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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: War of Attrition Series: I. DMZ Author: The Spike Pairing: Angel/Xander Rating: NC-17 Setting: Between BtVS S1 and S2. Hot, wet night in Sunnydale. Wierd summer weather for SoCal, but hey... welcome to the Hellmouth. Xander's out... prowling. The usual Harris family bullshit whatever -- he just wanted out. No biggie, happens all the time and he gets fed up. He's not even mad this time, no trauma, just bored. Restless. Sweaty. Supremely horny. It's late enough that the Bronze is closed but that's where he heads anyway. Really quiet, echoing of his own footsteps. The air's so thick it catches all the sound like jelly. Smells burnt. Maybe going to be a storm. And even though he knew it was going to be closed, when he gets to the Bronze and feels the dead and the quiet rolled out around the place like a tarp, he's... disappointed. //Fuck...should just go home...// but he doesn't. Instead he prowls more, does a cautious circuit of the building scowling nervously into the darkness. He stops at the alley mouth, hands in his pockets (right hand wrapping reflexively around the stake that's been bouncing against his thigh) tapping one foot impatiently. The alley's empty. //Well... good. // Sort of. The fire escape's down, though. Impulsively Xander goes for it, gets his hands on the rusty rungs, gets a couple of rungs up, then the loudness of his climb gets to him, he stops. Listens. Nothing. He climbs more. Rust grinding under his hands, gritting his bare knees. T-shirt flapping a little against his back. Stops again. Listens hard. More nothing. It's like Sunnydale's gone dead. It's like he's all alone, the whole rest of the planet empty. End of the world shit. The sky is more like a black iron skillet than an open thing. Bad bad bad. But tonight he wants it to be that way. He's up at the ridge of the Bronze roof then and over. Drops to a crouch on the flat tar and gravel roof. Then stands. Nice view... not. Industrial Sunnydale and then some street lights, city lights -- flat and far away and few. Feels good to be up here somehow, though. Feels just like he's completely in his own skin. Just him, Xander Harris -- nobody to watch or make judgments or... whatever. He mulls that over, finds himself a brick pillar thing to lean on, watch Sunnydale do absolutely nothing below. Scratches his belly for a long, slow, gentle time and then lets his hand wander. Nice warm glow thing happening where his hand goes. Different from the heat outside. Is he going to do this? he wonders. Grins a little. He's already doing it. Leans back, gets himself more comfortable in a gritty, sweaty kind of way, braces his back against the bricks. Takes long slow breaths. Moving gently. No real plan, not even using his own expertise, just stroking, cupping... fondling himself a little. Letting it feel good where it feels good. And after a while it starts to feel good pretty much everywhere and more often than not. He's really hard. The shorts were tight -- last year's shorts and he's still growing apparently -- to begin with. He wonders if he's going to be able to get them off. Wonders briefly how far he's planning to take this. Imagines how good it'll feel to be naked in all that silky air... and that's enough to make him say 'ohhh' when he sighs... The sound of his own voice is flat and loud and it makes him want to make himself groan really loud, just for the thrill of it. And this is getting away from him just a little faster than he wants. So he stops, reaches back and grabs the collar of his T-shirt, pulls it over his head. Sweat makes it stick to him and for a minute he's trapped inside, breathing in his own hot, wet scent. Liking it, but it's too much. He has to reach back with the other hand, grab the hem and peel... When he finally gets it off the contrast of cool air on his face is like a caress. He feels like he's making love to the night itself and he 'mmm's again and his eyes come up. Angel is standing about a foot in front of him. Watching him. Angel in his black leather coat, black silk, not a shimmer of sweat on him. If there was a moon he would be pale. As it is he's just in black and white. What surprises Xander is that he's not particularly scared. Just... On the razor edge of mortified maybe, cheeks heating, feeling a witless joke rising. But underneath... Something like anger: //so fucking *what* -- I bet *you* do it...