Taken
by
Beetle
Part Seven
August, 1997
"I am so sorry, Jess."
"Xan -" Jesse leans up on one elbow to look down into Xander's eyes. "Will you quit apologizing?"
Xander has never been so mortified in his life. Not even that time when he was naked in front of the whole class. No, that was a wonderful happy dream, full of warm, fuzzy lurve and sunflowers and fluffy bunnies.
This? This is embarrassment hell.
"I should be dragged out into the street and shot," Xander groans, trying his damnedest to pretend they're both not bare-ass naked. Pretending not to see that Jesse's eyes devour him in a way that's carnal in every sense of the word. "You, like, looked at me and kablooey! Xander does his impression of Old Faithful!"
"Come on, don't be like that." Jesse leans over and licks Xander's chest once, delicately. Not the rasping, purposeful licks of a few minutes ago, but a lazy, possessive tongue-tease. "You were fucking amazing! The look on your face was -"
Xander turns even redder, but feels less humiliated than he did just a minute ago. Maybe it's the purring. Xander's fairly sure Jesse doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it's not easy being a nervous, embarrassed wreck when your pet vamp makes happy-kitten noises after giving the best hand-job ever.
Jesse's teeth close on Xander's right nipple very gently. "And the best part," nibble. "The absolute best part," bite. "Was licking you clean." A sharp tug by sharper teeth that still aren't - quite - fangs.
Xander nearly jumps out of his skin when Jesse's cock pokes him the thigh.
"Uh, Jess?"
"Can't talk; nibbling."
Xander evades Jesse's next bite by shifting a little and Jesse makes the exact same whiny sound he's been making for at least as long as they’ve known each other. He sits up wearing his best serious-face but Xander’s not fooled.
"Okay, what?"
"You didn't come."
Jesse grins, takes Xander's hand and kisses it. "And?"
"And? Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?"
"Actually, I'm waiting for this -" Jesse pulls Xander's hand slowly down his body, following the sparse trail of dark hair. Jesse’s eyes never leave his and the serious-face is no longer a put-on.
I know where this is headed. . . . Xander shivers.
“Jess. . . I’ve never actually touched another guy's - I never even kissed anyone, before you.” Xander’s mouth is once again doing that thing, where it runs away with his brain. His eyes dart back and forth between his hand in Jesse's and Jesse's hungry eyes. “Except for Willow, but that was -”
“Back in first grade. I remember. I was the one who dared you guys to kiss.” The muscles under Xander's fingers spaz and jump.
Held in a firm, grip, Xander's hand is placed on Jesse's cock. He's not sure if it's Jesse prompting him or if he's finally showing some initiative when his fingers close around the long, cool flesh.
And stay that way for a brief eternity, though Xander’s glaring at his stupid hand, willing it to do something!
"You know, I'm pretty sure it doesn't bite, so feel free to pet it." When Xander looks up, Jesse's lips are twitching like he wants to laugh.
"I'd tell you to blow me, wiseass, but I don't think that statement carries quite the same impact it used to," Xander sighs. Jesse squeezes his hand gently, then lets go.
"Just touch me however you want - or however you touch yourself. I promise, you can't go wrong."
Oh, I'm sure if there's a wrong way to stroke off a horny, teenage guy, I'll find it. . . .
One motionless minute later:
"Oh, God, I can't feel my hand!"
"Xan -" Jesse flops back on the bed, laughing. "Don't over-think this, just - start with a slow, up-and-down motion."
"Up and down, that I can do, yeah." Xander sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than stating a fact.
Okay, I'm moving my hand up. . . and he's not screaming in pain or retching in disgust, so let's move down, now. . . his skin is so soft and cool. If he's dead, how can he even get hard? I'm pretty sure circulation should factor in. . . I think. Note to self: stop napping in biology class. Hey, I'm upping and downing like a pro! I am so good at this, I am an up and down MASTER!
I wonder what'd happen if I -
"Holy shit!" Jesse's whole body shakes like a mini-earthquake and his eyes squinch shut as Xander brushes his thumb across the tip of his cock.
"Was that not good?" Xander may just have to commit ritual suicide with a spork if it wasn't, but at least it’ll be a slow and agonizing end to the humiliation.
"Jesus, you're kidding, right?" Jesse pulls Xander down next to him and straddles him. "I just nearly did a Xander, and shot off all over the both of us."
"Oh, haha." Xander's saved the indignity of yet another blush when Jesse kisses him.
This is the way it should've been, this is what I've been missing. . . How is it that I could want something this badly and not even know it till now?
"Hey," Jesse whispers on Xander's lips, licking them, sucking on the lower one. "I never told you what that other scent was."
"Buh?" Talking bad. Thinking bad. Kissing good.
"The other scent, under the fear."
Xander makes himself think, then groans. "Seriously hoping it isn't b.o."
Jesse chuckles, "Nuh-uh, not b.o. . . the other scent was mine." Jesse's eyes flash a hungry, possessive gold and then there's throat-nuzzling. "All mine."
"I smell like you?" Xander's brow furrows. "Okay. That makes the sense that's not."
"No, you don't smell like me - well, actually you do, now. But I meant. . . you smell like mine. My own." Sharp teeth nip Xander's jugular and he shudders, bucking up into Jesse's body.
"Jess. . . ."
"Do you wanna? Be mine? Like, forever, I mean?"
"Yes, please, yes." For a moment, Xander's doesn't really care what, exactly, he's saying yes to, but he knows he'd say anything to make this last. To make these teases and touches, this feeling of being wanted go on forever.
