Touch of Heaven, Taste of Hell

FIC: Between My Mouth and My Brain (1/1) JC/XH -Hard R-
Between My Mouth and My Brain
Summary: Sequel to "Almost Me" and "If the Whole World Burns".
Xander's thoughts on the situation at hand.
Ship: X/J
Rating: R I'd say.
Note1: Crossover with Hellblazer, and hopefully I've started
letting people get to know John a little bit better. If you're
still confused, check out
http://www.insanerantings.com/hell/index1.html and learn all about
John Constantine.
Note4: The First of the Fallen...The First...I'm not making any
huge painful leaps of logic, am I?
Note6: The views on the ships Xander talks about: not necessarily
my views. It's for the purpose of the story. No 'ffense meant.
Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing, but if anyone feels like
sneaking into that room and stealing me an eyepatch or a certain
long coat, I would have no problem with these items finding their
way to me. Or the guys themselves finding their way to me. Please?
Distro: You want? Just tell me where you put it and I'll squee at
you for liking it enough to put up. Oh, and my name. That's all.
Put my name on it. All I ask.
Dedication: Once more to CCCarioca
Feedback: Please?
**********************

I woke up to the smell of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Considering
the household I grew up in, this was not an uncommon event.

I woke up naked and wrapped around an equally naked man. This is an
uncommon event. In fact, it wouldn't be a lie to say that it has
never, in fact, happened before. Considering this, I feel that I
should be wigging a lot more then I actually am.

It's not as if I ever thought that being in this position would be a
bad thing. Ever since my junior year in high school, I've
acknowledge the fact (if only to myself) that I happen to find men
as attractive as I find women. No specific reason for liking either
sex, really; it's just that I don't see the difference when it comes
to looking for someone to be with. I mean, I see the difference.
I'm as hormonal as the teenager I'm barely not, and will admire
traits specific to my admiree's gender as well as the next guy/gal,
but my head doesn't have anything in it that specifies which is
better, and I'm just fine with that.

Thus, for the last few years, I've been "bicurious". I mean, I knew
I was attracted to both, but since I had only experienced stuff with
one, I felt weird even thinking of myself as bisexual. The whole
waiting thing had nothing to do with fear, though, as Willow has
already become President of the Scoobies-With-Alternate-Sexualities
club. Okay, maybe fear with the parentals. But not that much.
Mostly it had to do with lack of candidates for testing such things.

To be honest, there wasn't really anyone around in the guy category
that I wanted to date. A danger of having all-girl friends, but so
life goes. I mean, Larry practically threw himself at me after he
dealt with his sexuality issues, but I'd had so many years of
bullying that it simply wouldn't have worked because of all the
bitter I'd saved over the years. Issues are one thing; being a
complete ass to me for the majority of your life before using your
alternate lifestyle to explain it is another, and while I consider
myself a nice guy, I do have my limits.

Giles? Oedipus complex anyone? And yes, I do know what that means
and yes, I did in fact play Oedipus for the school talent show, but
come on, say it with me..."world of no." Icky. I won't say he
isn't attractive, but he's too much of a parental figure for
anything to come from that. Then there was Spike and yeah, no
again. He wasn't that bad of a guy once he put all of that "I'm the
Big Bad" bullshit away and just played a god damn game of pool with
you, but no. Sorry. Not stable enough for me, and that should tell
you something. Don't mean to speak ill of the dead, but I don't
think you could ever say he had a full deck of cards, soul or no.
There was also the...yeah, no. Don't want to deal with that yet.
Give me a sec. Where was I again? Oh yeah...no guys to date cause
yadda yadda yadda Spike yadda and every other guy I knew was
someone's boyfriend already.

Anya wasn't really a problem in that respect. After she learned
about my lack of preference, she actually encouraged me to bring
home anyone I liked for a threesome. In fact, at one point she
tried to get me to invite Spike to join us. Said she liked his
cheekbones or something, and I suppose she kinda got her wish...only
without me in the middle.

Yeah, that was bitter if you were listening.

I mean, I loved her. I really really loved her in ways I hadn't
experienced before and haven't since. She was my home in more ways
then one, and making that decision at the little-wedding-that-
couldn't was probably the hardest thing I've ever done in my life.
Yeah, the demon had shown me illusions, but those illusions were of
the things I feared the most in my life and sorry if I wasn't man
enough to go on with the ceremony when I'd just had the mental image
of Anya's blood on a old rusty pan in my hands burned into my
brain. That's my burden to bear, and you can fuck right off if you
want to bitch at me about it, thank you, cause no matter what the
result, I made that decision in the hopes of saving her pain.

