davinci_1985 (![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} davinci_1985) wrote,@ 2009-09-28 22:38:00 |
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| Entry tags: | category: fic, fandom: buffy, fic: buffy: la quete, pairing: giles/xander |
Fic: Buffy: La Quete (Giles/Xander) (1/1)
Title: La Quete [1]
Author:davinci_1985
Fandom: BTVS
Pairing: Giles/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3500+ words
Disclaimer: Sadly, neither the show nor the men in it are mine.
Warnings: smut (although, I have to ask, is this really a warning?)
Summary: "You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. It isn’t a question, and Rupert doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
La Quete
He thinks he is dying – it feels like he is – but he isn’t. He knows, because there is a thigh between his, and there is a mouth, and there are rough, rough hands, splayed over his hips, the span wider than any other lover he has ever had before, and he isn’t familiar at all with them – and he just doesn’t care. There are lips, and saliva, and the taste of sex on the skin he can kiss, salt and sweat and desire and male musk.
One of those wonderful, big, possessive hands is cupping him through his pants – and Rupert wants it, wants it like he hasn’t wanted nothing in the last few years.
"You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. It isn’t a question, and Rupert doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
Another hand moves up, and cradles his head, protecting it from hitting the wall that is rubbing the skin of his back raw. The fingers interweave with his hair, massaging his scalp in languid, small circles that are nothing, nothing, like the hard squeezes on his cock. He wants to stop this for a moment, to take notice of what he is doing, to whom he is doing it, to think about the consequences and the repercussions and the fact that he isn’t supposed to be like this, to act like this, wanton and needy, and…
"You want this." The voice interrupts him, low and rough and breathy, gasping as if the man couldn’t get enough air. Rupert sympathizes – he can’t, either. This time, the words are a request, and Rupert doesn’t know what he does – he just writhes and moans and tries to press against the hand with the calluses that is stroking and pulling and caressing his cock – and it must be enough, because the man relaxes, as if Rupert had given his permission, had given up his control, and the hand squeezes in thanks.
He tries to say something – like ‘more’, or ‘please’, ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’, but the mouth is again over his, and teeth are biting his lower lip – and why should he talk, when his wishes are anticipated?
It’s been too long – too fucking long – since the last time he was in a similar position, and tries not to remember that the last time, he was drunk, and angry, and about to leave everything he had achieved throughout his life behind, and that it involved more pain than pleasure, and that he didn’t know the name of whoever he was shagging.
But this time, he does – oh, God, he does – and doesn’t understand why he has allowed things to come to this. He should know better – he’s old enough – but he doesn’t. And he breaths ‘Xander’ and whimpers when the marvelous, wonderful, amazing fingers scrape over his prostate.
"Tell me you need this."
Rupert doesn’t say, because ‘need’ is too strong a word, and he fears – if he allows himself to need, he will be in a position of losing – and he doesn’t want to lose this, the pleasure and the contact and the thick, thick cock that is finally inside of him.
"I need this."
Rupert believes that isn’t his voice, that roughened tenor that doesn’t even sound like him – but Xander’s voice has never sounded like sin and temptation before, like loneliness and that creeping feeling of emptiness that also consumes Giles when he is alone and the house is silent and the walls feel like they are closing in.
"I need this." There is a biting undertone, this time – he feels almost sure that it isn’t his voice, but it doesn’t change the fact that he agrees.
Rupert didn’t know that he would keen when those callused hands caressed ghostly over his forearms, more a tickle than a touch, over sensitizing the skin until he feels his hands go weak and his grip on the headboard slacken.
His eyes are glued to the contrast of the skin against his tattoo – and then the hand covers it completely, as if Xander were trying to erase his past, his mistakes, the previous lovers he might have had, only with his hands and touch. Xander’s nose burrows on the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, nuzzling, gentle and almost childlike, something no previous lover ever did, and his cock is thrust almost violently inside – and that is nothing but sweet, and gods, Rupert has missed this.
The climax is nothing less of spectacular, the kind of heaven one dreams of touching only once in their lives, a high of pleasure and overwhelming need, never to be repeated again. It has never been like this – never – and he feels that he should have an epiphany – and he does, not just the kind one would expect.
He doesn’t want to say out loud. Things have a habit of becoming real when one speaks of them. Names have power, words are weapons, and a whispered statement can bring a demon to life.