// Wonders if it's true. Wonders if it shows on his face. Angel hasn't moved. Xander's heart kicks a little, but it's... not a bad kicking. The in-his-own-skin thing is very solid apparently. And the way Angel is looking at him... Hungry, but not *hungry*. And not really *at* him, not like 'Angel' looking at 'Xander' -- Buffy's friend, slayerette whatever. There's an emptiness in Angel's face. They could be strangers up there. But on the other hand Angel *is* looking at him. Taking him in. Xander feels the shiver -- the coolness coming off Angel getting between him and the night's heat. His mouth is so dry his tongue catches against his lips. He's going to say something, any second now. Can feel the mystery phrase building up in his chest and only hopes it's something that won't break this fragile thing. Angel maybe sees that too, maybe has a premonition. Or maybe just... And Xander's thought derails as Angel's hand comes up, as the side of Angel's middle finger touches him just below the hollow of his collarbone. As Angel draws a thin cool line through the sweat on his chest. The finger stops at his navel and Xander stares at it, partly stunned by the shock factor of the touch itself, partly because he finds himself willing the finger to keep on going. It seems impervious, but then he can see it's shaking a little like a taut bowstring so he follows the line of Angel's arm to his face. Angel's face is... He's never really thought about kissing a guy but Angel's face... Angel's mouth is a little open now, Xander can see the ridge of Angel's bottom teeth, small and white and even. Looking at Xander from underneath the ridge of his brows, eyes glittering in shadow, maybe it's Angel who looks a little scared. Or... something. And Xander doesn't know what to do to make it happen, this unnameable *it* he suddenly wants so much. Too much. He's stuck, glued inside his skin, throat crammed full with words that can't come out. So he tilts his head a little, closes his eyes. Sudden push of cool air and for a second he thinks Angel's done a bunk but when he opens his eyes it's just in time to see Angel close the distance between them. He thinks Angel is going to kiss him -- Christ, *bite* him -- gasps in anticipation but Angel doesn't. Barely touches him, has just *moved in*. Arms bracketing Xander's shoulders, one on either side of him against the brick. Angel pinning him to the wall without touching him. Just... what? Smelling him? Feeling his heartbeat? What...? It's a visceral thrill to have Angel's open coat brushing the naked flesh of his shoulders, chest. Angel exuding cool and... heat too, down by his groin. Visceral. It makes his knees want to buckle. And Angel is *definitely*... 'scared' is the wrong word but... something. Skittish. Which makes Xander want to... He presses his cheek against Angel's cheek, reaches up under the coat and runs his hands down Angel's body -- ribs under heavy muscle; cool, cool silk, cool flesh. Angel gasps... //thought you didn't *breathe* deadboy...// and his hands stop at Angel's belt just long enough to fist there, jerk the leather. Angel's head falls lightly on his shoulder. Xander can smell him for the first time, under the bite of leather, the sweetness of shampoo, something definitely earthy and the tang of very human smelling sweat. It sends a pulse through him, sudden lust so intense Xander has to bear down on it. He presses his face into the bared crook of Angel's neck. Lips to the cool flesh and Xander makes a sound in his throat that isn't quite a growl and opens his mouth. Feels the shudder that runs through Angel from crown to heels. And then Angel has him pinned for real against the bricks, chest pressed to his chest, groin to his groin. Angel's hardness is hotter than Xander's through the layers of cloth. He feels like iron under there and... big. Xander's hips go of their own volition, thrusting against the available friction. The bricks are scraping the hell out of his back and he can't get enough leverage to really get the burn he wants. And Angel's moving a lot slower than he is. But moving for damn sure. For a while, this is all there is. Angel's too slow, too careful humping; Xander getting too damn close anyway, everything in his body threatening to melt down into some bright, hot, golden slurry, keeping him from any kind of rhythm. Oh yeah, he could come like this. Come for Angel, come all over Angel's leather pants. And Angel would stop then, stop and pull away. And walk away. Disappear into the night and get away unscathed. So easy. And Xander knows absolutely that it isn't what either of them wants. He bucks harder, gets a little too-good of a shot from his own efforts but at least he gets Angel's attention too. Tugs on the belt until Angel pulls away. Definitely dazed. Not meeting Xander's eyes and what is this all about? Xander wonders with the tiny part of his mind still capable of wondering anything besides how does this belt undo... And then he figures out how the belt undoes and he has to watch Angel's face as he undoes it. Which nearly undoes him. //you *in* there Angel?// but even as he thinks it Angel's gaze is flickering back from wherever he's been to focus on Xander's face. Angel's looking at him, and it's like Angel hasn't really been very far away at all. Like Xander's pulled him from some deep erotic dream only it was a deep erotic dream about here and now and... him. Not a romantic dream but... just this. Just them here now on the roof, Xander half-naked, half under him, unbuttoning his shirt, his fly, unzipping him, stripping him under his coat. Long white column of Angel's body in the shadows and Xander has to run his hands over it, feel the solid dolphin curves of muscle, too-smooth hairless skin. Nipples -- Angel's nipples, tiny and hard. Xander has to feel them, finger them. Is so lost in his own sensations that Angel's whimper is a surprise. Shock. Sends a shiver through him and he does it again and again until Angel's grip on his arms gets painful. So he leans in and takes one in his teeth. Xander can hear himself breathing against Angel's chest...