And they danced and they danced. And there were too many words to count, mindless and spineless words that floated around their heads like cotton candy, pollutant and military with their tactics. And they kissed, and they licked, and they kissed some more and it was good. And it felt okay.
And they danced, and they danced. Danced and swayed, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, until the cold air that slapped against them shocked them with its rudeness as they fell through the door, and then there was a brick wall, and a colder dance, a more possessive dance. And they kissed, and they grinded, and they kissed and it was good. And Spike whispered, “My place. Now.” And Xander, he could only nod.
So they danced, and they danced, and they danced. Down murky roads where the tarmac caught at their boot heels, and the bass sounds plucked from errant beats entered their blood, made it wild. Stumbled through the gate. Laughed drunkenly at the name, and fell against a pink marble tombstone. Shoved their heads into the cotton candy clouds, that reeked of JB and cheap tobacco, and their tongues meshed silkily as they swayed. And they kissed, and they groped, and they kissed. And it took so little time to get over that barrier, the ‘Guy wrong guy stupid you have a girlfriend – maybe she did say she didn’t want to see you anymore oh no a guy’ thing. And Xander and Spike danced. And it was good.
And while they danced, eternally danced, somehow there was a soothing darkness, back lit by hazy yellow emergency lights from beyond the open crypt door. And it made Spike’s hair shine, like his eyes, like Xander’s lips, as Spike pressed down on trembling shoulders until knees buckled. And then there was more dancing, with sucking lips and grasping tongue, and the moist, sex sounds he wrought from Spike’s cock as he sucked it made Xander’s head just go spin. And they kissed, and they sucked, and they kissed. And Spike came. And it was good also.
And they danced, danced to the bed, and danced and danced. Xander laid twitching, thrumming and trembling and whining like a sorry hound, while Spike shoved a CD in his broken old player, and he twitched again as golden eyes stared him down as he quietly and deliberately shut the door. And the sounds of a broken techno beat made him lift his hips; once, twice, too many fucking times, and Spike was hard again, and classical music wrapped around the base of his spine and yanked as Spike bit his nipple. And they kissed, and they squirmed, and they kissed. And it was better than good.
So they danced the horizontal tango, got down and dirty with the freaky mambo. To be correct, they sidestepped slowly, scared and nervous and feet apart on a too thin cot. And it hurt to be witty. To laugh, and be happy, and be something he just couldn’t fucking be anymore. And cool lips and tongue licked away his tipsy tears, shushed him, and rasped him clean from top to bottom. And the mattress was another hazy cloud against his belly, and he howled as a slick tongue entered him, where no tongue had ever been before. And it curled and twisted and explored, and it felt so weird it wasn’t, and he cried as he came, brokenly humping the mattress and wishing for solid flesh. And it didn’t matter if it was un-dead or not. And they kissed, and they held hands, and they kissed. And Xander curled into Spike, and Spike curled an arm around him, and it was alright.
And they rocked, like a dance, a slow dance, an easy dance. Spike whispered to him about Adagio and Barber and sweetness, and tender kisses littered down upon his sore skin like raindrops. Deep blue eyes that held something, and nothing, and he rubbed a hand over that sharp cheekbone and wished it could cut him, and hurt him, and wake him. And there was nothing to do but rock, gasp as trembling fingertips ghosted between his suddenly spread legs, rubbed his ass firmly, and yet politely, and yet firmly. And then something sticky and cold and slick, and Spike’s finger eased inside him with a wet sucking sound, and he jack-knifed and hurt and screamed his nearly-there-again-release as they convulsed against each other in pain and pleasure. And they danced, and they held each other, and they danced. And Xander whispered, in the pale curve of an ear that was pretty like a perfect seashell, “Inside.” And it was fucking alright. Because Spike whispered back, “Oh God yes.”
And they danced, and they danced, and they fucking danced. Danced as more slick sounds were taken, bound and gagged, from wildly thrusting fingers, slick and cold inside of him. And then spread, so that he felt wide and stretched and odd thoughts littered the massacre of his once-mind – ‘Can my insides fall out if he puts any more inside!?’ – and then blessed kisses, sweet kisses, as frozen hands, one slick and slightly warm despite being cold and ow, ow, ow, ow, ooooooooooow, but those hands were curling around and through his, and he gasped, and Spike roared, and the pain eased. And they danced, though they kept still, they danced and danced. And Xander felt an odd feeling of contentment steal over him. And it was better than nearly anything.
And they danced, swaying against each other like boats moored at sea. Spike’s face shifting, ridges and howls and cries transforming him from something to be afraid of to a demon lying inside him, panting breath he did not need. And maybe it was the booze, or the scent of smoky cigarettes and something darker on his breathe, or maybe even the loneliness in his eyes that made Xander kiss him for real. Soft, gentle, un-provoking kisses. And it made Spike smile softly, and the demon settled inside its chains once more, and they started to move. And they danced, as they kissed and they fucked, and they bloody well danced. And it was like something – everything – just stopped. And it let them be for a little while.
Danced, and danced, and danced. Wilder than anything he could be prepared for, past possession and mere words and the ghost of fingertips trailing down his cheek. It was a force of nature between his spread legs, rocking hardness up and into and inside, feral and terrifying and fantastic. Making his speech wobble as he gushed praise, for the lovely rod inside, for the thick dick that made him feel so warm and special and- and there were tender words, as Spike rocked deep as he grit his teeth, brushing the cheeks of his ass with a downy sac as they moved to a dance that rivalled anything that dared it. And Spike whispered his name. Called him love, kissed him with more passion that he had never ever never experienced before. And they danced, as they fucked and kissed and ground and kissed and fucked, they danced. And it was like coming home.
Danced, danced, danced. Cool length driving inside, making him ripple and gooey and soft in all the right places, making him hard and hot and bothered in all the other. Lips brushing lips, foreheads touching as Spike eased into him one last time with a sigh, and bit his lip as he searched Xander’s eyes for a clue or hint or something. And whatever it was, past being drunk and feeling lonely, and Spike was something other than enemy now, and Xander said yes. And then teeth, daggers, knives, swords, sickles plunging into his chest, and he could feel them somehow enter his heart, and it didn’t hurt but it wasn’t real, it was just a hand on his cock, but Spike was biting his heart none-the-less. And he came, screaming and bucking and then being very, very still and spellbound as Spike came too, and it filled him with a wonder – and with Spike himself - he remembered from church when he was very young. And they lay, and they grinned, and they curled into each other as the CD finally skipped. And they kissed softly, and whispered each other’s names, and kissed more softly still. And they slept.
And they danced, danced, danced all the way home.