"You’re not real." He finally rasps out, throat hurting and dry. It’s not due entirely to the sex – it feels constricted, and he can’t swallow, because his mouth is dry, too, and his tongue too heavy and thick inside.
The hand that is caressing his spine and shoulders, prolonging the contact, the pleasure, the intimacy, stills. Rupert feels the foreboding in the air, in his very veins – he is sure that his heart has stopped, along with the soft touch.
"But I could be." Xander replies, the exact tone he uses when nothing is alright, but he is pretending it is. If he turned his head, Xander’s mouth – those lips – would be turned up into a mockery of his usual grin, a pale and infuriating shadow of the real one.
It’s not the first time Rupert feels like an utter bastard when it comes to Xander.
It won’t be the last.
"You’re not real." He repeats, almost sure, but he closes his eyes and stretches his back, stretching sore muscles – and winces – and Xander’s hand resumes its touch.
There is no hint of hesitation on it, and for that, Rupert feels grateful.
Xander is still there on the morning, warm and asleep, only a few inches separating them, and Rupert might still convince himself this is not a hallucination – hallucinations don’t sleep facedown and drool on the pillow, he believes.
Rupert might prefer not to be bothered while he is asleep, but likes the physical contact, something he hadn’t known he had grown so accustomed in California until it wasn’t there anymore at his disposal. He misses the feeling of small bodies pressing against his, of sweet-smelling shampoos and long hair tickling his arms. He misses the comfort and the always unexpected kisses on the cheek, the giggles and the comfort of their presence.
He misses them so bloody much.
He reaches out, almost afraid of disrupting the image, and have everything blow up in dirt and smoke and mirrors, and Xander’s skin is soft, and his finger pads detect the presence of a scar on his left shoulder. Rupert himself remembers stitching it, Xander under magically induced sleep, quiet and still, Rupert’s own hands trembling, with the adrenaline crash and the bitter taste of bile and fear in the back of his throat, the mantra of ‘so damned young’ repeating insistently.
He ignores the ‘young’, or the fact that he is partially responsible for those scars, and allows his whole palm to rest on the shoulder, molding to the curvature of bone and muscle. Xander doesn’t twitch, and his calm breathing isn’t altered.
It’s a surprisingly erotic feeling.
He loses track of time as he remain immobile, simply feeling the warmth of that shoulder and hearing the soft puffs of air as Xander breathes into the cotton pillowcase.
He wills the feeling into his memory.
Xander has a tiny scar, practically faded with time, on the small of his back – he must have acquired it as a child – and Rupert wants to feel its texture against his tongue, to taste and lick.
Xander’s back tenses when he does so, every muscle in stark relief, slopes of flesh and skin and tendons that Rupert wants to imprint on his memory – and then he relaxes, melting, arching his back. The play of muscle is utterly mesmerizing, and Rupert trails his tongue down, down, down, while one of his hands creeps up to rest on the middle of the back, spanning as widely as he can – he might not be able to see, not when his concentration is quite lower – but he still wants to feel.
Xander doesn’t disappoint.
The tea is done to perfection, just the way Rupert likes it. No milk, just the right amount of sugar, and almost strong enough to stain the china permanently.
"Do you like it?" Xander asks, laying on the mussed sheets, unconcerned by his own nudity. His cock lies quiescent over his thigh. There is a tiny, tiny scar – little more than a discoloration of the skin – on the inner part of the leg, next to it. It’s strangely straight, and about an inch long. For some reason, he really, really wants to know how it came to be.
"The tea is perfect, thank you." He whispers, although his eyes do not leave that tiny mark. He tries to wonder what might have causes something that looks done with surgical precision.
Xander relaxes onto his back, apparently satisfied, and looks at the ceiling. His cock – and that patch of skin – shift with him.
"What caused it?" He asks, and Xander turns to look at him in confusion, that tilted head that has always made him like a small, lost, little puppy in need of a good home and a hand to pet him.
"Mm?"
Rupert points at the scar – it doesn’t feel any different from the rest of the skin, no roughness at all – and allows his hand to go down, delineating the muscle, until he stops at the knee.
"Shaving. Razor caught. Bled for two hours – it wouldn’t close."
Of all answers, Rupert was certainly not expecting that one. He tries to remember if Anya ever mentioned something about this – she didn’t, and he would know because she couldn’t control her excitement about something new, and the hours at the Magic Box were long, and she liked to fill them.