//Yeah...// and sucking, trying to get suction on that hard, tiny nub of flesh. Just wracking Angel everytime he does. Everytime he misses. Meanwhile his hands are still roaming. Angel's back, down and down to the faint curve of Angel's naked ass. Sketching the shape of it with his hands, his palms. His fingers trace the cleft and then move down to cup the cheeks. And back again. Moving restlessly. Angel, with effort, *not* moving but that perfect flesh trembles and twitches under his caress. Xander's own hips aren't anywhere as controlled. Rocking whether he tells them to or not and his cock keeps brushing wetly against the cool, slightly rougher flesh of Angel's thigh. Weird position. He's in this sort of crouch, feeling small and hidden under Angel's coat but when he raises his head from Angel's nipple... Their faces are so close. Nearly eye to eye. Chin to chin. Angel's lower lip is wet. Xander leans in -- no, there is no breath -- and licks. Sucks it in, pulling their mouths together. Angel tastes like earth again -- not strong but definite. And.... and no salt. And for some reason this turns Xander on way beyond anything rational and he groans into Angel's mouth. And Angel is suddenly kissing him hard and slippery and wet. Angel's hands tight on his arms again and Xander feels Angel's diaphragm hitch under his hand and Angel is making hard little sounds with every lunge of lips and tongue. So goddamn strong. Xander had forgotten. But he's still not scared. It's exciting as hell to be kissed like this, to be held like this. Angel's arms sliding around his arms now, trapping him, lifting him off his feet a little, bending him back and Xander can only thrust into the storm, hips and mouth -- all that amazing golden happening and... //oh Jesus Buffy gave this *up*...?// And oh oh oh he's getting close again. Too close and this time -- holy Jesus -- Angel's hands on *his* ass, lifting him to rub hardness to hardness... Angel's *naked* hardness and Xander's not but oh he has to be he wants to be... Struggling a little and either Angel gets it or just has the same thought running through his head -- get Xander naked *now* but he feels the yank, the tug, harder tug, verging into pain before the fabric rips. Shorts fall away, the stake clattering dully in the gravel and Angel loosens his grip enough that Xander can get an arm free. Help with the briefs. Leaving him naked in his sockless running shoes //and how'm I going to get home like this... don't *care*...// and just a second to feel the night air on his skin and then Angel is all over him -- kissing, wet and fierce; biting -- each scrape of teeth a tiny shot of fear, the shots accumulating like charge in Xander's skin. Strong hands cupping, caressing, pulling him close, moving them together. Xander swaying. Almost like being drunk... Xander holding on -- gasping like a drowning swimmer each time his cock comes in contact with Angel's -- all that heat! And wanting... God! Wanting so badly to have the strength to just turn Angel around... Slam him up against that wall... Not even realizing until Angel says: "What--?" that he's been chanting it like a mantra whenever he can get a breath in: "...fuck you want to fuck you let me..." Angel pulls away. Moment of stunned silence which they both take in on the verge of wariness. Looking each other up and down and Xander finally gets a look at what's been slicking and poking him. Not as big as the baby's arm he'd been envisioning but, Jesus...and, Jesus, that must be a foreskin. He's never seen one before. The urge to drop to his knees and take it in his mouth is surprising and a little overwhelming. Xander's mouth suddenly watering enough that he has to wipe a thread of drool away with the back of his hand. And Angel wrapping his fist around the base of it while he watches does nothing to help. Xander has to *lift* his eyes up to Angel's. Angel still looks dazed but Xander wouldn't think to call it scared anymore. A little smile is hovering around the corners of Angel's mouth. Not necessarily a nice smile, but it's definitely for him. "Turn around," Xander says. His voice surprises both of them. Low and rough. A man's voice -- what he's going to sound like when he's thirty. And when Angel just looks at him he adds: "Against the wall." And it's not entirely clear that Angel's heard him, the expression, the smile doesn't change. And saying it again doesn't seem to be an option, so it's kind of a miracle when Angel does it. Surreal as hell and Xander can only watch numbly as Angel turns, leans -- braces himself, legs spread, palms pressed flat against the bricks. Still wearing the long coat which is -- thank God -- the kind with a split up the back to the waist. 