Just Say Something
by Goddess D

I can't move away from him. Can't move away from those eyes that 
hold me in place far too long. I wonder what he sees when he looks 
at me, not having seen my own reflection in over a century. Wishing 
I could, just this once, see it in his eyes. Eyes that move over me 
with more grace than Fred Bloody Astaire, dancing over my skin, an 
elegant ballet of wanting. He stops breathing momentarily and the 
absolute stillness that hovers sends my senses careening through the 
cool room. I can taste him, his desire, his gaze that melts my 
shivering skin. It is richer than blood, that calculating stare. My 
tongue resists the urge to reach out and test the air between us, 
knowing the electric tang of our arousal would jolt me. And I don't 
want to move.

'What is he waiting for,' I wonder, hoping the question has reached 
my eyes before I feel compelled to break the silence with my jangling 
voice. His expression is so calm I could mistake it for impassive, 
if not for the evidence of his hunger rubbing against the inside of 
my thigh. 

I am lying before him, legs spread, knees bent, and wondering why I'm 
not more nervous. As he kneels before me, I can see a scenario of 
the night ahead unfolding as if played from a reel of film, 
flickering light in the background. In reality, it is only the muted 
telly, displaying some unknown show. I could care less. The man-
child in front of me is watching me and I am trapped by his silence, 
his stillness that speaks not of reticence, but of carefulness. I 
replay the frenzied series of events that led us here and wonder if 
he realizes what is actually happening.

I have never offered myself to anyone before. Not like this. Never 
allowed myself to be taken, swept up, submerged in passion of such 
purity that I would offer the only sacrifice I have. I don't know 
what it is about him that compels me to give him what I would never 
give another. Taking, yes, I've done plenty of that. I've convinced 
pretty pets of either sex to turn over for me. I've been told by 
both men and women that my sneer is sexy, my walk obscene, my cock 
irresistible. I have been told all of those things, but I have never 
seen it. Not until he smiled at me.

Not that I had been coveting that smile, or the approval that came 
with it. I had been bored. Bored with playing scare the human, 
bored with Harmony's prattle. Bored with brooding over what I miss 
the most and cannot have. As soon as Harmony had left to feed, I 
wandered over to the cemetery where the Slayer's band usually 
patrols, hoping to jump into the fray. Or at least score a decent 
row with one of the do-gooders. To my currently low expectations, 
the night had turned out perfectly. 

First, a rousing battle with bloodletting Rhohorajk demons. Nasty 
buggers, letting all that wonderful blood just pour into the ground 
for the love of some god nobody cares about. Afterwards, when I 
suggested some sort of reward for my help, I got into a verbal 
slaying match with the one who kneels before me now. 

Xander. I cock my head as I make a study of his face, choosing now 
to wonder if I have ever called him by name. I can't remember, even 
though it has suddenly become very important to know. I don't speak 
though. To ask now would break this spell he has cast between us. 
To ask that question now would invite discussion, repartee, insults. 
I realize that I don't want him to know this. Don't want him to 
think I can't recall with clarity and precision every previous 
encounter we've had. 

I can't even remember what it was we were fighting about less than an 
hour ago. Just that I had said something. Everyone else had left us 
since he is more of a danger to me than the other way around. I had 
said...something, and bollocks if I can't remember it, but what ever 
it was made him stop mid-sentence, lift his eyebrows and just smile. 
He had dropped his arms, which had previously been waving about in 
some pantomime of exasperation, looked upon me with such an 
expression of amusement, that I couldn't help but smile back. I 
noticed his gaze, traveling my body so keenly, and I had to resist 
the urge to throw open my coat and preen. Because there I saw it. 
Amidst the posturing and sarcasm, a clear view had been offered. A 
view of myself. All because I made the boy smile, a genuine grin. 
He had half turned then, and he looked back at me as if to say, 'Are 
you coming, or what?' And I didn't bother to ask where; I didn't 
care. I just followed.

But now there is nothing to be said, as the clothes have come off, 
hands have explored shoulders and faces, tongues have introduced 
themselves to each other. All without another word being spoken. 
The whole time, I could feel his hot breath on my neck, my face; his 
hands smoothing across my back, resting lightly on my ass, and all 
that kept me from bending him over without thought was this litany 
running through my head, 'Now he's touching me, now he's licking my 
ear, now he's biting my lip.'

Now he's pushing me down on the bed. Now he's...watching me. 
Waiting for me? I want to tell him. To say, 'Do it already and 
bloody well get it over with.' But I don't. Don't want that. Don't 
want it over with. Don't want it to end until he speaks, because all 
of this *seeing* I'm doing is sending me into Drusilla-ville. As if 
his voice holds the power to break me free. Then I can escape and 
forget what it is I'm willing to let him do. 
All because of one sodding smile. I would laugh at myself if I 
didn't fear it would be taken wrong.