Forever. Oh. . . .
Xander twines his fingers in Jesse's hair and pulls his head up till they're looking into each other's eyes. He smiles into eyes that, possessed or not, have the power to utterly devastate him.
"Yes, Jesse."
"Xander -" Jesse takes Xander's hand, pulling it to his face, leaning into the now automatic caress. "God, do you even get what you're saying yes to?"
"Not entirely," Xander murmurs. A small frown appears as thoughts of Buffy and Willow and slayage come to mind. "But I think I'd like to find out. . . if you really want me, I mean."
At some point, Jesse'd slipped into gameface, but Xander hadn't noticed. Human-face, vamp-face, it was all Jesse. "I've always wanted you, Xander. I always will."
Xander reaches up to touch Jesse’s face; his hand is shaking like he’s got some kind of palsy and then - he’s touching a cheek that feels softer and less stubble-y than his own. Up to brow ridges that are prominent, well-defined under Jesse’s shaggy, dark hair, the same color as Xander’s own shaggy, dark hair.
Much faster than his slow, human eyes can follow, Jesse's pushing Xander's legs up and out.
"Keep 'em like that," he growls softly. Eyes as big as saucers, Xander nods and places his hands behind his legs to hold them in place.
"Good boy." Jesse watches him for what seems like forever, eyes roving everywhere, giving nothing away. Xander starts feeling more than a little uncomfortable.
"Um, Jess?"
Dark, oddly patient eyes focus on Xander's mouth.
"What are you doing?"
"Looking. . . and when I'm done, I'm gonna fuck you." When those eyes meet Xander's, they're hungrier than ever. "While I'm fucking you, I'm gonna turn you."
"Oh." I'll take: Phrases No One Has Ever Said To Xander, for five hundred, Alex! "Ohh-kay."
"Wasn't asking your permission."
That hint - hint? Hah! - of something dark in Jesse's voice and eyes and face should be scaring the ever-loving spam out of Xander but it's doing quite the opposite. If there's a dividing line between lust and blood-lust, Jesse's clearly do-si-do'd across it.
That I find this disturbing new development exciting and hot proves that I've clearly do-si-do'd across the dividing line between sane and insane.
And Jesse's closer, suddenly so close, lips pressing lips, tongue seeking tongue, teeth clashing. Jesse maneuvers Xander's legs up higher, over his shoulders. Almost immediately, something blunt and hard nudges Xander's perineum.
The term split like a cord of wood suddenly pops into Xander’s frightened mind. If ever there was a time to call a time-out! this is it.
"Jess -” he’s a persistent kisser, that’s for sure. “Jess, wait - you said you'd never hurt me." Xander feels like a raging virgin for whimpering, much less whimpering that, for looking into Jesse’s eyes and asking for - Xander doesn’t know what, a painkiller? A shrink-ray? - but Jesse feels huge.
“You’re really big and I’m really. . . virgin-y.” Xander blushes. “You see the problem, right?”
There’s no answer, but more kisses and a few scary moments when Xander would swear Jesse's about to skewer him despite his previous promises. Then: "I don’t wanna hurt you. . . I just forgot."
"What?"
A small sigh. "How fragile you still are. . . how human."
"Is that - bad?"
Jesse smiles and in spite of the smile's darkness - maybe because of it - it's the most beautiful smile Xander's ever seen.
"Actually, that's very, very good." Jesse lays two fingers on Xander's lips. When Xander's lips part, Jesse slides his fingers in, letting Xander's tongue tickle and wet them before easing them out again.
"You're gonna feel so hot around me." Jesse's fingers brush Xander's left nipple, navel, the tip of his cock. "Hot and tight and perfect."
Xander's still shivering from the previous touches when a wet finger brushes his entrance once, twice, three times - which feels freakin’ fantastic - before pushing gently inward with no success.
"Just relax." Xander's eyes flutter shut as Jesse pushes a little harder, slowly, until Xander relaxes and the tight ring of muscle releases. Jesse’s finger slides right in, cold and wet and - strange.
"Oh." That's all Xander can think to say. He feels full, very unpleasantly so. He's resisting the urge to squirm away from the intrusion, from Jesse.
“Xander.” Jesse is panting again. “Xan?”
When Xander opens his eyes, Jesse’s are right over his own and he realizes something. Jesse in gameface just isn’t scary, anymore. Not when he looks so nervous and excited and so damn Jesse.
"Trust me?"
Xander nods, though he wants to shove Jesse out of him and away from him.
"Okay, I need you to relax a little more for me. I’m gonna make this so good for you." Jesse's voice is so soft and sure and smooth, Xander's starting to think words like thralling and hypnotizing. "But you have to relax or it'll hurt."
Apparently there's nothing else for it but to relax, so he tries, as hard as he can. If Jesse was out to hurt him or - or rape him, it would've happened already.
"You're so good, Xan, so beautiful, can't wait to fuck you." Jesse keeps up a steady litany of praise and the finger in Xander is joined by another. Together, they push in deeper, make scissoring motions that tingle-burn, but aren't quite painful.
Then Jesse does something with his fingers and -
Oh. My. God!
When the white noise around Xander's brain recedes, he opens his eyes to see Jesse smirking. "That'd be your prostate.”
"Definitely no more napping in biology class, nossir! From now on it's studying and applying myself and hard work. Mrs. Cassini is right, science is my friend -"
Jesse’s fingers touch that place, that glorious place inside, while his other hand grabs Xander’s cock in a kung-fu grip.
