buffy died.

So, why the hell am I so upset? Yeah, she was my friend. But I've got other friends. Yeah, she saved my life more than once. But so did others.

See, it's like this. I don't have too many friends. Not really. And if Willow's my best bud, and she is, always is, always has and will be, then Buffy's like the other hand. Willow's the right hand and Buffy is, was, the left hand. I lost a limb. Let me mourn.

I still love her. And I can't quite believe that she isn't going to just come rocketing out of the grave and hang out with us at the Bronze.

I guess this is growing up. There are consequences for your actions, and sometimes people stay dead. We grow, we leave home, we get married, have kids, and leave childhood loves and friends behind.

This sucks.


Swear to fucking hell, I don't know what I'm doing here. Made sure Niblet was home safe after her summer school, gotta make up all those missed hours from dead mums and kidnappings, dropped by the crypt for a bit of telly, but there was nothing on, so hell, I found myself here. Surrounded by dozens of tasty mortals I can't eat.

Fuck me.

Least there's a bit of entertainment occasionally. Like the bloke who's girlfriend just dumped him in full view of what looked like every friend the poor boy ever had. Emphasis on had. Loser, baby.

I lift my hand for a another piss water excuse for a beer, and see the whelp, Harris, at the other end of the bar. Weaving over a half-empty glass of golden liquid. Hair-mussed, eyes half-shut from too much booze? Tears? Oh, please, I don't care or anything. Annoying brat. Always interfering between me and...the Slayer. Bloody hell, I'm not going over there. Gonna stay right where I am, nurse my beer until it's quitting time, head off for crypt sweet crypt and watch a bit of late night Jerry Springer reruns. Now, those humans reach all new exciting levels of funny. Isn't it fucking bad enough to hurt, suffer, and feel the agony of losing people, loving people, and doing stupid crap? Why in hell would anyone want to tell a nationally syndicated audience that their husband/girlfriend/wife/child/lover prefers to fuck a dog/a man/a woman/a horse/fruit pies than be with them? Eh?

Thankfully, two hours between midnight and 2 a.m. pass quickly. Harris stays at his end of the bar, sitting next to a pretty blonde with little bits of paper with colored dots on'em. A few beers, a few passes at drunk girls, and it's time to head for the cemetery. I drain the dregs of my last beer and pop off the stool. Quick glance around and there's not much left in the way of people. A vamp or two in the background, waiting to catch stragglers. Good hunting, mates, wish I were with you. My boot hits something and I stumble, catching myself on the edge of the bar. Bloody fucking hell, it's Xander. And he's passed out.

Now, as an evil demon, and someone who hates this kid's guts, I believe this is the time when I leave him here to the badly dressed vamps I just saw. But, no. I'm a good fucking vampire now. And hell, I'm bored. I grunt and haul him up by his armpits, swinging him up and over my shoulders.

Good fucking deeds really fucking suck.

I manage to make it home without running into any of my brethren that know all about Spike's little performance problem. As I toss Xander's heavy weight onto the tomb/my bed, I contemplate my options. 'Could drop him by the Watcher's. Nope, he has the Niblet, and the girl doesn't need to see drunken Xander. For some reason, she likes him. The witches are out of town. Sexpot ex-demon's at some spa up north. That leaves me. I growl and make to haul him the fuck out of there and dump in the nearest vamp nest I can find when I hear it.

Light, full of sunlight and things that kill. Her voice. Like some goddamn divine intervention or somethin'.

What you did for Dawn and me, that was real. I won't forget it.

Stupid bint would expect nothing less from me than to keep her idiot friends safe. They weren't part of my promise, but I have this funny feeling she'd be a bit pissed if I let Harris be vampire snack food.

Fine then. I leave him there on the stone slab and fall into my chair, relishing the moldy smell. Yeah, this is the ticket. I grab a packet of blood out of the cooler at my side and gulp it down. Nasty shit, cold blood. It's like....diet soda. An abomination in the face of all things good and tasty. My hand reaches out to flick on the telly as I hear low noises from the idiot's direction. Hell, he can't even pass out in silence.

I slip on up out of the chair and amble over to Harris. Grab a smoke from my jacket on the way. I drag deep on the glowing bit of paper and tobacco and blow the smoke into Xander's face. Nothing. Not even an eye blink. Boy's lips start movin' and I hear little bits of air and sound slip past teeth and tongue. Curious, I lean down with my ear against his lips.

Something mumbled, then, too clearly to not hurt. "Please don't leave us. Buffy? Oh...god..."

Words the kid had said at the funeral, quiet and low, kneeling at the graveside. Only I could have heard and only I leaned my head back and let my own tears slide off my face into my hair, disappear. Poor bugger had about as much clue how to live without the Slayer as I did. That, I get real well.

Pop up onto the edge of the tomb. Let my eyes trace heavy, muscled thighs encased in the tight denim. The boy's not a wimp, got a bit of muscle to him, he does. My hands trace his fly of their own volition. And I wonder what he tastes like.