But I don't want him to speak yet. I want him to touch. His 
fingertips draw smiles over my knees, but I want them lower. And 
still he keeps his vigil, eyes never leaving my face, waiting. 

I nod, lifting my legs to my chest, opening myself for him. Touch 
me, touch me, touch me, Xander. I realize I am begging, but only in 
my head and probably my eyes. His erection is now resting against 
the side of my calf. I move that leg a little, just trying to 
increase contact between us. His hands move to the backs of my 
thighs, rubbing circles and my cock jumps at the contact. So close, 
so close. I pull my gaze away, not willing to look into that face 
anymore, knowing the more I look, the farther I fall into some 
nothingness that is somehow more comforting, and therefore more 
frightening, than anywhere I've been before. 

Anticipation ends as I feel the first finger rubbing lightly. 'Magic 
boy,' I think, 'I didn't even notice you get the lube.' Then I stop 
thinking as that finger enters me with infinite care. If I could 
pull my legs any higher, I would, just to encourage him on. Finally 
my ragged voice breaks the silence that had grown like a living thing 
in the room.

"Please." It is all I can say as his warm finger sinks further in my 
ass. He moves it back and forth a little, as if getting a feel for 
the territory, and bumps against something that makes my eyes roll 
back in my head.

"P..please." My voice is even rougher now, the edge of wanting, 
needing more of that touch driving me to squirm.

His hand stills. I open my eyes and look at him, cursing, but stop 
as soon as I see his expression. His other hand was stroking up and 
down my chest, not enough to distract me, but enough to sooth the 
torn edges of my begging. I had expected to see more amusement at my 
pleading, or curiosity, but instead I see wonder. His gaze meets 
mine with a look of such amazement that I can not help but discern 
its meaning.

I squirm more and moan slightly. "You do this to me, Pet," I 
whisper. "More?" I dare ask.

His smile is soft and he continues his caress of my torso, but pulls 
his finger out. Before I can start begging again, I feel two fingers 
enter me. I look up at the ceiling, focusing on the physical 
sensations, not wanting to be distracted by the beauty of Xander's 
face in its expression of joy. But that too is a physical presence 
in the room. His pleasure, his arousal are as tangible as his hand 
on my chest, his cock lightly rubbing on my leg and those two mobile 
fingers touching me where I've never wanted anyone else before.
'He's reading my mind,' I think, grateful for the slow movement of 
his hand. I don't want it hard and fast, though that's how I'm 
accustomed to giving it. I want slow, deliberate. I want-

"More." The word is out of my mouth before I know what I'm saying. 
I am driven by impulses I can't name, stirred by the feel of those 
fingers. Fingers that aren't rubbing or thrusting, but are hugging 
the inside of me as much as I am holding him in.

Three now, slower going. I grunt softly and he stops. No, don't 
stop. I thrust down as much as I can and he takes the hint, 
continuing his exploration. His breathing has become more labored 
and the hardness sporadically rubbing against me gains momentum, but 
I'm not ready for this to be over yet. I need him to touch me. All 
of him touching all of me. I need- "Yes." Breathless now, which is 
silly, when I had no breath to begin with. Is it possible for him to 
take it away all over again?

The hand stroking my chest has strayed downward and I realize that I 
hadn't even been thinking about my own cock. His slight glancing of 
the head reminds me that so much more is going on than those fingers 
mapping new territory inside of me. My body jerks at the intensity 
of feeling, which brings his fingers back in contact with that spot 
inside of me that makes me see spots behind my closed eyelids. When 
I open my eyes and look at him, his smile is more predatory as he 
makes the connection. He brings his fingertips back to that spot.

I manage to restrain myself from moving more, wishing to inspire 
further dancing on his part. I am hoping for a minuet. The air in 
the room is charged, and by the time he grazes that point inside me 
again, I swear I can hear sparks. My hands are reaching out without 
cause and I am doing my own pantomime of need. I settle them back 
behind my knees and they feel cold to me. I wonder if this is what I 
feel like inside, because from here, I am burning.

I have the sudden hope that I get the chance to make him feel this 
porous heat that invades my body with an intensity that could almost 
re-start my heart. I don't think I can speak again, so I'm hoping the 
hitch in my moans lets him know what I want. I don't remember 
starting to moan. It is a constant, low sound that has become part 
of the scenery of the room. Two bodies in motion, one unbroken 
lament of wanting.

Xander removes his hand and I fight not to cry out. He gives me a 
reassuring smile and repositions himself a bit, bringing his erection 
in closer contact with my leg. As I feel those wonderful fingers re-
enter me, he bends over to give the head of my unrepentantly leaking 
cock a brief lick. It occurs to me that he may have wished for more 
contact as well, that I could touch him, instead of just receiving 
the bounty of his internal embrace.

