Warnings: Non-consensual sex, darkfic
Slashficathon-fic. Written for
who requested Xander/Angel, wanted no Angelus (sorry, his shadow looms over the whole story) and wanted the story to take place before S4. Many many many thanks to my beta
In Every Parting
"Hey, peeping tom, I heard you're leaving," Xander's smug voice comes up from behind.
Angel sighs inwardly. There's a certain indignity in being insulted by someone who's less than a tenth your age. This is one of those instances where a practiced stone-face comes in handy. Maybe if Angel ignores him, Harris will grow bored and get lost?
He should be so lucky. Footsteps approach and Xander launches another dig: "Well, you know what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder, so this must be the beginning of a wonderful friendship."
This time it actually requires a certain effort to maintain that customary cool façade. Angel keeps his eyes stubbornly trained on the brightly lit house before him and the picture of domesticity behind the net curtains: Mrs. Summers is rearranging sofa cushions in the living room. For a tiny, petty moment resentment rears its ugly head, but then Buffy walks in, balancing two huge bowls of popcorn, and the ache in his heart blocks out everything else.
He'll never have that kind of normalcy, has to savor it vicariously. That's just the way it is. Angel watches mother and daughter get everything ready for a typical Scooby video night. Buffy is wearing her brave-face, and smiles at something her mom says.
The tearing of a candy-wrapper and Xander's noisy chewing ruin any chance of maybe catching the exchange.
Slowly but surely, Angel's patience is wearing thin. Xander's irritating proximity is spoiling everything. Angel can look away, but he can't smell away, and the boy's scent is overpowering: an abundance of teenage hormones, chocolate, fabric softener, and just a hint of Buffy – it's enough to put Angel's teeth on edge.
Time to head out. He said his goodbye already, just after the explosion. This is just picking at a half-healed scab.
Angel slowly turns away, one hand lingering on the sycamore tree he's been leaning against, as if it were connected to Buffy by virtue of proximity. As if letting go of it is somehow like letting go of her. This is the hardest thing he's ever done.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say bye bye till it be morrow," Xander intones with mock pathos.
This time Angel moves. One moment there's rough tree-bark under his fingertips, the next moment warm and sweaty skin. A live hot body squirming against him, sandwiched between the tree and Angel's larger frame, his rapid beating pulse straining against the crushing grip of Angel's fingers.
Their faces mere inches apart, Angel gazes almost impassively at his catch. Xander is flopping and flailing around like a fish on land, scream stuck half-way in his throat.
The boy's panicked scent hits Angel's guts like the clanging of the dinner bell. All that hot, tasty blood that's rushing underneath Xander's skin, waiting to be tasted - its scent causes a dull throb in Angel's human canines. The hunger never sleeps. Normally it's under lock and key, but now it slithers out through all the cracks, keen to join forces with the cold anger that's welling up inside him.
Xander. Always hot for Buffy. Eager to take Angel's place. Oh, yeah, Angel can see how this must be a field day for Xander, after all his attempts to come between them.
Is this supposed to be the face of Buffy's normal life?
Somehow, Angel can't see Joyce giving the snotty little comic-book aficionado the 'you're the one who has to make the difficult decisions' talk.
For a moment the struggling thing in Angel's grasp is not a nineteen-year-old boy, but a walking, talking blood bag. One broken bone away from being as limp and lifeless as a McDonald's hamburger wrapper.
Luckily for Xander, Angel's control is less fragile than Xander's neck.
"You and I need to have a little talk," Angel states, and he drags Xander away from the welcoming porch light and into the shadows. The boy's dignity isn't high up on the list of Angel's priorities, so he tucks him underneath his arm. It evokes certain memories: darkened school corridors reeking of fear, blood, and vampire dust, a body trapped between two vampires acting as live bait, Spike, smelling just like old times....
Angel's black convertible is parked round the corner. The top is down to make room for a folded oriental screen, and both the trunk and the whole back seat are crammed with stuff, several suitcases, two lamps, and a few boxes full of leather bound books. Everything Angel owns is that car and what's in it. Everything – except Buffy.
