He’s asked for this before. Not often, but enough to know he likes it. Always as foreplay, never lasting long, nothing but a faint, fading flush left behind. And he always has to ask.
Tonight is different. He didn’t ask for it tonight. He didn’t get a choice. He’s face down over Spike’s thighs, not even stripped, his shirt shoved up, his jeans ripped down and he’s hurting and hard after just one angry slap.
And it doesn’t end, not even when he’s past the point where there’s any pleasure in it, not even when his own erection fades because he knows Spike isn’t hard at all, isn’t liking this one bit. It keeps on until Spike’s hand untwists from its grip on his shirt, pressing down in the hollow of Xander's half-bared back and comes up to swipe blindly across his face.
And when the hand comes away wet his other hand stills and it’s over, done.
And now Xander knows what will happen the next time he shows off on patrol and comes so close to dying that Spike’s eyes turn empty with shock then fill with disgust.
And he knows there won’t be a next time.
Because he’s hurting but Spike hurts worse and the first thing he does when he’s released is to slide his cool hand against Spike’s warm one and not let go for a long, long time.
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