White noise times ten.
"Xan?"
“Guh?” A witty response, if one factors in the extenuating circumstances.
“Shut up.” Jesse leans closer, to whisper on Xander’s lips.
Then they're kissing again. Xander's mouth obligingly opens and Jesse’s tongue slips in, cool, coppery and wet and his fingers are a tag team of naughty-touching that’s making Xander’s mental tabula extremely rasa.
And it's not going to stop here. Jesse's mouth and hands and eyes have been telling him so all evening - for the past several weeks, in fact. Xander understands, now.
Jesse wants him. In a way that actually is unholy, but wants him, nonetheless. Wants to keep him forever.
As scared as Xander is, as bad an idea as this whole night has been and is going to be, he is sure of one thing:
Ya gotta go where you're wanted.
June, 2000
Hungover.
Hurts.
Can't move.
Someone holding him so tight, he can barely breathe.
Something hard and cool pressing against his ass.
"What. The. Hell?" Voice like broken glass, mouth like a barroom floor.
"Sleep well, nummy?"
Deep, amused, aroused voice right in Xander's ear. So low it doesn't disturb the all-drum band practicing inside his skull.
Last night comes back with the velocity and mass of Jupiter.
"Shit. Oh, shit."
"Language, language, nummy." Is Spike purring? "Got better uses for that dirty mouth of yours than talkin', me."
Yep. There's purring. And humping.
Spike is humping him like a large, dead dog.
"Spike. . . hangover. . . ." Xander's own groan is like daggers in his brain.
"And? Not like I'm askin' you to do anything other than lie here and take it like a pretty, little nummy tre -"
Xander doesn't know where he finds the strength, but shoving Spike out of bed is the noblest and best thing he's ever done. Ever will do. And even though the thud!, and flood of British cuss-words does nothing for his head, he feels inexplicably better.
A second later, Xander's sound asleep, beyond Spike's protests and his own apocalyptic hangover.
Glaring up at Harris from the basement floor does little to wake the boy up again, but it does get Spike all het up.
Fuck or fight? Fuck or fight? Or. . . .
A solo wank in the shower -?
He sighs and glances down at his cock.
"Well, Spike, Jr. . . guess it’s just you, me and m’ good right hand. Again. Harris’s loss, eh?”
Spike's sure the look of utter contempt Spike Jr. gives him is all in his mind.
Almost totally sure.
Part Eight
August, 1997
It hurts, but it’s. . . the good kind of pain.
Xander has heard people say this and thought, Good pain? Yeah, right, don’t bullshit a bullshitter, man. Ain’t no such animal.
But now, he knows differently.
As Jesse grips his hips and slides slowly into him for the first time, filling him - it really does feel like being split in two - Xander whimpers, buries his face in the pillow because it hurts so damn good. It’s both the best and worst feeling he’s ever experienced.
“Jess, Jess. . . .” Xander’s moans are muffled; he’s squirming and twisting, trying to get further from and closer to the cool body that’s soothing and invading him simultaneously. The pillow under his face is wet from tears or sweat or both.
“Trust me, baby, please relax. . . .” Jesse strokes Xander’s back and sides, crooning reassurances that must work for some part of Xander’s brain, because suddenly, his body relaxes, every tight and clenched muscle in his body trusts Jesse.
Jesse immediately yanks Xander’s hips back.
That long, wavering cry - voiced as Jesse slides the last few centimeters home - must be Xander’s because it sure doesn’t sound like Jesse, nossir, not at all. For a forever-ish moment, neither of them move. In his mind’s eye, Xander can see Jesse, eyes open, grinning around a mouthful of sharp, lethal-looking fangs: a statue of himself, cast in the palest marble. And himself, arching up under Jesse, eyes squinched shut, mouth open.
Then the moment’s finished, forgotten and Xander’s got a faceful of pillow and Jesse’s panting cool, dry puff of air against his cheek, dry. His body is like ice cubes on Xander’s over-heated, sensitized skin.
“Jeeeezzzus.” One long, slow exhalation as Jesse levers himself up off of Xander and pulls out almost completely. “Never felt anything like this. Like you.”
“Whuh?” Xander’s mouth is still running on auto. It must be, since his logic circuits have been fried. “Vampires. . . supposed to be all. . . .” Okay, the logic circuits work enough to realize the word slutty wouldn’t be very diplomatic.
“All what? Slutty?” Agonizingly slow thrust and equally agonizing pulling out. “Yeah, we are. . . but I was low-vamp on the Aurelius totem pole, so I’ve never topped anyone before. . . .” There’s a shudder so strong it shakes them both, but Xander’s not sure which of them is responsible for it.
On another front, the cheap motel sheet bunched up under Xander isn’t exactly the warm hand of friendship, but anything short of a swift kick to the crotch would be pure torture. The good kind, of course.
“Not hurtin’ ya, am I?” Jesse sounds smug but Xander isn’t about to call him on it.
“Yeah, yeah. . . hurt me some more. . . .”
“Yes, sir, Xander, sir!”
Yup, it’s the really good kind of pain and Xander’s starting to get that, now.
He forces his left hand to stop clutching at the sheets and tries to get it under him, driven by horny, teenage instinct. But before he can even figure out how he’s going to get his hand between his body and the bed, Jesse’s grabbing it and Xander’s right hand.
Which he then places on the top of the headboard, squeezing once, so Xander knows to hold on.