'Wow' is the only thing in Xander's mind that sounds like a word but it seems important to hang onto that. He runs his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Lets the hand take the natural curve down his throat, to chest, belly, to settle on his cock. He's been so hard for so long. Angel shifts a little and the sound brings him right back home to now. Here. Now. He steps in. Presses himself to Angel's back. Molds himself to the still cool leather, runs his hands up Angel's arms, mirroring his position. Letting himself feel the shape of himself pressed to Angel. Feeling his heart pounding against Angel's back, the breath moving in and out of his lungs //not Angel's// Just for a minute. Pressing his cock into the cleft in the leather, into the firm flesh beneath. Cool leather, cool ass cheeks and, when he presses in hard -- a fucking *furnace* between them. He rocks like that, just the leverage of his hips, into the heat. Angel pushes back into him and Xander can feel small tremors in the motion. //Yes...// He's way too close for this. Tries to turn his mind to sports, to TV shows, to what he had for dinner -- can't think of a fucking thing except *going to fuck Angel now. Have my cock in Angel's ass*... which doesn't help. So, fuck it then. He pulls back, spits liberally into his hand, strokes himself. Slick with spit and pre-come and ohhhh... Angel still as a statue until Xander slips in between his cheeks, runs the head of his cock along inside the cleft, looking for the center... bumps over the bud... And Angel's knees do buckle a little this time. Xander feels him go. Tries to catch him even as he catches himself. Thinks: //Christ I could really *hurt* him... // flashes on the stake that rattled away when his shorts gave way and moans helplessly at the shiver that sends through him. And thrusts. Just a little. Just...oh, but it's enough and he is *in* that heat. Inside just a little but... holy Jesus... inside Angel and all that *heat*... He can't stop his hips. Trying to be gentle. Needs to be slicker than this but Angel is opening up with every thrust and thrusting back, wanting more and more. And he can *feel* it when Angel starts to breathe, to suck in air to make the sounds deep in his throat and that takes him to the place that is just on the edge of over... Biting his lips, rolling his head across Angel's back and he's hammering the peg *home* for Christ sake, all the way home and into all that heat. His dick melting in it. Gold slurry spreading out like waves. Arms coming down to grab Angel around the waist, pull him up, make him shout like that. Finding Angel's cock with his other hand, the two of them, hips rolling together as Xander feels the mysterious foreskin slip and roll inside his fist. Oh jeez jeez -- the edge is endless. His head is going to burst, he's going to shoot the top of Angel's head off. Angel's muscles bunch and roll against his chest and then there is one terrible moment of tension and Xander *feels* the change whip through Angel's body like a wave and Angel *roars*.... For a second terror hits Xander so hard it makes him blind, deaf, numb and then -- ecstasy follows like a thunderclap on lightning and oh god he's *coming* way harder than he ever has in his own hand and so so sweet... He clings to Angel, helpless while it wracks him, dimly aware of the handful of come that feels hot as molten gold dripping through the fingers grasping Angel's cock. It goes on for an amazingly long time, taking everything, and when he's finally down he hangs on anyway just to stay upright.. He waits for Angel to push him off, maybe push him down and tear his throat out -- nothing he could do about it, barely enough energy to *care*... But Angel does nothing to dislodge him and after a while he gets enough breath back to dislodge himself, pull out, wet and messy. Angel makes a tiny sound -- not a whimper, maybe just sucking air. Xander staggers a little and Angel does grab him then -- by the arm, but only pushes him against the wall, holds him there. Angel's face is human. Still impossible to read. Xander wants another kiss. Maybe Angel reads his mind -- maybe he's just obvious -- but that doesn't really explain why Angel leans in then, kisses him. So gently. Xander kisses back, feels a stirring, just the faint echo of his arousal. Almost painful on the sensitized parts of his flesh -- cock and lips and nipples aching like bruises. Give it a little while though, he knows, he'll be hard and ready again. Angel gives him just a second less than long enough, then pulls away. Which aches, but is okay. He looks -- Xander can't name it, doesn't have words for it in his vocabulary maybe -- but he knows the look. Recognizes it from the inside, maybe. Kind of a combination of "oops" and "oh fuck *yeah*..." and "how much is this gonna hurt when the bill comes due?". A look Xander knows passing well. He can feel it on his own face even as he shrugs it off for both of them. What he wants to say is: forget it, it didn't happen or something like that. Only not like that because he doesn't want to make it *not* have happened only make it not a marker somehow. Like, what is that place in a war where the soldiers from each side put down their guns and play soccer in the rain one day? And they all know that it doesn't mean shit in