This was the absolute, very last thing he should be doing.  Ever.  But when Buffy had told him just where Spike was and with who. . . Wrong.  Very.  And disturbing.  And no, not at all cute or hot or whatever she’d giggled about.

Except it really was.

Watching Spike fuck was always hot.  Tight, hard muscles under fine, pale skin that moved with a liquid grace that had nothing to do with his being a vampire.  Spike was sex, especially when he was with someone he loved, the emotion palpable in the air.  Husky moans and words—because Spike couldn’t shut up, ever—and soft touches no matter how rough the sex might be.  Because Spike was always tender in bed with someone he loved.

But Xander?  Xander wasn’t supposed to be arousing, even when he was writhing underneath Spike’s body, his whispered words just as loving and tender as Spike’s.  Xander was definitely not supposed to be on his back, taking Spike deep inside and begging for more, hips swinging in easy, practiced movements.

Because Xander was straight as a bored and Spike. . .

Spike was kissing him.  Lips swollen and wet, tongues visible as they tangled together in a way that had nothing to do with the rutting of their bodies.

Angel went back to L.A., oddly content.  He knew the younger vampire would scoff in his face if he ever said this, but Angel still cared for Spike.  And he was happy that he was finally in love with someone who loved him back.

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