Quickly, because I've got some major talent in the doing dumb things too fast to question their intelligence department, I undo the buttons of Harris' jeans. Grin when he hisses under all the liquor and mental fuzzies. My thumb rubs down the soft paisley patterned cotton of the boxers. Slips into the slit and finds warm, thick flesh getting mighty interested in what my hand's doing.

"Spike?" Half-lidded, soft brown eyes look at my hands, then my face before Xander's head flops back to the stone, a small 'ow' slipping from his lips.

"Don't go hurting yourself there, boy-wonder." I've got other plans for you.

"Is your hand on my dick?"

Bright boy.


Pause as his alcohol drenched brain cells whir and click.


And the vampire wins again. I laugh, irony riding my voice. I never win and this isn't any fucking exception but he's warm and he's there.

And he's part of her.

All I'm damned well going to get so I'll take it and fuck his brains out in place of eating them.

Nothing's perfect.


Spike's hand is on my dick.

I should be more concerned.

A dead man's hand is on my man parts.

Wanting more is a really dumb idea.

Colossal dumb.

I'm drunk and unclear on everything except a cool hand lifting my dick from my shorts. Gripping and letting me thrust lazily into the tight channel created by Spike's fingers.

This feels so good. I'm floating on this fucking amazing cloud of beer and whatever that chick passed me in the bar. Lick a little piece of paper and I'm off in lala land visiting old friends like Mr. Potato Head and Fuzzy Wuzzy.

Except halfway into a very intense conversation about the legalities of making potato salad out of a dead Mr. Potato Head, Fuzzy grabbed my dick and turned into the nuisance vampire we all love to hate.

He's really good at this.

His hand isn't even moving. I'm just feeling the slight friction from his hand, the slickness of sweat from my heat, and dribbles of pre-come sliding down my dick into his hand. Up when I feel like it, down when I feel like it, pressure building. Flesh growing.

I'm half afraid I'm going to open my eyes and see Fuzzy again but I chance it. As wide as I can, I open my eyes and gaze down in the general direction of my crotch. And golly gee, there's Spike. Speeding up his hand, looking at me, then back at my dick like it's a fucking ice cream cone and he's a 5 year old who just lost his cone to some bully on the playground.

"Well?" I mutter belligerently. Can't think of what else I could say except, 'Just suck me off, idiot' but I'm not sure if insulting someone is the best way to get a blowjob.

He smirks. Without taking his hand off the base of my cock, he wraps his lips around the head. Wiggles his tongue down the underside and I gasp. Warmth floods my groin, blood rushing to further harden my dick. Cool lips rasp down the thick length. Spike's sucking on me like I'll run if he doesn't perform like a damn Hoover and I'm not unhappy about this. His throat thrums around me and I explode, too quick for someone used to an Olympically minded ex-demon girlfriend.

My hands feel fluffy but heavy as I try to get a grip on his hair. His head raises and I'm looking at two golden eyes, two sharp little fangs, and a mouth with pinky white stuff circling its edges.

I yelp.


Damn, but the puppy is cute when he yelps. Same way it's cute to watch a beaten human whimper. Beg for their lives. Offer me anything if I just let them live.

Like living's all that grand.

I lick the come and blood off my lips. Git didn't even notice my little nip and I skipped just under the chip's detection. Well, hardyfuckinghar. I rub at my crotch and look hopefully at the kid. His head's flopped back onto the tomb. I swagger to accommodate my hard-on and damn near yelp myself when I see Harris' passed out cold. Figures.

Steadfastly ignoring a certain incident of watching my freaking hand for several hours, I haul the kid onto my shoulder. Four steps and we're at the bed. Xander mumbles and curls into the last of Harmony's stuffed unicorns I haven't managed to rip, shred, or use for head kicking practice. With a deep sigh, completely unappreciated by Harris, I crawl into bed. And what happens but Mr. Straighter Than George W. Bush himself scrunches up next to me and lays his head on my shoulder. Nice to fall asleep with someone by my side.

I wake to hands roaming over my body waking up parts that ain't seen more than the inside of my hand in months. 'Cept of course for the Buffy Bot but that's hardly with thinking about. Stupid phantom of a stupid impossible dream. Gah, and the kid's got a hand on my cock and he's makin' like I did last night, jackin' my dick like it's the best thing he's ever done. Curious if he's awake, I open my eyes to a pair of half-open brown eyes, all warm and liquid-like. God, what a pretty boy. Hard to believe some lucky bastard hasn't buggered him yet.

"Uh, hey."

"Hey." Xander brings his free hand up to touch my face, sliding it into my hair. He touches my lips with his so lightly that I half convinced he hasn't even moved until I feel his tongue flick into my mouth. He leans back a bit but continues his movements on my dick.

"You awake or dreamin'?" God, please, please, whatever you are, don't bloody stop.

