A holiday gift for anniesj
Xander hears himself breathing. In, out. In, out. Hears his heart thumping. Pump, pump. Hears his legs slide open across the sheet.
Everything's so loud when you're alone.
His hand dips beneath the band of his boxers. Wraps around the base of his full cock. He's hard, sore-hard. Constantly, nowadays, with only stolen moments for relief. No one's allowed to know about this. What he wants. Needs. Burns for.
So he strokes. Up, down. Teases his slit, dripping pre-cum. Pinches the base. Makes it last. Dreams, unbidden, of stark white-blond hair and lean muscles, gone forever now. He knows what he wants. Knows he'll never get to say this to the person he wants to hear it.
Ignoring the moisture in his eye – he doesn't cry – Xander jerks himself to a feverish pitch. Fiercely needs to pound something besides his fist. It's a desperate, searing ache consuming him as he murmurs: "Hey, Spike. Miss you. Missed you for good. Should have said something. Should have – missed my chance. Always miss my chance."
He gasps as climax rushes up on him, a tidal wave, and barely holds back the tide. He doesn't deserve this. Not yet. Hasn't said all he wanted to yet.
"You knew. I saw it in you. I know you saw it in me. But you stayed away. Why? You let me go on loving-not-loving Anya, and you weren't even there for me when she died. Because you were dead too. There should have been something I could do. But there wasn't. Never is. Too late. Always too late."
He closes his eye hard, shutting out the images. "Hey, Spike," he whispers. Letting himself pretend for a few sweet seconds. "It's late. You're cold. Come to Xander. I'll warm you up. Make it so good together—"
Oh – that's it – that's the final push, the last pulse - fire, burning, hot --
Alone, he orgasms and laughs bitterly into the darkness.