I never cheated on her. I never told her I hated her, or that I
didn't love her anymore, or anything like that. She did those
things to me, though. And while I can understand her pain and her
sometimes painfully simple ideas on vengeance, a little part of my
heart still couldn't forgive her for doing that to me. For sleeping
with someone else...for sleeping with a vampire. I'm a bastard,
fine, but that's true. Even when we had sex on the kitchen floor,
fingers sliding anxiously along the linoleum to remove clothes and
sense and other such nicities, a little part of my heart was still
angry at her. Even as I searched for her in the self-destructing
high school, a bit of me was still angry with her. Even as Andrew
told me the story of her death, the smallest smidgen of anger lived.

She's dead now, but until this night, I didn't truly forgive her, I
don't think.

Now I can though, because with tonight, I've kind of ended my
mourning for her.

I hadn't looked at a single woman since Sunnydale. There just
didn't seem to be a point. I didn't want anyone in my life because
at that point, it was in a rather messy state of disrepair. So I
would go to pubs, the kind of places that only the tired and
chronically depressed enhabit, order one drink (there are many
reasons for just the one, and I'll let you ponder them all by
yourself) and watch people who seemed to be even more broken then I
was. No one ever bothered me (I knew the eyepatch was good for
something) and I got to drink in all the company true misery needs.

Then tonight, as I'm sitting there, this guy sits down next to me,
and he's got it worse then I've ever seen it. I can't even see his
face because he's curled so far into himself that the long coat he
wears was covering it. He orders drink after drink, and I watch him
out of the corner of my eye as I concentrate on the melting of my
ice cubes. One, two, three, four and I'm starting to think he's
collecting the glasses for company. I mean, really. The guy just
stinks of loneliness. And that's when the Xander-trouble glands
start up and prompt me into saying one of the dumbest things I've
said in the longest.

I compared him to Spike, which really does no justice to him.

His hair is naturally blonde, for one thing; no peroxide on that
head as a few darker strands prove. It's longer and curlier and not
schlacked down and it was when I started wondering how soft it could
be that I decided it was worth taking in the rest, which was aided
by him turning to question me as to what the heck I'd just babbled
out.

I'd immediately thought him handsome, and one look into those blue
eyes and I wanted to hug him and kick him at the same time.
Something in there...well, I can't describe it.

But damn me if I didn't think it was sexy.

Now, it would be nice if the good Lord had given me enough blood to
run my dick and my brain at the same time, but as per usual, I'd
been behind the door during that giveaway. Thus did I start
babbling, and when I realized what I was babbling about I started
ranting because the wave had started and I hadn't really had a
chance to unload any of this at all to anyone ever, and then
suddenly out comes the word "demon" and I realized where the blood
was needed for the moment.

He was cool with it (bonus points) and after I told him about the
Hellmouth closing, and how I lost my eye and a bit about Spike (who
is completely and totally nothing like John...really), we exchanged
names and really started talking.

There were more drinks (not that many for me but enough for him) and
more talking and then he asked me if I wanted to head to his flat
since it was closer then the house I'm staying at with the rest of
the saviors of the world. It didn't take much consideration for me
to decide on taking him up on it. For one, he was hot even if he
was a bit older then me. For two, I didn't feel like heading back
to Slayer Central for a while since, for the first time in a long
time, I finally felt kinda cleaned out and good and going back meant
most likely losing that feeling within a few hours. And for three,
I felt comfortable with him like I hadn't felt with another human
being since my hometown swallowed itself.

Maybe I didn't trust him, because contrary to popular belief, I do
have the survival instincts God gave a lemming, but I was
comfortable with him, and that feeling was so rare that it was worth
persuing.

So we headed to his flat, and we talked. I tell him about my
adventures on the Hellmouth, which seem to amaze him if not surprise
him, and he tells me about his own troubles both here and abroad,
which made me want to hug him and kick him again, oh, and sit there
in awe. John's like that. He's dealt with some pretty deep shit,
both psychologically and supernaturally and his stories make me glad
that no serious upperclass demons have ever taken much concern with
our group, other then the First...who he apparently knows quite
well.

The talk progresses as talk at someone's appartment does, and soon
we discover that the fan's broken and it's getting hot. I take off
my flannel shirt in favor of the wifebeater underneath, and he takes
off his tie. We move to the bedroom "in case he falls asleep, cause
I've got a bit of a bad back and the couch would kill me". Yeah.
Sure. Other clothing gradually get lost and suddenly he's leaning
over me and gently pressing his lips against mine.