And that’s all the warning Jesse gives him before the rhythm changes to slow, shallow withdrawals followed by fast, hard, deep thrusts that make Xander’s eyes water, make him clutch the the damn headboard, now, for dear life. The pain is different, now. It’s - more of a burn that’s actually more of a tingle. When Xander opens his eyes the motel room is a blur of brights and darks.
Like that scene in Spaceballs. . . we’ve hit ludicrous speed!</i>
Suddenly, Xander’s giggling, trying his best to hide it - practically smothering himself in the pillow trying hide it - forgetting that of all people, Jesse’s in a unique position feel an attack of the giggles.
“What?” Jesse sounds uncertain and in that moment, his lack of soul completely ceases to matter. This is Jesse.
“Nothing, I -” Xander’s body is suddenly shaking and ringing like it’s a bell and Jesse’s cock is the big - clapper-thingy, like in the Hunchback of Notre Dame. There’s a slightly ominous groaning sound coming from the bed and the headboard. “Dothatagainonlyharder!”
Jesse does it again - hits the happyfunspot dead on, like a runaway train - and wild colors explode on the backs of Xander’s eyelids.
We’ve passed ludicrous speed and gone plaid!!!
Xander is officially off to the races; his giggles are turning into outright laughter.
“What the hell are you laughing at?”
“Nothing!” Xander can’t stop gasping and laughing.
“Xan -” Even though Jesse sounds a little offended now - and Xander knows he’s making the pouty-face - his hips are snapping forward fast and loose, in perfect 3/4 time. “Not to come off as extremely insecure, but - please don’t have laugh-attacks while I fuck you.”
“Not you. . . it’s me. Sorry. . . .” Xander’s in tears, now. Every time Jesse thrusts, it’s an entirely new height of lurvey-goodness, but - the laughing fit is worse than ever.
May the Schwartz be with yooooooooooooo. . . .
The laughter’s kinda painful, now - another good pain - but the sounds Jesse’s making don’t sound like he’s in anything like pain.
“Xander, when you laugh, your body moves around me like - fuck, you have to stop laughing or I’m not gonna last much longer.”
It’s the strain in Jesse’s voice that gives Xander some control and swallows the last of the chuckles, guffaws and snorts that want to escape on every breath he takes. Once he focuses on how Jesse feels in him - hard, thick, amazing - and the frenzied messages his prostate is telegraphing to his brain - moremoremoremoregodmorenowmore - the urge to laugh is gone.
But what’s this? Jesse-babble?
“. . . so warm and tight and - oh, fuck. . . .”
“Jesse!”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up!” Talk like that would only make them both pull a Xander.
Jesse’s wonderfully cool chest covers Xander’s back, his chin rests on Xander’s shoulder. “Make me.”
“Okay. I love you, Jess. More than anyone in the world.” Except maybe Willow, but - let’s not think about Willow, just now.
Another moment when the whole world seems to go still. Xander can feel Jesse in him, but can’t feel his own heartbeat.
“I love you, too, Xander. Forever.”
In this moment Xander realizes there’s a better-than-average chance that everything that makes him Xander will die tonight; the kind of dying that doesn’t involve a wardrobe by Kenneth Cole and bloody orgies.
But for this now, he’s still alive and Jesse’s darkness wants him. Xander. Means to have him in every conceivable way - and in a few ways that probably aren’t so conceivable to someone who still has a soul - and keep him ever after.
Xander imagines the hungry grin and predatory darkness peeking out of bright, gold-colored eyes, and smiles. “Do it, Jess. Turn me.”
Jesse’s in gameface again, nuzzling Xander’s neck. The nuzzling turns into kissing turns into sucking turns sharp, sudden pain, bright and sharp as a switchblade.
Jesse’s driving into him, now, no rhythm, no rhyme, no tenderness. He misses Xander’s prostate as often as he hits it but he’s moving so fast all the hits have merged into constant, screaming bliss and the misses just don’t matter. Blood pounds in his ears and rushes through his veins, hot like a fever, flowing out of him and into Jesse. Instead of white noise and white light, there’s only darkness, filled with the sound of his own slowing heartbeat.
Coming is painful, gut-wrenchingly so. It electrifies him, sweeps through Xander like a wildfire until he teeters on the edge of consciousness:
If I wake up after this, the only pain I’ll ever feel will be the good kind.
So. . . let there be dark. . . and let it swallow me whole.
June, 2000
The next thing Xander knows about wakefulness is his own blood-curdling screams.
Spike’s voice rumbles in his ear, low and amused. “Take it easy, pet, just water, innit?”
Which is easy for Spike to say, because a) he’s already dead, so cold water don’t do jack to his non-existent central nervous system or unbeating heart and b) that dead, about to be deader, rat bastard is the reason Xander’s flailing around his tiny shower, trying to escape the powerful spray of cold water.
“You are one dead fucking pile of fucking ash when I get a fucking stake!” Xander promises, then nearly falls out of the shower. Spike grabs his arms, hauls him back in - saving Xander a fractured skull and some broken bones - and pulls him close.
“Can’t kill me now, just saved your pretty arse, didn’t I?” Spike’s grin as he turns down the cold water is pure evil and the sexiest thing Xander has ever seen.
“Since you were the one trying to kill me, I think that cancels out your so-called good deed, Spike!” Though it’s tough to to stay mad under the quickly warming water and against the quickly warming vampire.
Which said vampire is counting on, of course.
“Rat bastard,” Xander mutters, slightly disgusted with himself. Spike just holds him under the warm spray, swaying gently, his eyes never leaving Xander’s. Both of them are hard and getting harder.