the war and that there's going to be a whistle or a dog barking and they'll be picking up their guns again, but while it's happening... Way too jumbled to put into words and he's not sure if that's even *it*... Just... And a big yawn catches him hard and his jaw cracks with the stretch, eyes screw shut. And even before he opens them again, he knows Angel's done the disappearing thing. And Xander's alone again and naked in his own skin on the roof of the Bronze in big, dead SunnyHell, grinning with the afterbuzz of sex and the air still charged, but cooler now. Tasting of earth. And then there's lightning. And then there's thunder. And then, finally, there's rain. II: StandDown So afterward, it's weird. It's just... weird. Sitting across from Wills at the picnic table in the still soggy park -- the very same park he walked through two nights ago in his underwear in the rain --and for the first time since they've known each other he feels like there's this huge glass wall between them. Or not glass really, because he can obviously reach through it and nab stray French fries, but... something. First time he has something that he really really wants to tell her, but he can't. He can only, apparently, think it at her really loud: //HEY WILLS, GUESS WHAT? I FUCKED ANGEL ON THE ROOF OF THE BRONZE! YEAH! ANGEL. BUFFY'S ANGEL. SEE I WAS UP THERE JERKING-OFF...// And whoosh, he's got that hot/cold feeling going on and he's half-hard and thank God there's a picnic table... And oh yeah, he's going to be telling this to Willow anytime soon. Willow, who is talking to him about something he has no idea *what* the heck she's saying though he dimly remembers the words 'Aunt Ida' and 'potatoes' and now she's looking at him, eyebrows raised expectantly and he knows there's supposed to be an answer coming from him and all he can come up with is The Goofy Smile and The Shrug. "That's reassuring," Willow says. "So... how's the weather where *you* are?" Hot. Wet. Shivery. "You want to go out tonight?" he asks. "Maybe catch a movie?" Marveling, as usual, at the quickness of WonderMouth -- the Mouth that Speaks without a Brain! "Um...no?" Willow says. "I missed something important, didn't I..." Xander says, pushing thoughts of Angel back against the inside wall of his skull, trying not to think of fucking him there too. "Well, only in the sense of not being able to go out tonight being the thing I was most complaining about," Willow says. "Are you okay?" And now she's scowling at him a little in that Xander-you-didn't-just-fuck-Buffy's-Angel-did-you? way she's suddenly developed and Xander, not surprisingly, has to go. "I have to go," he says. "I have a... thing." "Xander..." And it's Willow. His *Wills* for God's sake, except that ever since the night that will henceforth be known as The Night Xander Fucked Angel On The Roof Of The Bronze or TNXFAOT... and a whole bunch of other letters for short... well, since then there are suddenly Things He Can't Tell Willow which seems like a lot of bad but, but the little woody's wanting to be a mighty oak in his pants and he has got to get somewhere where he can... On his feet. His over-shirt covers it, but barely. A book bag would be nice. "I'll uh... I'll call you tonight, okay?" he says, or partly calls to her as he's already moving in the direction of away. Willow watching him go and he knows that look. He is *such* an idiot. But he can't help it. It's like this great big giant... thing. Some chunk of someone else's life that's landed in the middle of his life. Except... and here is where he'd really like to be able to talk to Willow about it -- this thing is his life too, isn't it? His life now -- he means. Since Buffy came here. That other life. Up on the rooftops danger boy. That's him too. He's got this superhero life -- like, okay, he's not the Slayer, but he's... slayed. And fought things. Big fucking scary things. Monsters. Vampires. And now he's fucked one too. And thinking this while jerking-off (again!) in the can at the public library. Hand on his dick too warm (and he's tried running it under cold water for a while first, holding ice cubes, but there wasn't time for that this time -- he had to...) working himself with the fast, ruthless pull-and-twist that usually brings him off in about two seconds but isn't working like that now because he's already... Twice today. Because he can't stop thinking about what it felt like -- oh, and there it goes -- felt like to have Angel -- oh -- under him, around and oh, Jesus. Angel... And he comes. It's short, it's fast, it leaves little evidence in his hand. Nothing too earth-shaking. Barely even knee-shaking. Well, hell that should be no surprise the way he's been going at it today. But that isn't really it. It's just he has something to compare it to now. To compare every sex he ever has to. Is anything he ever does going to measure up? //cool leather; unholy furnace heat...// And oh, Jesus, his dick is begging like a punchy old prize-fighter. //Just gimme a another minute, Xan -- I just need to catch my breath...// //'S'all right, li'l feller,// he thinks at it, wiping its little head clean and tucking it tenderly into his briefs. //That's the last time today. I swear.