It was less weird then I thought it'd be. I thought that maybe man-
lips were different from girl's lips, but they're all just lips.
His aren't as full as Anya's were, but they were warm and exploring
my own and I couldn't let him explore without doing so in return,
said the insane little voice in my head that tends to get me in
trouble, and I started kissing him back cause some part of me knew
it was going to go this way the second I stepped into this apartment
and I really really had no problem with that.

His hands ran under the edge of the wifebeater and ghosted up to run
down my sides. They're a bit rough but the calluses were just more
stimulation to my very lonely skin and I heard myself let out a
little sigh of pleasure. I've always enjoyed being petted and
stroked...just gentle touches, and he was good enough at it that I
don't notice the one hand absently flicking one of my nipples until
the bizarre jolt of something or other reaches my groin. Wow.
Thought that kinda thing only worked on girls.

I started to work on his shirt, and he made sure his arms weren't in
my way as I worked on the buttons. His continued ministrations to
my person did make it a bit difficult as I had to stop every few
seconds to recover, but I eventually got the shirt off of him. He
pulled the wifebeater off of me then so that we were both
shirtless.

For a moment, I admired the skin there. I was so used to boobs, to
be honest, that it was a bit weird. Being in this state, with this
person, and no boobs. One of the dumbest things I've ever thought,
but so life goes. I ran my hand over the smooth planes of one of his
muscles and he seemed to like that and let me do it more before I
felt a questioning hand at the button to my pants. I nodded.

My jeans and his khakis were quickly removed, and that's when we get
down to some good old fashioned making out. Lips locked like a
prison door, hands still exploring each other. He seemed to like my
shoulders and the back of my neck, but considering what he did with
his hands there, I have to say that I liked them too. Even the
unfamiliar bulge that pressed against my thigh wasn't too weird to
handle...not even when it brushed against my own tented boxers to
send pleasure shooting up my spine. Everything he did, every move
he made felt good. I tried to give as good as I was getting, but
everything felt so wonderful that I really didn't have the strength
to do anything. I felt guilty for a moment, but then figured that
he was doing this for me, as a sort of gift for me, and things
clicked.

Different people deal with being lonely in different ways. For me,
I've always looked for some sort of notice, some sign from whoever
cares to give me one. Acknowledgement. That's how I deal with the
lonely and the painful and the doubting and the dark. I want
something, though just a little something, to tell me that someone
out there cares. For John, well, for him, I think, he deals with it
by giving his all. Giving everything he's got into the body and
soul of whoever shares his bed because that's the only way he thinks
he can give it, and even if it's just for one small moment, he can
connect in ways he couldn't dream of in the light, before the
watchful eyes of the world.

So when he suggested I get rid of my boxers, I just smiled and
complied as he got rid of his own remaining clothing. And then
there I was with a naked man.

It was dark by this time, so I didn't see much, but what I could
feel made up for it. Warm solid arms wrapped around me in the most
possessive of holds matched only by similarly warm and solid legs
which wrapped themselves around my own. The fringe of his hair and
panting smoky breath brushed against my face in between kisses which
were almost missing their target since my eye had rolled back into
my head in pleasure.

God. I never thought another man could feel like this. Feel this
good. Just the two of us, sliding up against each other...God, I
didn't want it to end. It'd been so long since I'd felt something
doing this, since I really wanted it. Anya had been...desperation.
Fear. This was need and lust and want and God I swear that all of
my nerve endings were located in my crotch because I was feeling
nothing else. Every move he made sent a rush of pleasure straight
through every limb, and I could see very clearly that I was having
the same effect on him even without looking at him. It was just
friction, but it was friction against something hard and soft and
smooth and I could feel myself drawing up to let go faster then I'd
thought possible without...well, you know. Something being stuck
somewhere like the back of a Volkswagon, if you get my kinda crude
meaning.

Obviously this wasn't so because I came a minute later with a hoarse
shout only to be followed by similar action from John before we both
passed out on his bed.

Well, he was right about the passing out then, I guess.

Which leaves me here, in the bed, awake, and wondering what I'm
going to do. I'm wrapped around a naked Englishman I've known for
about 12 hours and I seem to be perfectly fine with this, but I
don't know what he'll think when he gets up. How long this was
supposed to be. How I'm supposed to feel. How he feels.

Other then the doubts, I'd say that I feel comfortable. So until he
wakes up and says something to the contrary, I think I'm going to
stay right here, where I'm comfortable, and enjoy it for as long as
I can.

The End (for now)