When Spike chuckles and it’s throaty, sexy, does things to Xander’s lower half. And things should be the furthest thing from Xander’s mind, considering the way his head is about to start pounding.
Naughty fun should not be a priority, at this time. . . .
Spike’s hands are sliding from Xander’s hips, to his ass, the same kind of possessive hold Jesse’d had the night before, only Xander’s sooooo not gonna think about that, now. Not when Spike’s body is flush against his and Spike’s cock is hard against is own.
“Oh, Jesus,” Xander exhales, letting his head rest against the tile. Spike, of course, takes that opportunity to dart in and mouth Xander’s neck.
“Been waiting a long time, Nummy. I want you right now.”
“Spike -” Xander’s squirming under Spike’s solid body, trying to thrust or shimmy or something - friction’s the name of this game - anything to have more of the hot-cold-burn-tingle that Spike’s cock touching his own creates.
But Spike isn’t moving, except for trying to give Xander a record number of hickies. He’s not letting Xander move much, either.
“Tried to wake you up before, but you were feelin’ poorly. Now, however. . . you seem to be in fighting trim.” Spike’s face is suddenly a few inches in front of Xander’s own. When Spike doesn’t move any closer, Xander closes the gap between them almost desperately.
Spike’s lips are warmer than he would’ve expected, but that could just be from the water. And he’s a considerate sort of kisser, the kind of kisser Xander would’ve never said Spike could be. He’s not all wet, hot, slippery tongue trying to count Xander’s back teeth -
Xander realizes he’s going to have to be the one to french-up this kiss.
He tentatively runs the tip of his tongue across Spike’s bottom lip and Spike shivers, opening his mouth with a moan. Xander’s tongue darts in, seeking more of what Spike’s lips had only hinted at, more of that taste: whiskey, smoke and blood. Three tastes that separately, don’t appeal at all to Xander, but when combined and in Spike’s mouth, are positively addictive.
Spike moans again and Xander holds him even closer. It’s as if there’s some beast inside, laying dormant for all his life - or maybe just since sophomore year - and that soft moan wakes it up, brings it roaring out.
He reverses their positions, pins Spike to the wall just under the showerhead and kisses him, counts his back teeth, plays some tonsil-hockey then just sucks face for a change of pace.
His lower half has other ideas, like thrusting into the groove between Spike’s dick and his hip, feeling Spike do the same. Each moan or swear muttered against Xander’s lips increases the urgency of his hips.
Though coming seems like a foregone conclusion - the best and final aria in very naughty opera - Xander’s body shivers and shakes, but he doesn’t come. His body’s reached a bright, fast, plateau of a fever-pitch that’s all but killing him.
Spike’s hands clench tight on his ass for a moment and then Spike’s pushing two impossibly large fingers into him, before Xander can tense up and cause them both undeserved pain.
“Yeah, Spike. Yeah, please, please. . . .” Xander’s closer, now, so damn close. But as badly as he wants to come, he’s afraid; afraid that when he does, he’ll fly apart, bits of quivering Zeppo-flesh landing all over the place. Some bicep here, an eyelid there, just pieces everywhere.
Not even Spike would be able to put him back together if that happened.
“I’ve got you, pet, I’ve got you. . . relax,” Spike’s whispering as Xander writhes almost mindlessly - frustratedly - against him. “I’ll take care of you, I promise. I’ll make you feel so bloody good.”
That full-body shiver? About ninety-eight percent creepy deja vu.
Then Spike is nudging Xander’s legs apart with his feet, his fingers scissoring and pushing in deeper. The pain and discomfort is more than leavened by the knowledge that these are Spike fingers stretching him, Spike’s body he’s grinding against.
He doesn’t have the words, the presence of mind to say what more he needs to finish this, is afraid he’ll be left trembling on the edge forever. . . .
Then Spike’s fingers ram forward so hard, Xander gasps. The gasp turns into a shout when Spike’s fingers hit that place - the one they probably hadn’t mentioned in biology class - inside Xander, the one that no one but Jesse had ever touched.
Xander flies apart.
But through the white noise and white light, a comforting constant, is Spike’s voice voice in his ear, Spike’s scent and Spike’s arms, to keep him from going too far.
He’s flying - floating, actually - but Spike is his tether.
Despite rumors to the contrary, Xander has lots of head-space and for the next little while, he’s off in it, not thinking, so much as being. Even his own internal babble has quieted, stopped. He’s aware of the last shudders of his orgasm, aware of being held up easily, aware of kisses on his face and lips and fervent, rather filthy endearments murmured in his ear like reassurances.
Xander’s aware of Spike and how it feels to be held by him, possessed by him.
He’s also slowly becoming aware of how the formerly-warm water has run out and been replaced by ice-fucking-cold water.
When he opens his eyes, he sees a long, pale column of neck. Spike’s neck. Xander wants to say something, something about how he doesn’t have a vampire fetish. Or maybe he just wants to thank Spike for not letting him go.
Either way, all that comes out when he tries to speak is a sighing groan.
“It’s alright, love, it’s alright. You’re okay and I’ve got you,” Spike says so gently, he barely sounds like himself.
Xander’s a limp, sodden - weeping? - shivering wreck in Spike’s arms, shaking less and less from the most powerful orgasm he’s ever had and more and more from the freezing cold water. But Spike's right; he is okay.
He tucks his face in the crook of Spike’s neck. There’s no pulse, yet for some reason Xander finds that comforting. His teeth are chattering, but he can finally speak.