// And he's talking to his *dick* now, and isn't that like the first step to polyester pants that smell like pee and sleeping under a bench in the bus station? Second step, maybe. Fucking a vampire has got to be a worse faux-pas than that. And the really bad thing is, he thinks -- washing his hands and glancing at himself side-wise in the mirror -- he's not just talking to his dick, he's *lying* to it. There's no way he's not gonna... Not like yesterday. Yesterday, he was super-restraint guy! Guy who didn't need to masturbate because he'd fucked! And that had, amazingly, lasted for twenty-four hours -- until he'd woken up this morning, hard as a freaking baseball bat from a dream that had no content beyond: cool, hot, wet and doing one perfect swan dive after another off the high board into an empty pool. Which, he wasn't sure exactly how, meant Angel. And just what, besides jerk himself raw, is he supposed to do about it now? About the rest of the day, now to be spent Willowless. And then tonight. And the rest of the summer, maybe. The year. His life. Is he supposed to pretend it never happened? Is he supposed to hope it happens again? Is he supposed to go out... hunting? And glances at himself in the mirror at that and sees the glint of that old pack spirit lurking in some unswept corner of his soul... Hunting Angel. And *there's* a nice jackhammer rush and he wants to think of something funny to make it seem a little less... real maybe. Except there's nothing funny anywhere around it. It's just kind of a cold, smoky, slippery darkness crowding out the bright sunshine leaking in through the frosted windows and Xander knows he wants it very very much. It seems like less of a good idea at 3 a.m. in an alley very far from home. His attackers don't play fair. First of all, there's two of them, which really sucks. Secondly, they're not vamps, they're humans so the only actual weapon he has -- his pointy chunk of wood -- really isn't much use unless one of them decides to throw himself on it eye-first. And worst of all, they're not content with taking his wallet and calling him names, turns out they have to rough him up some before they go. It's more of a shove-fest than a beating but it's a scary, out of control feeling to be knocked around by strangers and when Xander hits the ground, finally, he stays down, garbage juice and all, because he knows that's how you deal with bullies. And it works, they go away, taking his seven dollars and his driver's license and his picture of him and Willow and Buffy squeezed into one of those Hello Kitty photo booths. It's fucking depressing is what it is. Xander sits up, scootches back against the wall, rubs his bruised arm, bruised head. Smells his lovely new smell. Of course when he looks up, Angel's there. "Having fun?" Xander asks. Angry. Angel's an irritating fuck. Not there when you want him, always there when you don't. Did he actually forget that? Angel doesn't disappoint. "You were handling it." "I was getting my *ass* kicked." Angel just shrugs. Stands there looking down at him, neither of them saying anything. Then Angel holds out his hand. And Xander has a minute... he could ignore the hand. Slap it away. Tell Angel to go fuck himself instead and head home. Right. And Angel's palm as just as cool and dry as he remembers it. Imagined it to be. Whichever. Angel pulls him smoothly to his feet and when he lets go, Xander... doesn't. Instead he pulls Angel in towards him. Definitely not thinking much, just... Angel's so close. And pulling on Angel's hand is like tugging on a big, brick wall for a second and then Angel gives. Their faces touch. Angel's cheek is so smooth, the elastic skin at the corner of his mouth makes Xander need to brush his lips over it. He can feel his warm breath chuffing off the coolness. Angel's not doing anything at all. Not even breathing. And what does that mean? And Xander feels desperate and a little sick but at the same time his whole body has tensed in that supersweet way that's almost a shudder and he can't seem to stop. He closes his eyes, pushes at Angel's face with his face, mouth moving over Angel's mouth. Licks dryly at Angel's cool lips and then slips his tongue inside. To find the heat, that heat -- just under the cool surface, Angel's burning up and the mouth under Xander's mouth is hot and wet and motionless. Tasting of nothing in particular and just the faintest iron tang that could be blood or just the fierceness of Xander's own desire. Which is pretty high all of a sudden. Twisting arch of his spine and the sweet tension becomes the promised shudder, a stutter of hot breath that comes out as an awfully breathy little whimper into Angel's mouth and that seems to breathe life into Angel and his mouth moves against Xander's. Just for a second. Just a... a sketch of a kiss. The motion of a kiss and Angel pulls away. "You stink," he says. "Your mother dresses you funny," says WonderMouth. Angel gives a little laugh and starts to walk away. Which is very different, Xander realizes in the instant before his ego crashes to the ground, from