"Awake. Been awake for awhile."

Another kiss. "Feel like shit, but I'm awake. And I got a question."

"Okay. Ask."

"I know, I'm hung-over, and prolly still stoned on whatever I licked last night," Licked? What the fucking hell did he lick? "But I'm feeling just stupid enough to wonder if you'd like to fuck me?"


"You know, right in the ol'ass. I mean, unless that's not your thing and I'm totally hallucinating being in bed with a vampire."

I lunge up and grab his head with both hands. My tongue's in his mouth before he can form another word. When I feel his hand grip on my cock, I hiss and thrust one hand down to stop him. No sense in goin' off like a little boy when I've got a fresh ass to bugger. Hell, I haven't fucked a man in years. Okay, make that at least a decade.

I lick and bite around his face, neck, chest before whispering in his ear. "Face to face'd be harder, but it's up to you." I bite as hard as I can without setting off the fucking chip and he shudders as he answers.

"Whatever you prefer."

My hands gentle as I turn him over. I want him as relaxed as possible, not terrified. If he's freaked, he'll tense, and I'll hurt him, and that'll hurt me, and no need for that.

"On your knees." As he engages his brain to comply, I reach over to the bedside table. Old copies of Hustler, smokes, fifth of whiskey, pictures of the Slayer, Slayer's underwear, picture of the 'clan Angelus' in happier times, and oh yeah, KY jelly. Behind Xander, I rub against his back, running one hand down his chest and into his groin. I give his dick a tug to remind him why he's interested in gettin' fucked. Pleasure with a loud capital P. Or for some other reason but fucking whatever. It's gonna feel good. He thrusts into my hand once before I turn my attention to my own dick. Get it good and slicked up. I take the excess gel and get a coupla fingers on my right hand ready to get him ready. Nibbling on his ass cheeks, up his back, I thrust my pinky finger into him without warning and he freezes. My left hand moves back to his dick and in no time I've got him moving back and forth, into the hand, back on the fingers. Two more fingers later he's grunting and his dick is swelling up tight, juices seeping out onto the bed sheets.

I line up my dick with his hole and slowly pop the head into his ass. He's holding his breath as I sink into him inch by inch. My hips flush with his curvy white backside, I withdraw and thrust back in. A quick check of the kid's cock tells me that he's flagged a bit but with a bit of effort I get him back on track.

Soon enough, I'm fucking his unsurprisingly tight hole as I jack him off. I lick his back free of sweat and tighten my grip on his cock. I wanna finish him before I come. A few fast hard tugs and he arches hard and lets loose with fast hard spurts of semen. Yeah. Done with the sweet loverly part, and a bit eager from the effect his contracting ass had on my dick, I lean back and grip his hips. Xander tightens his inner muscles and I snarl as I come.

He collapses. I almost follow but I let my arms catch me before I crush him to the bed. When my dick softens enough, I roll away from Xander's body and grab the smokes from the bedside table. A light snore fills the room as I grin and light up.

Eh, not such a craptastic evening after all. Except that I'm using more bloody teen lingo. Goddammit.



Make that double ow with a jumbo-sized side of intense ow. I wince with each slight shift of my muscles as I ease out of Spike's bed. Find my clothes, put on those clothes, more ow and a little ewww as I discover various dried patches of stuff. Better to think of it as stuff and not whatever it really is. I know what it is and doesn't want to know that thank you very much so I'll shove away for later ewwws.

I turn to look at the bare back and curve of ass under the sheets. Consider leaving a note, a stake in Spike's chest, or giving the vampire a blowjob before leaving. I'm pretty sure we didn't try that last night. I go through my mental card stack. No, coupla other scary gay things, but no blowjobs. I remember thinking this should scare me and I'm still waiting for a wave of homophobic terror, ah comforting terror, to wash over me like it did when Larry thought I was gay back in high school. I'm not just a little surprised to realize that I mostly feel achy, way hung-over, and sated. Like my body got something it didn't know it needed.

Nothing like a dose of big gay lovin' to make things alright.

On my way out, I close the crypt door quietly and make my way through the early morning. I'm already making plans to shower before calling Anya to see how much she wants to go to San Francisco and Good Vibrations when I stop. I meant to head out the west gate of the cemetery towards my apartment, but my feet took me somewhere else.


I'm feeling a big urge to cry when I hear the wind rustle the trees surrounding the small clearing where we buried her. I kneel near the headstone.

"Hey, Buffster. Still dead? Yeah, thought so. Don't roll over, but I had uh, relations of the sexual kind with, uh, Spike last night. Or this morning. Not really sure on the exact time."

I'm telling a dead girl I had sex with a guy. Shoot me now.

"Thanks for saving me. Thanks for not losing me."

I'm the all-time high school loser. And that's ancient history.

Times change. Friends die. And losers grow up.

I get to my feet and with a last look at Buffy's grave, walk away.


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