Xander chuckles – Rupert realizes he’s staring, slack-jawed – it isn’t a flattering look on him, he’s been told – and elaborates. "In the swimming team – we had to shave all body hair."
Rupert’s mind conjures an image of Xander, smooth-skinned and soft and ready for his mouth and hands and tongue to explore.
It really, really, shouldn’t look so tempting.
It’s almost unbearably tight, muscles squeezing around him until his sight wavers with the pleasure and pain of it. Rupert’s right hand is also squeezed by Xander’s, fingers entwined intimately – it’s also a new thing for Rupert, and Xander’s hand is bigger than his, and his callouses are distributed differently to his.
"Fuck." He swears, and Xander laughs in response, breezy and gasping and almost hysterical – hesitant, Rupert would almost say.
But it isn’t hesitant, he rectifies his own thoughts, because Xander moves then – easy and perfect and it is right up there with the best experiences of his life. He wants to do something other than try to breathe – like moving, for example – but not even his hips are capable of obeying his wishes, and he stills, observing Xander as he clenches and bucks and takes his pleasure.
Xander’s left hand is clenching the sheets – Rupert will have to throw them away, they are unserviceable now – and the muscles in his forearm tense – there is a vein that runs up along it. Rupert thrusts – and fuck, this is good.
"You want this." Xander wheezes, when he can. His voice sounds ragged and desperate, unlike the languid movements of his body, and he closes his eyes, as if waiting for Rupert’s rejection.
Rupert doesn’t reply, because the answer is obvious, or so he thinks.
There is also another thing that is also obvious, and so, he says that instead. "You’re not real."
Xander’s eyes doesn’t open, but he doesn’t stop moving, clenching, fucking.
"Come." Rupert says, hand around that prick, thumb playing with the skin under the head, pressing and moving and then going up to caress the slit, softer this time.
"No, please. Give me more." Xander pleads, the tendons in his neck tense and angry, and his face is flushed and sweaty. There is a tear at the corner of one eye, and Giles kisses it, but doesn’t relent. Xander’s thighs tremble where they touch his, and he it looks like he is about to break in tiny, thousands of pieces, until he is raw and feels like the world is not real, and he is only dreaming.
There is a kind of power in that, and Rupert laps it up, like the tears and the beads of sweat on that achingly familiar face, and kisses the needy whimpers away.
And when Xander finally, finally comes, he closes his eyes and stills – and then he doesn’t move, except to fall boneless onto the bed. Rupert is sure he’s not even completely aware of where he is.
He sympathizes – he feels like that every time with Xander.
"You’re not real."
Xander blinks –there is still the hint of tears in the corners of his eyes, and a trail goes down to his hairline. His face is still flushed, as it takes him a long time to come down.
"But I could be." He replies, and his hand – big, and warm, and Rupert can’t get enough of them – rests on Rupert’s stomach and strokes it, petting. Xander’s expecting an answer, but Rupert offers him none.
His hand covers Xander, and feels the fingers flex and extend as they continue the petting.
Rupert’s body is tired and slightly sore, and he certainly wouldn’t have it any other way, considering the exertions that have lead to his current state. His couch feels comfortable for now, warm under the blanket and the company of Xander’s similarly tired form.
"You have enough time to finish it." Xander says, his voice still little more than a murmur – neither of them unwilling to break the quietness of the moment. His eyes study the words, a beautiful script that takes too many years to command perfectly – some old forgotten language except for the very few at the Council that were taught it. His fingers are very gentle handing the document, and when a finger trails the shape of the curls and lines imprinted upon it, Rupert remembers how, not even half an hour ago, it was his skin they were running over.
"It seems that, nowadays, I only have but time on my hands." Rupert confesses, loneliness and longing for something he willingly left behind colouring his words. Nothing he does seems to chase it away, not even his work, or his old acquaintances. He has changed in California, shaped by it, and this place no longer feels like the haven it once was.
Xander’s expression is the same he uses when he says ‘But I could be.’
Rupert wishes he could give in. But it’s all smoke and mirrors.
Xander’s mouth tastes like Rupert himself, salty and bitter, and he moves languidly, slowly, so unbearably slowly that Rupert feels like he is falling apart. The controlled movements feel like they are consuming him from inside.
There is the aftertaste of last meetings in Xander’s kisses, in the way his eyes seem to devour Rupert’s every action, every tiny sigh of contentment. Rupert refuses to acknowledge it – he doesn’t want Xander to leave, but he is aware of the fact that nothing about this is real, and will never be.