Without even opening the door, Angel tosses Xander into the passenger seat, then jumps in himself. Xander tries to bolt, but Angel easily catches him before he even gets a hand on the passenger door.
"Why do people always think I'm Angelus whenever I get angry?"
"You're not him?" Xander searches Angel's face. The boy is pale and sweaty, obviously terrified. But there's a faint hint of arousal underneath the fear, as if Xander's will to live is asserting itself in sheer physical obstinacy.
"Could I have that in writing?"
"No, but I'll give you some advice."
"What kind of advice would that be? Murder 101 with a side order or torture? I'm thinking scalpels and whips don't go with the cheerful Hawaiian luau theme, so thanks, but no thanks," Xander babbles, nervously wiping his sweaty palms on his baggy pants.
"Find a nice boy and get laid."
"Get laid. Look who's talking, deadboy. I'll have you know—What?" When the penny drops, Xander's jaw drops with it. "Whoa whoa, did I just hear what I think I heard? Find a nice what now?"
In spite of the gratifying squeak, Angel manages to keep his smirk to a minimum. "I said—"
"I am not gay!" Xander shouts.
"That's for you to find out." It's almost too easy to play with Xander—so long as he stays cool and enigmatic, he can run circles around the boy.
"I don't have go find out, I know. I'm very knowing. I like girls. I'm a breast man, you know. Boobs, that's what the Xand-man likes. Big ones, small ones, I'm an expert. Show me a girl and I'll tell you what her cup-size is."
"You can't fool a vampire." Angel taps his nose.
"Oh god, don't tell me you can smell it when somebody's lying."
Angel almost rolls his eyes. "I can smell it, when someone's... uh... needy," he explains patiently.
"Oh." Beat. And then: "I'm nineteen. When was the last time you were nineteen? I mean, at that age you're always horny. It's part of being in high school. Boys, they think about girls a lot. It doesn't mean anything... else."
"Oh god, you really think I'm gay," Xander's babble finally peters out.
"It's possible. Only one way to find out."
Xander's heartbeat makes a few impromptu leaps and a blush slowly spreads over his stunned face.
Angel breathes in the smell of the boy's growing arousal and stifles a smile.
"Oh no! No way," Xander squawks. "No, no, nonono!" Xander gesticulates wildly. "I'm not gonna go looking for—oh god. You're—this isn't happening! Don't tell me you're..."
"Offering?" To be honest, before tonight, Angel never gave Xander a second thought. After all, there was Buffy. There was never room for anyone else... But things have changed. And besides, the boy needs to learn a lesson. Angel smiles. "Why not?"
"Because hello? I hate you, that's why."
"Now he tells me," Angel deadpans, looking heavenwards. From the vantage of 250 years plus of experience, it's difficult to consider a wayward erection a momentous and life-changing event. There are worse things than a piece of flesh following its instinct and rising to the occasion. Love, for instance. That's bound to trip you up, whether you're 20 or 272.
"Yeah, I know, it was hate at first sight," Angel continues. "Funny thing though, you always smelled ... let's just say ...inviting. You do the math."
"Inviting? Fear! The tantalizing smell of yummie teenage terror. That's all." Xander shifts uncomfortably in his seat, unable to look Angel in the eye.
Angel doesn't have to look to know that the boy is hard. "And what I felt poking into my hip on parent-teacher night, that was all for Spike?"
"Oh god." Xander blanches.
"C'mon, Xander, I'm leaving. You never have to see me again. What do you have to lose?"
"The last vestiges of my self-respect? See, unlike you, I have to look at myself in the mirror every morning to shave."
"And that's why you played 'strangle me' with Faith."
"That was different. She—at least she was a girl! And alive! Which is more than can be said about you."
If this were anyone else, someone he actually liked, Angel wouldn't do what he does next, because officially he's no longer into twisting things. But the decision to leave has already used up all of today's quota of do-gooding and frankly, Xander is asking for it, has been for a long time. So he smirks and lays his hand between Xander's legs, right on the bulge the boy is fervently denying.
