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As Xander's thumb swept subtle, swirling circles across Angel's shoulder, he lay his other hand, tanned skin starkly dark against the pale, at the base of Spike's spine, just above where Angel's thrusts, in and out and in and out, swayed in a languid, almost lazy, rhythm. The shock of the connection snapped open Spike's eyes and he started to harden again from feelings of kin-love and passion, and Angel found his own release, moaning out a final, “my boy,” although none of them would ever know if he had meant Xander or Spike, before collapsing against his Childe.