Because this Xander is too perfect for him; sweet and rough and passionate and everything he ever wanted in a lover, and even the things he hadn’t been aware he needed.
It will not last.
"You’re not real." He says, again, when Xander’s lips ghost over his Adam’s apple – he fancies Xander can feel the vibrations of his words against them, and wonders if it makes it all more real, sounds and touch to confirm the statement.
"But I could be." Xander whispers back, the same reply he always gives, the same doe eyes that make Rupert ache inside, sharp like the last time he lost a lover, a daughter. The almost invisible mark on his left cheek – like nails – are only visible from this angle. He doesn’t remember them from before.
He pushes back, feeling that cock slide deeper, the friction almost too much for him to bear.
He wishes this to never end.
"I want you." Xander whispers against his collarbone, damp breath arousing sweaty skin. "Please." He asks, as his hands span his ribcage, gently caressing his skin, following the curve of the ribs – Rupert is awfully sensitive there, and he hadn’t even known.
He wonders if he will ever feel like this, if any experience from there on will ever be able to compare to the sublime intensity of this moment, the rawness in his heart – not enough, too much, needing more – will ever heal.
He clamps down on that thought, and Xander’s left hand goes down to close around his cock, his calluses caressing briefly over the skin, teasing, a promise of more if only Rupert begs for it.
Rupert does.
When he wakes up, nothing has changed.
Xander, in the end, wasn’t real.
Apparently, he couldn’t be, either.
Rupert tries not to wince at the implication that he just didn’t care enough to make it real.
He finishes the translation, too much time in his hands, nothing to think about but his frustrated whishes – and he won’t give in. When he is done, his eyes trace the curls and slopes and elegant twirls of ink over the parchment, not seeing the words behind them, and wonders if the real Xander, the one that was too far away, too unreachable, the one that doesn’t call him Rupert, has ever seen this language. He remembers his fascination with the more beautiful demon languages, and how he never wanted the texts to be translated for him.
"I only want to see the beauty." He’d say, let me believe that these words offer pretty lies, his eyes would plead.
Rupert agrees with him.
Rupert works and eats and sleeps when he can, and when he can’t, he goes into his bathroom, ignores the shower gel Xander cleaned him with, and scrubs himself until his skin is blotchy and red and sore, and the ghost feeling of hands on his skin fades into the back of his memory.
He repeats to himself that everyone who tried to translate the cursed scroll ended up bitter, or mad – or suicidal.
He won’t, he promises himself.
The sky is grey again – it always is, he despairs – nothing like the rich blue of California’s, and the winter wind bites at his skin when he goes out. At least it isn’t raining, he consoles himself. Yet.
The metallic key in his hand burns, so cold it is, against the palm of his right hand as he pulls it out. Not so long ago, that hand had been curled around a shoulder, around a cock, gripping a headboard, stroking one long leg, entwined in longish curls that tickled his inner wrist. Rupert clenches his hand around it, relishing the bite of the bitter cold.
One of those wonderful, big, possessive hands is cupping him through his pants – and Rupert wants it, wants it like he hasn’t wanted nothing in the last few years.
"You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. This time, it is a question, but Rupert still doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
"Please." Xander whispers when Rupert’s hand mirror his movements, gripping him tightly – so that it won’t try to escape – and steers him towards the bed. One of his feet connect painfully with one of the luggage bags, but it barely registers, because if he gasps, it will be a second less he has to luxuriate himself in Xander’s mouth, and that, he will not allow.
Xander’s hands clench his shoulders almost painfully, but he does nothing to stop him when he is thrown onto the bed, the new sheets, a warm brown, contrasting beautifully with his skin.
Rupert practically tears his shirts and trousers off – and yes, there is that tiny, tiny shaving scar on his inner thigh, and he licks it, hearing Xander groan above him, and his other hand goes to Xander’s hip, trying to control the unconscious thrusting. The cock is just at the corner of his eye, and when he laps a stripe up the whole underside, Xander stills unnaturally, before shuddering.
"Giles." Xander pleads, and Rupert goes up to kiss him, hot and ravenous, gorging himself on the familiar taste and the sweetness of having his desperation for more answered in kin.
This Xander, he doesn’t call him Rupert.