disappearing without a trace. And his ego bungees up again, then hangs there, bouncing suggestively in that unreal place where he and Angel have sex sometimes. Like tonight apparently. And so he follows. Where Angel lives isn't too far from the Bronze. A grown-up's apartment with sofas, a coffee table. It's a little weirdly 'Pier One' for Xander's taste. Like Angel's trying a little too hard for 'normal'. //Not fooling anyone,// he thinks at Angel who is apparently determined to ignore him, sorting through his mail in the dark. Xander's been here before, of course. The night they faced the Master. He'd pulled a cross on Angel, told him just how much he didn't like him. Watching Angel move around the room in the streetlight darkness, Xander wonders if that's changed. Pretty hard to figure out what he feels just at the moment. He's tired, bruised. His horniness is so deeply dug in it hurts. And he really stinks. "Uh... " he says. His voice feels rusty from not talking all the way here. And Angel turns around, looks at him... oh God... --and Xander can feel the blood rush hot across his own skin, hear the hard, dry thud of his pulse in his throat. Can smell the sudden tang of arousal in his sweat because Angel is *looking* at him, blank-eyed and lost like Xander's maybe already sucking his cock, which Xander realizes with a roller coaster gut-wrench, he might just to do tonight. Today. If he doesn't die of wanting to first. If the garbage smell doesn't kill them both. "Um... shower?" he manages. Angel gestures with his head. A doorway just behind him, which means Xander has to walk past him to get there. Which seems somehow impossible, because if he gets too close to Angel's gravitational field, he thinks maybe they're just going to slam together like a couple of big old magnets and stick. But he manages, doesn't even touch Angel on his way past. Once he closes the bathroom door behind him, he's okay. He strips, wraps the reeking ball of clothes in a towel and showers, using Angel's soap. Angel's shampoo. If Buffy were to walk in and smell him right now she would *freak*. And oh, yeah... of course she'd be concentrating on the *smell*. And please don't think about Buffy? he begs his runaway brain which, instantly helpful, conjures up every Buffy thought, every Buffy wish, every Buffy moment Xander's ever had, runs them together in jump-cut slow motion and adds a Sarah McLaughlin soundtrack in case he's not quite wigged enough... Well, not really, but there's a picture in his head of the way Buffy and Angel look at each other. The way neither of them looks at him. //I should go home...// But he doesn't *want* to go home. He wants to stay and fuck Angel again. It's like he's now two completely different people: good Xander and evil Xander and good Xander's got hold of his brain and it's pretty obvious what evil Xander's got a hold of, hard and soapy in his hand and just a stroke or two and he'd be... something. Not something he wants. And Xander Xander doesn't seem to be able to will himself to go one way or the other. Definitely, definitely overthinking this, and...oh, just *hell*... He rinses, turns the water off. The bathroom's slightly fogged and he can't see himself in the mirror. He can see the purpling bruise on his bicep though. He can feel the stubble on his chin. He looks around for a shaving kit, finds... // No shit! //, a case with straight razor and strop. Comes up with a nice disturbing picture of himself tipping his head back onto Angel's shoulder, while Angel runs the razor across the underside of his jaw. Slices a thin crimson ribbon. Xander decides that he can live with stubble. He towels off, being deliberately not-gentle with his hard-on -- now a permanent fixture no matter *what* he thinks, apparently -- knots the damp towel around his waist, opens the bathroom door. Steps out. It's still dark. Cool. Angel's not there. Angel's...//Jesus...// standing right behind him, right at his shoulder. Not touching him. Naked. Hard. Xander doesn't know how he knows he's naked and hard without looking at him, he only knows his mouth's gone dry and if Angel doesn't... Angel's hand brushes his side, his hip. Soft electric touch and suddenly it's like there's nothing else in the world. Xander closes his eyes. The hand, Angel's thumb circles his hipbone, traces a shape there over and over until Xander can feel it burned into his flesh. And when did his left hipbone get connected to his cock? He can't believe that this weird touch is getting to him like it is, is making him moan a little, push back, his hips kind of rolling but the way Angel's standing he's not contacting anything else. Like Angel is some kind of sex wizard -- behold! I have more sex power in my thumb than any....mortal... oh Christ, it's good... And nowhere near enough. He can do one-handed wonder any day, what he wants is... Angel. Flesh. Contact. He reaches back but Angel grabs his wrist, holds him right where he is. Frustrated and turned on and he's practically grinding the air with his hips and then the thumb-hand slides down a little, flicks away the towel. Cool flutter of air and Angel pulls him back hard and he's