A traitorous shudder runs through Xander's body.
"No—I—oh god—" He's shaking his head, but he's also panting and arching into the unexpected touch, and then his legs slowly part for Angel, saying 'Yes—here—more—'
Oh yeah, this is almost too easy. Angel shifts closer along the bench of the front car seat. His hand wanders upwards, to the waistband, to slowly pop the button of Xander's cargo pants. Xander's sharply drawn in breath travels down Angel's spine causing his cock to twitch in anticipation. The zipper is next, pulled down without haste.
"Is that for me?" Angel chuckles, when Xander's cock springs free, hard, hot, and urgent.
There's a wild-eyed look on Xander's face that telegraphs his insecurities. His fingers dig into Angel's arm, but he doesn't push the vampire away. He opens his mouth, but Angel's had enough of his babble and slides his hand into Xander's pants to cup and expertly fondle his balls. The boy tosses his head back, speechless and slack-jawed.
There are so many ways to break in a virgin...
The knowledge is there, if Angel wants it, buried, not lost: How to part chaste thighs, and make resisting bodies pliant. Unlock, breach, and conquer.
Penn, Drusilla, William, Angelus's creations, all broken through pleasure or pain or both, only to be pieced together again into twisted and serrated parodies of their former selves, damaging everything they come into touch with.
And tonight it's Xander's turn to be rebuilt. And if that's petty, so be it.
Without even touching the boy's cock, Angel skillfully strokes Xander to a fevered pitch – all the while slowly pushing down the baggy pants and the ridiculous cartoon boxers. The shoes are next to go and then Xander is naked from the waist down. Finally, Angel opens his own pants, for much needed relief, letting his hard cock jut out. Much better.
Angel lifts Xander up and scoots over into the passenger seat, then spreads the boy's legs and lowers him on his lap, so he's straddling his thighs. One more tug on Xander's hip and their cocks are touching.
The maneuver seems to dispel some of the haze Xander is in, because he blinks and shakes his head, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. He looks down at the heavy engorged cock, that seems to have grown next to his own, and pales, predictably.
Angel catches Xander's hand and places it firmly on the cold, hardened flesh, and then hot sweaty fingers are jerking him off - tentatively at first but with growing confidence.
For a few moments the only sounds are the creaking of the leather seats, the chafing sound of flesh rubbing against flesh, and Xander's ragged breathing. Once, a dog can be heard barking in the distance.
There's a certain satisfaction in being brought off by someone who hates you. Angelus had a palate for this kind of thing, but it's the first time this is happening to Angel – and it feels as good as ever.
Eventually, Angel captures both of Xander's hands and places them around their twin erections. He guides the boy's hands until he's sure that Xander knows what's required.
A quick search of the glove compartment yields a small unopened tube that's been in Angel's possession for several years. He breaks the seal and coats his fingers thoroughly. When he reaches around to breach Xander's body it's almost unobtrusive. The boy tenses at first, but with the relentless skill and patience of almost three centuries, Angel teases, pokes, and prods him until he's whimpering and trembling with need. All in all, Xander's a lot easier to break in than William with his prissy Victorian homophobia..
"If you think that's good, wait till you've got my cock inside you," Angel tells him, pushing his fingers in again to hit the boy's prostate.
"Oh, yes," is the breathless reply. "Yes, yes..."
Angel stills Xander's hands, lifts him up and positions him over his cock, bulbous tip straining against the slicked yet tight entrance. Xander's breathing sounds ragged and unnaturally loud.
"Oh god." The boy stammers, and then adds with remarkable focus: "What about the curse?"
"Perfect happiness? Don't flatter yourself."
And with that Angel gives Xander's hip a downwards push, slowly but surely impaling him on his well-slicked cock, eliciting a long drawn-out moan.