[1] La Quete is, simply, one of my favourite songs by Jacques Brel, which I was listening to when I started to write.Return to top ↑
Author:
davinci_1985
Fandom: BTVS
Pairing: Giles/Xander
Rating: NC-17
Length: 3500+ words
Disclaimer: Sadly, neither the show nor the men in it are mine.
Warnings: smut (although, I have to ask, is this really a warning?)
Summary: "You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. It isn’t a question, and Rupert doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
La Quete
He thinks he is dying – it feels like he is – but he isn’t. He knows, because there is a thigh between his, and there is a mouth, and there are rough, rough hands, splayed over his hips, the span wider than any other lover he has ever had before, and he isn’t familiar at all with them – and he just doesn’t care. There are lips, and saliva, and the taste of sex on the skin he can kiss, salt and sweat and desire and male musk.
One of those wonderful, big, possessive hands is cupping him through his pants – and Rupert wants it, wants it like he hasn’t wanted nothing in the last few years.
"You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. It isn’t a question, and Rupert doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
Another hand moves up, and cradles his head, protecting it from hitting the wall that is rubbing the skin of his back raw. The fingers interweave with his hair, massaging his scalp in languid, small circles that are nothing, nothing, like the hard squeezes on his cock. He wants to stop this for a moment, to take notice of what he is doing, to whom he is doing it, to think about the consequences and the repercussions and the fact that he isn’t supposed to be like this, to act like this, wanton and needy, and…
"You want this." The voice interrupts him, low and rough and breathy, gasping as if the man couldn’t get enough air. Rupert sympathizes – he can’t, either. This time, the words are a request, and Rupert doesn’t know what he does – he just writhes and moans and tries to press against the hand with the calluses that is stroking and pulling and caressing his cock – and it must be enough, because the man relaxes, as if Rupert had given his permission, had given up his control, and the hand squeezes in thanks.
He tries to say something – like ‘more’, or ‘please’, ‘fuck’ and ‘bastard’, but the mouth is again over his, and teeth are biting his lower lip – and why should he talk, when his wishes are anticipated?
It’s been too long – too fucking long – since the last time he was in a similar position, and tries not to remember that the last time, he was drunk, and angry, and about to leave everything he had achieved throughout his life behind, and that it involved more pain than pleasure, and that he didn’t know the name of whoever he was shagging.
But this time, he does – oh, God, he does – and doesn’t understand why he has allowed things to come to this. He should know better – he’s old enough – but he doesn’t. And he breaths ‘Xander’ and whimpers when the marvelous, wonderful, amazing fingers scrape over his prostate.
"Tell me you need this."
Rupert doesn’t say, because ‘need’ is too strong a word, and he fears – if he allows himself to need, he will be in a position of losing – and he doesn’t want to lose this, the pleasure and the contact and the thick, thick cock that is finally inside of him.
"I need this."
Rupert believes that isn’t his voice, that roughened tenor that doesn’t even sound like him – but Xander’s voice has never sounded like sin and temptation before, like loneliness and that creeping feeling of emptiness that also consumes Giles when he is alone and the house is silent and the walls feel like they are closing in.
"I need this." There is a biting undertone, this time – he feels almost sure that it isn’t his voice, but it doesn’t change the fact that he agrees.
Rupert didn’t know that he would keen when those callused hands caressed ghostly over his forearms, more a tickle than a touch, over sensitizing the skin until he feels his hands go weak and his grip on the headboard slacken.
His eyes are glued to the contrast of the skin against his tattoo – and then the hand covers it completely, as if Xander were trying to erase his past, his mistakes, the previous lovers he might have had, only with his hands and touch. Xander’s nose burrows on the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, nuzzling, gentle and almost childlike, something no previous lover ever did, and his cock is thrust almost violently inside – and that is nothing but sweet, and gods, Rupert has missed this.
The climax is nothing less of spectacular, the kind of heaven one dreams of touching only once in their lives, a high of pleasure and overwhelming need, never to be repeated again. It has never been like this – never – and he feels that he should have an epiphany – and he does, not just the kind one would expect.
He doesn’t want to say out loud. Things have a habit of becoming real when one speaks of them. Names have power, words are weapons, and a whispered statement can bring a demon to life.
"You’re not real." He finally rasps out, throat hurting and dry. It’s not due entirely to the sex – it feels constricted, and he can’t swallow, because his mouth is dry, too, and his tongue too heavy and thick inside.
