Keeping Busy
These days Xander is grateful for anything that keeps him busy--long thankless hours of overtime, monsters, mayhem, impending apocalypse, even the annoyance of babysitting poor, crazy, worthless Spike--because as long as he's treading water, he can't drown.
It's not that any of it really keeps his mind off of the pain; it's just that it's enough to keep him from giving in completely. He has to put on a brave face and grin and bear it and all that other manly White-Knight bullshit. So he whistles while he works, so hard, all day, until night falls and evil is vanquished and they all go home together and leave him alone to contemplate the everyday tragedy his life has been for the past year.
He thinks of the wedding, marvels at how easy it was to give up on Anya and the future and everything he ever wanted. A rush and a push and the land that he stood on may as well have swallowed him whole. But it didn't, and now all that he has--all that he is--is pain.
But sometime after midnight, the pain gives way to rage, and suddenly Spike doesn't seem so helpless anymore. Especially when he comes home at half past two with his lips a little too red and his leather pants a little too tight and he tries to walk by like he didn't screw Anya that night at the Magic Box, like he didn't attack Buffy, like he hasn't done more than anyone but Xander himself to wreck Xander's life.
"Not so fast, Evil Dead," Xander growls, grabbing Spike by the collar.
Spike smirks back, knowing full well what's coming. "What, you think I'd be going after Anya again?" he taunts. "Not bloody likely. She's damaged goods." Emphasizes the last two words for good measure.
And Xander hits him, even harder than he'd originally intended to. Thinks it's far too soon to stop, so he pulls Spike to his feet and hits him again. Catches a glimpse of those ruby-red lips and gets a better idea.
He stares down at Spike, watching the blood trail down his jaw, and fights the impulse to lick it off. Within seconds he is hard.
"Is that a stake in your pocket-"
Xander cuts him off. "Get over here."
And Spike obliges, longing for punishment and humiliation, and knowing that Xander will give it to him in spades.
"On your knees," Xander snarls. Unzips his jeans and starts jerking off, slowly, the tip of his cock just a fraction of an inch away from those lips. "You know what to do," he sneers.
Spike leans forward and takes the head into his mouth, sucking gently. It's not enough, though, and Xander grabs the back of Spike's head and forces his cock down Spike's throat, gagging him. Spike takes the hint and relaxes while Xander fucks his face.
Xander begins to thrust, faster, harder, and Spike tries to keep up, his own cock almost as hard as the one in his mouth. Xander remembers his father's porno collection and pulls out just in time to cover Spike's lips with come.
He leans down and whispers, "Cocksucker," drawing out every syllable, just to make sure Spike knows what he is. Leaves Spike to deal with his own hard-on, because he doesn't owe him a damn thing, and besides, he needs to get to bed. After all, he has a long day ahead of him. Xander Harris is a very busy man.