My hand is shaking as I reach out to him, but he catches it before I 
make contact. He leans forward and places a soft kiss in the center 
of my palm, like a benediction, before placing it on the back of my 
thigh. That's when I feel the fourth fingertip.

Silence returns to the room as I cease moaning and he again stops 
breathing. We are again watching each other, each waiting for the 
other to break the crystal web that has ensnared us both. I arch my 
back a little, driving that pinky further in. He has had to fold his 
hand to fit it and yes, it hurts. It hurts a lot, but I don't want 
him to see that. I am trembling with exertion from holding myself in 
one position for...how long has it been? I don't care, because I'm 
still not ready for it to stop.

I comprehend then why he's hesitating. To enter me more fully he has 
to curl his hand more and push his thumb in as well. I wiggle a bit 
and my stilted motion causes his joints to rub inside of me, rub that 
place that makes me feel so alive. And it hurts, but I want it. I 
want all of him. And there it is. The burning stretching feeling 
makes me freeze, but the fullness that counteracts it only reminds me 
of how empty I felt before. How desolate my own body will feel when 
this ends. 

And it will end soon, I can tell, because I'm moving again. I have 
started undulating my hips, pushing my head back for purchase on the 
bed, forcing his hand inside of me. His knuckles are rubbing me 
right there, and I can't even hear his breathing anymore over the 
plaintive broken sounds I'm making. I might be speaking, but I have 
no idea what I'm saying. Xander isn't even moving anymore, keeping 
himself in perfect stillness. It almost feels like I'm fucking 
myself. But I'm not, because his hand is back on my cock, which I'm 
sure is marked now with the brands placed there by the heat of his 
hand. My movements drive that pace as well, his palm gently cupping 
the head, his thumb rubbing the tip.

I know what he sees now, the loneliness, the desperation that 
clenches his hand and holds him inside. Maybe even sees the beauty 
and grace that are already so commonplace in his life. Definitely 
the violence and bloodlust, but even that doesn't drive him away. 
And that's what ignites me, the knowledge that he has just witnessed 
the aspects of me that frighten others and still he can want me, can 
stare at me as if just to look upon me is enough, but to touch me...

My orgasm is a fire that would turn me to ash on his bed, would turn 
me inside out. And now his hand is moving counterpoint to my hips, 
and the muscles in my ass are clenching painfully on his fist, but I 
won't let go. I feel my semen land on my chest, making the movement 
of his hand easier. He gentles his stroking and slowly starts to 
remove his hand from inside me. I whimper, both in protest and in 
pain as the process of getting all of him within is reversed, first 
thumb, then pinky, and so on until I am a trembling void.

His cock is still hard and he is rubbing it harder against my leg. I 
reach for it, but he grabs that hand with the one covered in my seed 
and holds it for balance, the slick feeling almost like blood, 
forming a pact between us. He brings his other hand--*the* hand--up 
to his erection and begins massaging himself. I can see the minute 
shaking in his fingers, but I am held rapt by the sight of him, 
blessing his own hardness by the fingers that had perceived my 
entirety.

I lower my legs and wrap them around his thighs. I raise one shaking 
hand and trace the outer edges of his nipples. His languid stroking 
becomes erratic. I start to compose my own music on his chest as his 
breathing changes. I watch as the chords in his neck stand as he 
drops his head back, breaking his visual contact with me for the 
first time. His body tenses, hot cum spurting out and bathing me.

I speak before he can open his eyes and look at me again. "You are 
so beautiful," I whisper, my voice as shaky as the legs holding him 
close.

He smiles and leans against me as he catches his breath. Before I 
can speak again, he is rising from the bed, steadying himself against 
the wall and heading into the bathroom. I hear the sound of a shower 
starting and start to rise, but find that I am made of cement. I 
sprawl on the bed, counting the minutes until he will emerge and kick 
me out, and try to calm the persistent tremors running throughout my 
body.

When the shower stops, short moments later, I attempt to rouse myself 
again, but my legs have turned into useless pools. I decide to 
continue lying there, eyes closed, thinking that maybe if he assumes 
I'm sleeping, he won't make me leave yet. How close is dawn, anyway?

When he comes out of the bathroom, I am so tempted to open my eyes, 
but I don't, waiting instead for the invitation to leave before 
sunrise. The moist warmth on my chest startles me out of my not-so-
feigned doze. I look down and see that he has brought out a 
washcloth and is using it to clean the combined results of our 
orgasms off my skin. I consider protesting, wanting the reminder, 
but he is done.

He tosses the washcloth on the floor and nudges me over enough to 
lift up the covers. All the while, not meeting my surprised stare 
until I refuse to move. Then he looks at me.

I open my mouth to say...something, but he smiles and stops me with a 
gentle touch to my lips. He climbs under the covers and pulls me 
down to him, wrapping his arms around me. As his beating heart lulls 
me into sleep, I imagine a thousand drums of hope proceeding through 
a hallway of scattered ash.

END