The hand that is caressing his spine and shoulders, prolonging the contact, the pleasure, the intimacy, stills. Rupert feels the foreboding in the air, in his very veins – he is sure that his heart has stopped, along with the soft touch.
"But I could be." Xander replies, the exact tone he uses when nothing is alright, but he is pretending it is. If he turned his head, Xander’s mouth – those lips – would be turned up into a mockery of his usual grin, a pale and infuriating shadow of the real one.
It’s not the first time Rupert feels like an utter bastard when it comes to Xander.
It won’t be the last.
"You’re not real." He repeats, almost sure, but he closes his eyes and stretches his back, stretching sore muscles – and winces – and Xander’s hand resumes its touch.
There is no hint of hesitation on it, and for that, Rupert feels grateful.
Xander is still there on the morning, warm and asleep, only a few inches separating them, and Rupert might still convince himself this is not a hallucination – hallucinations don’t sleep facedown and drool on the pillow, he believes.
Rupert might prefer not to be bothered while he is asleep, but likes the physical contact, something he hadn’t known he had grown so accustomed in California until it wasn’t there anymore at his disposal. He misses the feeling of small bodies pressing against his, of sweet-smelling shampoos and long hair tickling his arms. He misses the comfort and the always unexpected kisses on the cheek, the giggles and the comfort of their presence.
He misses them so bloody much.
He reaches out, almost afraid of disrupting the image, and have everything blow up in dirt and smoke and mirrors, and Xander’s skin is soft, and his finger pads detect the presence of a scar on his left shoulder. Rupert himself remembers stitching it, Xander under magically induced sleep, quiet and still, Rupert’s own hands trembling, with the adrenaline crash and the bitter taste of bile and fear in the back of his throat, the mantra of ‘so damned young’ repeating insistently.
He ignores the ‘young’, or the fact that he is partially responsible for those scars, and allows his whole palm to rest on the shoulder, molding to the curvature of bone and muscle. Xander doesn’t twitch, and his calm breathing isn’t altered.
It’s a surprisingly erotic feeling.
He loses track of time as he remain immobile, simply feeling the warmth of that shoulder and hearing the soft puffs of air as Xander breathes into the cotton pillowcase.
He wills the feeling into his memory.
Xander has a tiny scar, practically faded with time, on the small of his back – he must have acquired it as a child – and Rupert wants to feel its texture against his tongue, to taste and lick.
Xander’s back tenses when he does so, every muscle in stark relief, slopes of flesh and skin and tendons that Rupert wants to imprint on his memory – and then he relaxes, melting, arching his back. The play of muscle is utterly mesmerizing, and Rupert trails his tongue down, down, down, while one of his hands creeps up to rest on the middle of the back, spanning as widely as he can – he might not be able to see, not when his concentration is quite lower – but he still wants to feel.
Xander doesn’t disappoint.
The tea is done to perfection, just the way Rupert likes it. No milk, just the right amount of sugar, and almost strong enough to stain the china permanently.
"Do you like it?" Xander asks, laying on the mussed sheets, unconcerned by his own nudity. His cock lies quiescent over his thigh. There is a tiny, tiny scar – little more than a discoloration of the skin – on the inner part of the leg, next to it. It’s strangely straight, and about an inch long. For some reason, he really, really wants to know how it came to be.
"The tea is perfect, thank you." He whispers, although his eyes do not leave that tiny mark. He tries to wonder what might have causes something that looks done with surgical precision.
Xander relaxes onto his back, apparently satisfied, and looks at the ceiling. His cock – and that patch of skin – shift with him.
"What caused it?" He asks, and Xander turns to look at him in confusion, that tilted head that has always made him like a small, lost, little puppy in need of a good home and a hand to pet him.
"Mm?"
Rupert points at the scar – it doesn’t feel any different from the rest of the skin, no roughness at all – and allows his hand to go down, delineating the muscle, until he stops at the knee.
"Shaving. Razor caught. Bled for two hours – it wouldn’t close."
Of all answers, Rupert was certainly not expecting that one. He tries to remember if Anya ever mentioned something about this – she didn’t, and he would know because she couldn’t control her excitement about something new, and the hours at the Magic Box were long, and she liked to fill them.
Xander chuckles – Rupert realizes he’s staring, slack-jawed – it isn’t a flattering look on him, he’s been told – and elaborates. "In the swimming team – we had to shave all body hair."