“Cold.”
“Me, too. Let’s see if we can’t remedy that.” Spike shivers, turns off the water - how Spike can even move, when Xander can barely think is a mystery - and kisses the tip of Xander’s cold, wet nose. “There, now. Let’s get you dried off and into bed, pet. We’ll continue this conversation later.”
It may just be the impending unconsciousness talking, but Xander thinks bed may be the best idea ever, except for one point.
“Easy for you to say, bleachy.” Xander croaks, then sags in Spike’s arms like a girl, which isn’t so much embarrassing as it is humiliating. The all-drum band in his head has started up again, playing a rousing rendition of We Will Rock You.
Xander feels he’s already been rocked enough for now, please and thank you. “My legs are all funny.”
“Hush.” Spike’s acquired a clean towel from somewhere - when had laundry been done? - is is briskly drying them both, somehow preventing Xander from sliding down the shower wall into a puddle of zeppo-sludge.
“This’s gettin’ to be a habit, love.” Spike drops the towel on the floor and scoops Xander up, Errol Flynn-style and steps out of the shower. The amount of humiliation Xander should feel isn’t supportable on current energy supplies. Perhaps later, when he replays the past ten minutes - and he will be replaying them many, many times - he’ll be able to dredge up some real shame. For now, he just clings to Spike.
He’s mostly asleep when Spike steps out of the bathroom and totally asleep when Spike tucks him into bed.
Part Nine
August, 1997
It is not supposed to be like this.
Not that Jesse’s an expert in all things vampire, but he’s pretty sure that this is the nth possible degree of fuck-up. And who’s gonna pay for it? Xander, of course. It’s always been that way. . . Jesse does something impulsive and stupid and Xander takes the blame, takes the fall. Sometimes just by being in the wrong place at the wrong time, other times, simply because it isn’t in him to stand by and let one of his friends get in trouble.
This time, Jesse reflects, sitting on the edge of the creaky motel bed, this time, it’s a little bit worse than detention, Xan.
And the urge to turn around, to see the mess he’s created, the one Xander’s already paying for, is stronger than ever. So Jesse jumps up and paces the exactly eighteen steps from wall to wall, avoiding the room’s only mirror, another reminder of the gulf between what he is and what he was.
Avoiding anything that’ll show him even a glimpse of Xander’s unmoving body.
You really want me, Jess?
Jesse'd been a loser when he was alive and now that he’s dead, he’s still a loser, just minus a pulse and a conscience. But he’s got some willpower, shit yeah. Hasn’t once looked back at the bed that holds his possibly-dying best friend, has he?
Yeah, sure, I’ve got willpower for days and days when it doesn’t count for shit. . . .
It’s cajones, that he’s lacking, that he’s always lacked. When things go wrong, instead of finishing them, seeing them through come what may, he pusses out. Tonight was no different; he’d sprung away from Xander’s too-still body with a more than a twinge of fear and something. . . guilt-ish.
But vampires don’t feel guilt.
At least the cool, high-profile ones don’t. The Master hadn’t; neither had Darla or Luke. . . and look where all their not-guilting and coolness and crazy-carnage had gotten them! On the wrong end of a stake!
Nope, it’s not smart to be high-profile in the ‘Dale, anymore. Not if you’re a demon, it isn’t. In the months since the Slayer killed the Master, the only thing that’d kept Jesse alive was keeping the lowest of profiles. No matter what that entailed, from only hunting vagrants, hitchhikers and out-of-towners to steering clear of the Anointed One (the smug little prick) and his band of Master-obsessed wack-jobs.
Occasionally, Jesse’s demon insists that the Anointed One could bring the Master back - bring Sire back. This hope is always met with Jesse’s sincere belief that if the Slayer could dust the Master once, she could do it again.
But the Master isn’t coming back from the warm and toasty place Buffy’d sent him. Not if Sunnydale’s answer to the JLA has anything to say about it. So unless Jesse quits town altogether, it has to be strictly low-profile kills and no - repeat no plans for world or even Hellmouth domination. Which is fine, since ninety percent of what Jesse wants is currently in his bed, waiting to be turned. . . .
“Fucking the Slayer’s sidekick and nearly turning him?” Jesse’s giggle is frantic, scared. “Not at all high-profile, Jess. Nosirree.”
You really want me, Jess?
He stops pacing in front of the mirror, but doesn’t look into it. He lays his hands on the dresser, exactly where Xander’s had been, not one hour ago.
Jesse can smell Xander on his skin, taste him on his lips, feel him coursing through his veins, hot and human and vital. Even the memory of Xander’s blood makes him want more, want to run out into the night and slake this awful thirst before Xander stops smelling like mate and starts smelling like food.
Jesus, Jess, it’s not that simple! You can’t just hurt people and not feel bad, it’s - it’s wrong! You can’t stay in Sunnydale and you can’t keep coming around! When Buffy gets back, she's gonna slay you!
Jesse buries his face in his hands and closes his eyes, mentally replaying the feel of Xander’s warm fingers on his face, stroking, caressing. . . remembers smelling the almost-pheromones in the air and knowing, knowing that he’d have Xander that very night and every night thereafter.
Xander, consort of Jesse of the order of Aurelius. . . damn, that sounds so fucking cool! Jesse’d thought all during the walk to the motel, letting Xander’s missed and much beloved babble flow over him. I’ll take my first consort tonight! Or maybe even. . . .