got Angel's chest against his back... Angel's cock riding the cleft of his ass. Angel's mouth oh Jesus teeth tongue *mouth* wet and hot as blood against his throat... Sucking hard... somewhere between tickling and pain and then past that into something so good it's like falling. And somehow Xander knows the sound he's making is just screaming without air, but his hips are going crazy and he can't stop it feels so good and when Angel's magic-thumb-hand wraps around his cock and pulls and pulls, he comes. Angel holds him there while he shudders, eases up but doesn't stop sucking at Xander's throat the whole time which sends strange, aching pulses through him. Xander doesn't like it. It's taking away the goodness, making him feel empty like this wasn't enough, like maybe nothing's ever going to be enough... But at the same time, it still feels good. Good enough that when Angel pulls his mouth away he groans. Turns his head and gets a twinge where Angel's mouth was. Groans again. "Sorry," Angel says and Xander's belated reaction -- icy lightning burn of fear -- pulling out of Angel's grasp, clapping his hand to his neck, bringing the wetness to his face. But even in the streetlight darkness he can see it's only spit. Looking up to see that Angel's eyes are completely shadowed under the ridge of his brow. No way to make out anything on that face but distance... He thinks he could just leave now if he wants. That Angel won't stop him, won't say anything. Not now. Not ever, probably. It makes him so fucking angry... See, and what he wants to do -- he doesn't want to be angry at all -- what he wants to do is run his hands over Angel's body. All the places the streetlights are making light and dark shadows, Xander wants to feel them under his hands. Wants to see some expression on Angel's face that he can point to and say *I* did that... Maybe it's not just about fucking Angel, maybe it's more... And he has no more *words* for any of this and so he takes the two steps that bring him well inside Angel's space. Puts his hands on Angel's shoulders and kisses him. It's awkward as hell. Angel's doing statue-boy again, his erection poking Xander in the belly and Xander doesn't even really know what he's doing, why he's doing it. Except that after a second or two, Angel starts to move. His hands come up around Xander's waist. His mouth moves into the kiss. It's gentle. Slow. Kissing the way Xander likes it, letting their mouths kind of wander, coming together every now and then for something deeper and just like before, Xander can feel the hitch when Angel starts to breathe. Almost a natural kind of thing, fitting in with the rhythm of the kissing, with the way he's rocking against Xander, hardness riding its own slick line between their bodies. The way the tension is flickering through Angel's muscles, Xander can tell he's getting into a groove but he doesn't know... it doesn't seem right to let it be just *this* again, just... whatever. Flesh on flesh, two ships humping in the night and so he pulls away... And gets a look at Angel's face. Angel's eyes on him. Not on him. Looking past him to forever maybe and about a million years older than Xander *ever* wants to be...and for a second it's like all the clutter of should and shouldn't and what and why goes quiet and suddenly he gets this, this Angel-fucking thing, from Angel's side... Angel who is... who is 240 years old and, yeah, a monster and Jesus how do you live even one day let alone forever when it's so fucking *lonely* in there... "What...?" Angel says, blinking back into the now. "Did I...?" And it makes Xander almost want to cry for a minute, makes him want to take it back, like it's something that he's done. But it's way past that and maybe this is what it means to be himself and here. They aren't lovers, this isn't love, it's... *this*. It's whatever the hell they're making of it. Which is, somehow, between anger and need and lust, just exactly what Xander wants. Which is maybe something more all by itself. He doesn't know... He doesn't really care. He's just... "I'm good," he says "I'm... really good." And he pulls Angel in close again, let's Angel get his groove. Holds him when the sweetness takes him and just for that moment, lets it be exactly what it is. III: Skirmish Dark alley behind the Bronze. People milling nearby. Smell of spilled beer, faint garbage whiff. Xander's shoulders against the wall, reaching up with both hands to grab some big metal staple as Angel goes down hard on his knees. Hands on Xander's fly. Angel has him out, hardening. Cool air, the stunning heatwash of a mouth around his cock and Xander's knees buckle. He's never... no one's ever... Wildly ballooning pleasure. More than he can bear and he can only writhe noiselessly, bat his head against the concrete. Angel's got a mouth like a... like a... and it lasts a second past too long and then -- christ -- he's coming sweet and hot and wet like something's breaking inside, spilling. Looks down to see: blank beauty of Angel's face. Angel swallowing and, still coming, Xander can't stop the welling fear: //...is come like blood? Is he drinking...?// =END= Feedback |