Rupert’s mind conjures an image of Xander, smooth-skinned and soft and ready for his mouth and hands and tongue to explore.
It really, really, shouldn’t look so tempting.
It’s almost unbearably tight, muscles squeezing around him until his sight wavers with the pleasure and pain of it. Rupert’s right hand is also squeezed by Xander’s, fingers entwined intimately – it’s also a new thing for Rupert, and Xander’s hand is bigger than his, and his callouses are distributed differently to his.
"Fuck." He swears, and Xander laughs in response, breezy and gasping and almost hysterical – hesitant, Rupert would almost say.
But it isn’t hesitant, he rectifies his own thoughts, because Xander moves then – easy and perfect and it is right up there with the best experiences of his life. He wants to do something other than try to breathe – like moving, for example – but not even his hips are capable of obeying his wishes, and he stills, observing Xander as he clenches and bucks and takes his pleasure.
Xander’s left hand is clenching the sheets – Rupert will have to throw them away, they are unserviceable now – and the muscles in his forearm tense – there is a vein that runs up along it. Rupert thrusts – and fuck, this is good.
"You want this." Xander wheezes, when he can. His voice sounds ragged and desperate, unlike the languid movements of his body, and he closes his eyes, as if waiting for Rupert’s rejection.
Rupert doesn’t reply, because the answer is obvious, or so he thinks.
There is also another thing that is also obvious, and so, he says that instead. "You’re not real."
Xander’s eyes doesn’t open, but he doesn’t stop moving, clenching, fucking.
"Come." Rupert says, hand around that prick, thumb playing with the skin under the head, pressing and moving and then going up to caress the slit, softer this time.
"No, please. Give me more." Xander pleads, the tendons in his neck tense and angry, and his face is flushed and sweaty. There is a tear at the corner of one eye, and Giles kisses it, but doesn’t relent. Xander’s thighs tremble where they touch his, and he it looks like he is about to break in tiny, thousands of pieces, until he is raw and feels like the world is not real, and he is only dreaming.
There is a kind of power in that, and Rupert laps it up, like the tears and the beads of sweat on that achingly familiar face, and kisses the needy whimpers away.
And when Xander finally, finally comes, he closes his eyes and stills – and then he doesn’t move, except to fall boneless onto the bed. Rupert is sure he’s not even completely aware of where he is.
He sympathizes – he feels like that every time with Xander.
"You’re not real."
Xander blinks –there is still the hint of tears in the corners of his eyes, and a trail goes down to his hairline. His face is still flushed, as it takes him a long time to come down.
"But I could be." He replies, and his hand – big, and warm, and Rupert can’t get enough of them – rests on Rupert’s stomach and strokes it, petting. Xander’s expecting an answer, but Rupert offers him none.
His hand covers Xander, and feels the fingers flex and extend as they continue the petting.
Rupert’s body is tired and slightly sore, and he certainly wouldn’t have it any other way, considering the exertions that have lead to his current state. His couch feels comfortable for now, warm under the blanket and the company of Xander’s similarly tired form.
"You have enough time to finish it." Xander says, his voice still little more than a murmur – neither of them unwilling to break the quietness of the moment. His eyes study the words, a beautiful script that takes too many years to command perfectly – some old forgotten language except for the very few at the Council that were taught it. His fingers are very gentle handing the document, and when a finger trails the shape of the curls and lines imprinted upon it, Rupert remembers how, not even half an hour ago, it was his skin they were running over.
"It seems that, nowadays, I only have but time on my hands." Rupert confesses, loneliness and longing for something he willingly left behind colouring his words. Nothing he does seems to chase it away, not even his work, or his old acquaintances. He has changed in California, shaped by it, and this place no longer feels like the haven it once was.
Xander’s expression is the same he uses when he says ‘But I could be.’
Rupert wishes he could give in. But it’s all smoke and mirrors.
Xander’s mouth tastes like Rupert himself, salty and bitter, and he moves languidly, slowly, so unbearably slowly that Rupert feels like he is falling apart. The controlled movements feel like they are consuming him from inside.
There is the aftertaste of last meetings in Xander’s kisses, in the way his eyes seem to devour Rupert’s every action, every tiny sigh of contentment. Rupert refuses to acknowledge it – he doesn’t want Xander to leave, but he is aware of the fact that nothing about this is real, and will never be.
Because this Xander is too perfect for him; sweet and rough and passionate and everything he ever wanted in a lover, and even the things he hadn’t been aware he needed.