"Yeah, that's it." Angel murmurs encouragement, pausing to give the boy a moment to adjust to his girth. "Relax, there's no rush." He licks the boy's neck, tasting pleasure and pain on his heated skin. The boy trembles both with nervousness and a frantic need for more, as if this is what he's been waiting for all his life.
With a whimper that's both pained and desperate, Xander bucks a few times, and then Angel is fully buried inside him, surrounded by heat and the thundering roar of the boy's heartbeat.
Xander is hot, tight and enthusiastic. Angel has to muster all his considerable self-control, even tap into his Tibetan meditation techniques, to keep himself from shooting his load prematurely. He has every intention of giving the boy a fuck he'll never forget. He'll be jerking off to the memory for years. Angel smirks.
"I told you, you'd like this, didn't I?"
Making sure the angle is right and working the boy's cock skillfully, he brings him close a few times, only to deny him release.
When Xander's movements become frenzied, when he calls Angel's name, practically begging and sobbing under such relentless skill, that's when Angel deems him ready.
"Come for me," he says and increases the speed and pressure of his hand around Xander's cock. His own release is building up in his balls. "Come on, Xander, I want to hear you scream."
And Xander does – alerting the whole neighborhood as he does. But this is Sunnydale. All that happens is that in several houses the lights go out.
The boy collapses in a boneless, well-fucked sprawl, draped over Angel's chest like a hot sweaty blanket, heart hammering like it's about to burst. Shuddering again and again, in the throes of intense aftershocks, each time tensing around Angel's slowly softening cock.
Xander's eyes are unfocused and dazed when he finally lifts his head. There's a goofy smile on his lips, and he looks like he's about to say 'wow' or something like that. The perfect time to deliver the killing blow: "Well? On a scale of one to ten, how gay do you think you are?" Angel asks amiably and wipes his cum-stained hand on Xander's shirt. "Me, I'm giving you an eight."
It's fascinating but also unexpectedly sickening to watch Xander's face as the realization settles in. Raw hurt washes over his features, followed by disgust, then shame and finally absolute loathing. His eyes are burning with hatred, as Xander hastily scrambles off Angel's lap. He tries to climb out of the car, but trips and lands unceremoniously on the ground. Scrambling to his feet, he starts picking up his clothes with the hasty jerky movements of someone who's trying very hard not to cry.
Angel calmly wipes himself clean and zips up his pants.
Xander's sneakers are still lying in the car, Angel picks them up and tosses them out. They land on the tarmac right next to Xander's naked feet.
Xander makes no move to pick them up. He just stands there, his pants and boxers in his hands, fists scrunching up the fabric, mortification still written all over his face. Angel would bet his convertible for a cup of cold coffee, that after tonight Xander will never make moon-eyes at Buffy again. He's not good enough for her, Angel thinks viciously, and now he knows it too.
Suddenly there's a fresh, salty tang of unshed tears in the air, that acts like a sobering slap in the face, and wine turns to vinegar. It's like waking up with a bitter, acrid taste in one's mouth, a familiar taste, one he always associates with Drusilla: Ashes and incense. Shame and guilt.
As if Angel hasn't got enough of those already.
"You tricked me," Xander chokes out. There's a barbed, venomous tone in his voice. "I'd never have—I'm not—" He stops, helplessly confused.
Tricked? The boy doesn't even know half of it! But how can Angel explain—make him understand—how? Angel himself has no idea what just happened. How things could get out of hand like that? He's supposed to be the good guy! What had Xander done, except be human, and annoying and want Buffy?
He can't even blame Angelus, because even though he may have tapped into Angelus's memories, it was Angel behind the steering wheel. Deep down, that scares him.
But what is done is done.
There's nothing Angel could do or say to make the boy whole again, but he has to try anyway: "Xander, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"Oh yeah? Well, I'm not. I always suspected that your charming personality is only skin deep and that the rest is Angelus, in all his pervert glory. And now I know for sure. Thanks for the lesson."
And with that Xander turns around and walks away.
In every parting there is an image of death.
- George Eliot, Amos Barton (ch. X)
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