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Death of a Sex-God

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“You’ve killed him!” Anya screeched. “He was supposed to be mine, but you used him up and killed him, and now he’s no good to anyone!”

Buffy, Willow and Tara (yes, Tara – Xander was that good) gazed mournfully at the deceased, unclothed young man. “Maybe that last marathon was a little too much?” Buffy suggested.

“You think?” Anya demanded.

Buffy blinked. Was that sarcasm? Was Xander that good he (ahem) ‘worked’ some humanity back into Anya?

“M-maybe we w-were a l-little t-too m-much,” Tara (yes, Tara) sighed.

Willow cocked her head at the still somewhat tumescent member. (Odd how the recently-deceased-but-not-fangy could do that.) “I wonder,” she … er … wondered.

Anya brightened suddenly, and leered. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

Willow leered back at the … what colour was her hair today? “I’m definitely thinking something, and I think your mind is just dirty enough to think the same thing.”

Understatement!” Buffy coughed. She perked up suddenly, with a thought of her own. “Were you thinking of anything ending in –bot?”

“Ooh…” Willow and Anya cooed.

Tara, characteristically only in the realm of this story, smirked.

The women of Sunnydale (well, a select group of the women of Sunnydale) quickly got to work with their measurements, both mundane and arcane, and then buzzed off the work their works. Busy as they were with their contemplations and their business, they had forgotten to deal with the body. They were, therefore, not around to hear a pained Mockney howl trailing off into the night.

Because he had been Xander, and he had been that good.