Leaving Marks
folder
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male › Andrew/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,206
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer › Slash - Male/Male › Andrew/Xander
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,206
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS), nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Leaving Marks
Title: Leaving Marks
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. Joss Whedon and the WB own Angel: the Series. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind; just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Andrew/Xander
Feedback: Yes, please!
Dedication: Thanks to Kaz!
Author's Notes: Minor spoilers for Season 7.
“No love, no friendship can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever.”
-Francois Mauriac
The long walk down the hall could be the “final walk” of a death-row inmate, he thinks. Except it’s not death Xander’s walking to. And he’s a hell of a lot hornier than he’d be thirty seconds from the electric chair. He’s no less nervous though. And no less nauseous.
He walks past happy family photos: Buffy, Joyce, Dawn. Even a few of himself, and it makes him stop. Smile. Where he is now, where he was then. The two places are miles apart. Light years. Galaxies far, far away. The thought spurs him on. He’s wasting time. Slayers are practicing; everyone’s occupied in one endeavor or another, as it always is at this time of the morning.
This walk has become more than routine. It’s his salvation. A salve on the burn that’s scorched his will to rise each morning. Two steps, three. Already the door is ajar, breathing somehow. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t personify things like doorways and hallways. He’s lived on the Hellmouth long enough to know that.
Xander clears his throat by the bathroom, then continues past it to the linen closet. It’s Narnia big—way larger than a room holding sun-bleached beach towels and Care Bear sheets should be, but he’s not complaining. Heart thudding, his lips are already drying from too-frequent anticipatory licking.
There’s a light switch inside, but they’ve never used it. It’s better in the dark. Safer maybe, though Xander can’t figure out why that would be. Dark usually means danger—vamps and werewolves and worse. But in the Downy dark, all sweet smells and tickly lint, he’s safe.
“You’re late.”
Xander can make out the slim, pale form in the dark. Miles of naked skin to be kissed, already nude and waiting. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s okay.” The voice is uncertain and small. “I didn’t know if you’d changed your mind, or—“ Xander kisses him to stop the nervous babble making its way to just this side of whiny. Chapstick smooth, Andrew’s mouth is warm and sweet. When they part, Andrew’s breathing hard, bare body twitching forward.
“You’re naked,” Xander finally says. He feels Andrew smile against his mouth.
“I’m saving time.”
“I can tell.” Xander’s hand slides down smooth skin in the dark, closing around Andrew’s erection. “What would you have done if I hadn‘t shown up? Waste this?” He’s joking, but when Andrew doesn’t answer, he realized he’s said something wrong. “Hey.” He knocks his forehead to Andrew’s in the dark. “Hey…,” he adds again, bending his head until his lips meet Andrew’s neck below his earlobe. “Why so quiet?”
Andrew doesn’t answer him but he begins rocking his hips forward. His erection pushes against Xander’s hand and reminds him what he’s here to do. Xander’s lips drag over Andrew’s skin, kissing his collarbone and the smooth dip at his throat. Andrew’s hands pull Xander’s flannel shirt back and off, then work quickly at his T-shirt beneath.
Xander lets his shirt be removed, then he shivers. It’s not cold, but exciting. Not drafty, but so deliciously dangerous that he shakes like the linen closet is a movie theater in July.
“Cold?” The words are panted just below him, where fast fingers are unfastening his fly.
“Yeah.” Liar! His mind screams, but he has an image to maintain. Xander the Brave or at least not Xander the Chicken-hearted. He’s only been a hero in the eyes of two people. But Dawn’s growing up, and he’ll be damned if he lets go of the only admirer he has left.
Andrew stands and advances, pressing his body against Xander, whose arms come around him and hold him there, warm. Andrew’s hair is getting long; the soft spikes tickle Xander’s nose in the dark. He takes in a big whiff of boy-scent. Andrew’s not perfumed like Anya, not sweet and lush like Cordelia, but there’s something comforting none the less. Soft towels, soft skin, warm and safe.
Xander feels Andrew pull his head back, and Xander soon feels kisses on his chest. They’re tiny and hesitant—kitten kisses from someone no more experienced at this him, which is more comforting still. His hands find the back of Andrew’s head in the dark, and he strokes his hair. Andrew’s head descends until Xander feels a warm hand on his erection. Then the kitten kisses give way to sure tongue and lips.
Xander’s head bends back instinctively and rests against something firm but soft. Sleeping bag, maybe, Xander thinks groggily as pleasure streams from his cock and sends a pleasant ache to all parts of his body. Soon, too soon, the ache gives way to full scale bliss, and he shudders hard, clenching at the hair under his hands. He cries into the dark, and his body feels heavy and exhausted. Wet kisses to clean him up, then a cool musky mouth finds his own.
“Thank you,” he mumbles when Andrew pulls away.