“It’s the maybe even that got me into trouble.” Jesse looks into the mirror and laughs bitterly at his lack of reflection. If he looked a little to the right, he could just see the reflection of Xander’s calf. . . . “It’s the maybe evens that always get me into trouble.”
The heartbeat from the bed is steady, but so, so slow. Xander isn’t dying yet, but he will be, if he doesn’t get help. Or if Jesse can’t finish what he started. . . .
You really want me, Jess?
Xander’s voice had sounded small and scared in a way that Jesse’d never heard before. Looking into the motel mirror, into the reflection of Xander’s big, brown eyes had made the demon in him subside and the man in him - the boy, really - sit up and take notice.
For the first time, Jesse had consciously thought: I’d like to look into those eyes forever, feel him against me like this, sweet and warm. Xander. . . .
Now, that warmth is growing cold. Even if Jesse saves Xander, turns him, he’ll only ever grow colder. Xander will never be warm again, never be sweet and innocent. Whatever would be left after Xander was turned, wouldn’t be the same Xander.
Xander’s good-guy, a hero. Jesse is trying his hardest to not look at that pale reflection of leg; trying not to be drawn back to the bed by all the blood he has yet to taste. If I take that away, take his soul away. . . how much Xander would be left?
Precious little, Jesse thinks. Had been thinking from the moment Xander had looked into his eyes and said yes.
“My fault he’s dying all my fault what have I done he’s my best friend what do I do?” Jesse asks the space where his reflection should be. The whole room smells like sex and blood and Xander, which makes Jesse feel horny and hungry and desperate. His demon, always close to the surface, refuses to let Xander slip away. It turns Jesse toward the bed.
Xander’s still on his stomach, his skin turning pale, the bruises just starting to darken. A sluggish trickle of blood drools from the punctures in his neck. Blood is already soaking the pillow, warming neither Xander or Jesse. It’s wasted, just as everything that Xander was and could be will be wasted if Jesse doesn't do something.
I love you, Jess. More than anyone in the world.
Remembering how sure Xander had sounded simultaneously floors Jesse and galvanizes him.
He’s mine, and if I can’t finish this, step up to the plate, then Xander dies. There will be no ambulance, no hospital. No one between me and him.
It’s ten steps to the bed and by the fifth, Jesse’s hard again, the scents of blood and sex working their old magic, even while part of him quails. But Xander was never meant to be this still. If the demon can ever truly understand wrong, it understands this: Xander’s not meant to be this still.
“I promised him,” Jesse whispers to the still frightened voice within, the boy within. That voice has gotten slowly weaker in the months since he was turned. Even now, Jesse’s demon can easily drown it out. Just as being in Xander and the first mouthful of hot, salty-sweet blood had drowned everything out. "A promise is a promise, even when I wish it wasn't."
Crawling across the bed feels like a sneak attack on a corpse, or like necrophiliac date-rape (a metaphor his demon likes and Jesse loathes. He doesn’t debate it’s accuracy, however).
Xander’s warm despite the blood-loss, but not as warm as Jesse remembers from just a short while ago.
Jesse puts a minutely trembling hand on Xander’s hip and takes hold of his cock. Seconds later, he’s in Xander again, shivering with the need to take and come and turn.
It’s time. Time to finish this, to kill or curse. Letting Xander linger like this is a cruelty even his demon has no taste for.
“Hear that, Xan? I’m gonna make you mine forever, just like I promised.” Jesse kisses Xander’s pale cheek, down to his throat. He’s unaware there are tears running down his face - he has fucked up, worse than ever - doesn’t even realize he’s already in gameface. “When you wake up, we’ll be together and. . . and. . . .”
Jesse’s just about to sink his fangs into the depleted vein under them when he’s snatched out of and off of Xander and thrown.
He crashes through the motel room’s only window in a shower of wood and broken glass, sailing across the parking lot to land on a fifteen year old Buick, shattering it’s front windshield and his own spine.
There’s pain - quite a lot of it; not the good pain Xander’d been mumbling about while Jesse drank from him - and bright moonlight, the color of a vampire’s smile.
For long, agonizing moments, all he can do is lay where he’s landed, wonder what the hell happened and listen to his spine try to knit itself together. He’s pretty sure the back of his skull’s been badly fractured - it sure hurts like it is - and the big splinter of window-sill poking through his right thigh? Can’t be of the good.
Footsteps approach Jesse - unafraid, unhurried - crunching on broken glass and splinters of wood, echoing off the pavement, into the bright, empty night. The scent that approaches with them is male; dark, bloody, familiar and. . . family?
“Luke. . . please. . . .” is all Jesse can manage when the footsteps stop a few short feet away. But that can’t be right. The Slayer dusted Luke - and hadn’t Jesse been glad about that? Nearly sent Her Punning Righteousness a bouquet of FTD carnations - eleven months ago. Luke’s dead, Darla’s dead, the Master is mega-dead and Jesse’s broken; possibly worse than he’s ever been. And Xander -
“Xander!” Jesse’s voice is weak and trying to shout makes whatever’s punctured his lungs - rib bones? Shards of glass? Shards of spine? - cut even worse. The sky is strangely grey, the stars washed out by the moon’s brilliance. He can’t even turn his head to look whoever-he-is in the eye.
But his scent of age and strength and intensity is enough to put the fear of hell dimensions in Jesse’s undead heart. Then he speaks.
“There’s nothing here for you, fledgling.” The stranger’s voice is stony, emotionless. Sterile in a way vamp voices usually aren’t. “The person you were is dead. Turning Xander Harris won’t change that.”