It will not last.
"You’re not real." He says, again, when Xander’s lips ghost over his Adam’s apple – he fancies Xander can feel the vibrations of his words against them, and wonders if it makes it all more real, sounds and touch to confirm the statement.
"But I could be." Xander whispers back, the same reply he always gives, the same doe eyes that make Rupert ache inside, sharp like the last time he lost a lover, a daughter. The almost invisible mark on his left cheek – like nails – are only visible from this angle. He doesn’t remember them from before.
He pushes back, feeling that cock slide deeper, the friction almost too much for him to bear.
He wishes this to never end.
"I want you." Xander whispers against his collarbone, damp breath arousing sweaty skin. "Please." He asks, as his hands span his ribcage, gently caressing his skin, following the curve of the ribs – Rupert is awfully sensitive there, and he hadn’t even known.
He wonders if he will ever feel like this, if any experience from there on will ever be able to compare to the sublime intensity of this moment, the rawness in his heart – not enough, too much, needing more – will ever heal.
He clamps down on that thought, and Xander’s left hand goes down to close around his cock, his calluses caressing briefly over the skin, teasing, a promise of more if only Rupert begs for it.
Rupert does.
When he wakes up, nothing has changed.
Xander, in the end, wasn’t real.
Apparently, he couldn’t be, either.
Rupert tries not to wince at the implication that he just didn’t care enough to make it real.
He finishes the translation, too much time in his hands, nothing to think about but his frustrated whishes – and he won’t give in. When he is done, his eyes trace the curls and slopes and elegant twirls of ink over the parchment, not seeing the words behind them, and wonders if the real Xander, the one that was too far away, too unreachable, the one that doesn’t call him Rupert, has ever seen this language. He remembers his fascination with the more beautiful demon languages, and how he never wanted the texts to be translated for him.
"I only want to see the beauty." He’d say, let me believe that these words offer pretty lies, his eyes would plead.
Rupert agrees with him.
Rupert works and eats and sleeps when he can, and when he can’t, he goes into his bathroom, ignores the shower gel Xander cleaned him with, and scrubs himself until his skin is blotchy and red and sore, and the ghost feeling of hands on his skin fades into the back of his memory.
He repeats to himself that everyone who tried to translate the cursed scroll ended up bitter, or mad – or suicidal.
He won’t, he promises himself.
The sky is grey again – it always is, he despairs – nothing like the rich blue of California’s, and the winter wind bites at his skin when he goes out. At least it isn’t raining, he consoles himself. Yet.
The metallic key in his hand burns, so cold it is, against the palm of his right hand as he pulls it out. Not so long ago, that hand had been curled around a shoulder, around a cock, gripping a headboard, stroking one long leg, entwined in longish curls that tickled his inner wrist. Rupert clenches his hand around it, relishing the bite of the bitter cold.
One of those wonderful, big, possessive hands is cupping him through his pants – and Rupert wants it, wants it like he hasn’t wanted nothing in the last few years.
"You want this, don’t you?" Is whispered next to his mouth, lips that caress as they move, teasing and playful. This time, it is a question, but Rupert still doesn’t reply – he just moans when the hand flexes, strong and almost painful, and tries to get closer, to get more.
"Please." Xander whispers when Rupert’s hand mirror his movements, gripping him tightly – so that it won’t try to escape – and steers him towards the bed. One of his feet connect painfully with one of the luggage bags, but it barely registers, because if he gasps, it will be a second less he has to luxuriate himself in Xander’s mouth, and that, he will not allow.
Xander’s hands clench his shoulders almost painfully, but he does nothing to stop him when he is thrown onto the bed, the new sheets, a warm brown, contrasting beautifully with his skin.
Rupert practically tears his shirts and trousers off – and yes, there is that tiny, tiny shaving scar on his inner thigh, and he licks it, hearing Xander groan above him, and his other hand goes to Xander’s hip, trying to control the unconscious thrusting. The cock is just at the corner of his eye, and when he laps a stripe up the whole underside, Xander stills unnaturally, before shuddering.
"Giles." Xander pleads, and Rupert goes up to kiss him, hot and ravenous, gorging himself on the familiar taste and the sweetness of having his desperation for more answered in kin.
This Xander, he doesn’t call him Rupert.
[1] La Quete is, simply, one of my favourite songs by Jacques Brel, which I was listening to when I started to write.