In spite of it’s fear, Jesse’s demon snarls up at the indifferent moonlight. The calmer voice within him, the boy, realizes just how helpless he is, how helpless Xander is and forces down the demon, the growling and gameface.
“Don’t hurt him. . . .town’s. . . fulla people. . . fulla blood.” Speaking of blood, all that he’d taken from Xander is leaking out of countless punctures, slices, gouges and holes. He can hear the wasted rain of it on the filthy, parking lot macadam. “Don’t - don’t hurt him. . . please.”
“That’s sounds kinda odd. . . coming from the vampire who was just about to murder him.”
“Turn him. . . .”
“Same difference. Only. . . if you’d had your way, Xander’d be damned, as well as dead. Nothing says I love you, sweetheart, like the gift of eternal damnation.” The mocking cruelty of that voice is somehow worse than either of the voices that torment Jesse. The urge to cower it inspires is familiar, makes Jesse want to fall to his knees, offer up his throat or anything else this vamp might want from him.
Which makes this maybe the only time a broken spine is a blessing.
“Do I know you?” Jesse asks the stranger and blood fountains up out of his mouth. It tastes like life, like Xander; Jesse feels a twinge of homesickness and a bigger twinge of lust. “Who are you?”
“Someone who knows you’ve been stalking the Slayer’s best friend for weeks and tonight, you tried to turn him. Someone who’ll put a stake in your heart if you’re not out of town by this time tomorrow night.”
“Don’t want to hurt him! I love him, I -” wet, racking coughs prevent Jesse from saying more. There’s definitely glass rattling around in there and if he survives the night, his body’ll have fun ejecting it.
“If you really love him, then get gone and stay that way. Xander Harris needs to lose his soul like he needs another hole in his head.” The stranger’s voice is farther away, now, diminishing in volume. He’s going back toward the motel room. Back toward Xander. “I’ve spared your life, so to speak. Don’t make me regret it.”
"I made him a promise and I gotta keep it!” Jesse's screaming, damn his damned, dead lungs. So what if they hurt? It's not like he needs them to breathe. "Xander doesn’t deserve to bleed out in some cheap motel!"
"He won't." The stranger's voice sounds distant, now, as if he's talking to himself, not Jesse.
“Xander's mine!” The demon comes roaring out, again, trying to make Jesse’s useless spine work so he can ash this interloper before he lays a hand or fang on Xander. “Mine, you hear me?!? I -” promised! Jesse means to say, to scream, but his body has given up.
He’s out like a light and out for the count, an undead, mangled surprise for some luckless, travelling salesman to find.
June, 2000
Spike examines his nails in the dim, basement atmosphere, Harris’s phone balanced between shoulder and ear. After exactly twenty-three rings, someone on the other end picks up.
“Willy’s.”
“Afternoon, chumly, it’s Spike.”
“S-spike! Buddy! How are ya?”
“Dead. Listen, I want whatever info you’ve got on a new-old player in Sunnyhell.”
“Look, guy, I’d love to help you, us bein’ compadres and all, but I’m not really in the snitch-business, anymo-”
“Willy, the sun will eventually go down. And when it does, I’ll be stopping by your lovely little rathole. Either to be informed or to play Rearrange the Vital Organs with my favorite stoolie.”
“You can’t hurt me! I’m human!”
“Only about three-quarters, mate. Wanna bet I can’t put a hurt on that last quarter?”
Silence.
“Fine. Whaddaya wanna know?”
“Not what, who. Vamp named Jesse, from Sunnydale, left sometime before Dru and I hit town. Showed up again around my boy, last night -”
“Your boy? What, you mean the Slayer’s boy? The one you been pallin’ around with, lately?”
“- I already know who his sire is and when he was turned, so don’t waste my time with any of that crap. What I wanna know is where Jesse’s been, who he’s workin’ for - or who’s workin’ for him. I wanna know who he’s been seen with. I wanna know why he’s back.”
“I can tell ya the name ain’t ringin’ any bells, so far.”
“Sundown's in about seven hours, so I suggest you start diggin’, mate. Anything you can get me. Got me?”
“Yeah, yeah. Is that all, Herr The Bloody?”
“That’s all. Just do what I ask and do it well. If I make any dosh off of this you’ll get one third.”
“Half.”
“Now you’re down to one quarter. Ta, Willy, see ya tonight. And you better have something for me.”
After checking the curtains and sheets covering the window one more time, Spike gets back in bed with Harris - Xander - who’s sleeping on his side. His breathing is slow, even, deep, the sheets tugged down enough to expose a warm, tanned expanse of back that Spike can’t help kissing. Close underneath the boy’s skin, hot, sweet, currently eighty-proof blood courses.
“Such a nummy treat you are, Xander,” Spike whispers, running his fingers through the still-damp hair. It falls through his fingers like silken thread and Xander doesn’t even stir. “Can’t imagine why he didn’t claim you. . . .”
Spike pulls the boy into his arms. In a few seconds, Xander turns over with a sleepy sigh, drapes himself over Spike and tucks his head under Spike’s chin.
The boy throws off heat like an electric blanket with a heartbeat. Bloody lovely, it is. Restful.
Spike has no plans to let go his new blankie any time soon.
“It’s finders keepers, Harris. . . such is the way of the Hellmouth,” Spike murmurs into Xander’s hair. “If friend Jesse thinks otherwise, well. . . it’s a vamp-eat-vamp world, love, and I’ve got bigger fangs than his.”
In minutes, Spike’s asleep, lulled by Xander’s steady heartbeat.
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