He drops his hands to Andrew’s hips, then lets them slide around his small waist and down, drawing him close and, okay, copping one huge feel because the goosebumping curve of Andrew’s ass is just about the greatest thing since Star Trek Monopoly. He kisses him again. Again. He bends down and takes a chilled nipple into his mouth, then kisses it, all loud and sloppy.
“You’re cold.”
“You were cold first.”
“It wasn’t an accusation, Andrew.”
The floorboards in the hallway squeak. If Buffy opened the door right now, they’d have more than a little to explain, but Xander hardly cares. They’re all self-destructing, and comfort comes where you least expect to find it.
Xander rubs the soft skin covering Andrew’ tailbone, earning a gasp. He pulls hard on Andrew, and the young man falls forward, buffered by Xander’s body.
“Smooth,” Andrew mutters as his leg wraps around Xander like it has a dozen times in the last two weeks. Xander lifts him awkwardly against a protruding shelf. His hand slides down, grasping at Andrew. In the dark his cock is long and pale, kind of like Andrew himself. Xander brings him off slowly, each stroke drawing a moan from warm lips. His free hand holds Andrew’s head, fingers tangled into sweaty spikes while his mouth works softly against Andrew’s.
Low moans turn into muffled cries. Xander smiles in the dark. Andrew’s always like this: quiet then loud: bold, then shy: brainy, then silly. It may be that dichotomy as much as anything else that keeps him returning to this closet. Or it might be the abundance of knee-melting orgasms. Either way, he can’t think of a better way to spend his last days on earth.
His last days on earth. He shivers again.
After Andrew comes, his body goes still.
When the hall clock clangs its usual deep sound, Xander realizes it’s later than he anticipated. There’s work to be done, so much work.
Andrew is sliding off the shelf, rubbing come into his skin and scrambling in the dark to find a towel, a washcloth, anything. Xander steps back, bumping his own head on a board game in the process. It makes a lot of noise. Maybe it’s a puzzle. He kneels, then he licks heartily at Andrew’s stomach. He feels Andrew shiver and then a timid hand strokes his hair. Xander is reminded of the way his mom used to stroke his hair before he went to bed. Then he shoves *that* thought out of his head because it’s *so* not the time to be thinking about his mom. But the fingers in his hair don’t stop and neither does he.
When Andrew is more or less clean, Xander rests his head against Andrew’s stomach.
“I-I should go,” Andrew says at last.
“Yeah.” Neither moves, and Xander kisses at Andrew’s belly button, then rests his head once again. “But not right away, okay? Just…just another minute.”
Xander feels Andrew nod, then sigh contentedly. Andrew’s heart is beating fast. The sound is comforting in the dark.
Author's Name: Scarlet
Author's Email and URL: scarletsfiction@yahoo www.geocities.com/karenmnick
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and UPN own Buffy the Vampire Slayer in totality. Joss Whedon and the WB own Angel: the Series. No profit is made from this piece of fiction and no copyright infringement is intended.
Distribution: Sprinkle like dust on the wind; just let me know where it lands so I can visit from time to time.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Andrew/Xander
Feedback: Yes, please!
Dedication: Thanks to Kaz!
Author's Notes: Minor spoilers for Season 7.
“No love, no friendship can cross the path of our destiny without leaving some mark on it forever.”
-Francois Mauriac
The long walk down the hall could be the “final walk” of a death-row inmate, he thinks. Except it’s not death Xander’s walking to. And he’s a hell of a lot hornier than he’d be thirty seconds from the electric chair. He’s no less nervous though. And no less nauseous.
He walks past happy family photos: Buffy, Joyce, Dawn. Even a few of himself, and it makes him stop. Smile. Where he is now, where he was then. The two places are miles apart. Light years. Galaxies far, far away. The thought spurs him on. He’s wasting time. Slayers are practicing; everyone’s occupied in one endeavor or another, as it always is at this time of the morning.
This walk has become more than routine. It’s his salvation. A salve on the burn that’s scorched his will to rise each morning. Two steps, three. Already the door is ajar, breathing somehow. Then again, maybe he shouldn’t personify things like doorways and hallways. He’s lived on the Hellmouth long enough to know that.
Xander clears his throat by the bathroom, then continues past it to the linen closet. It’s Narnia big—way larger than a room holding sun-bleached beach towels and Care Bear sheets should be, but he’s not complaining. Heart thudding, his lips are already drying from too-frequent anticipatory licking.
There’s a light switch inside, but they’ve never used it. It’s better in the dark. Safer maybe, though Xander can’t figure out why that would be. Dark usually means danger—vamps and werewolves and worse. But in the Downy dark, all sweet smells and tickly lint, he’s safe.
“You’re late.”
Xander can make out the slim, pale form in the dark. Miles of naked skin to be kissed, already nude and waiting. “Sorry,” he mutters.
“It’s okay.” The voice is uncertain and small. “I didn’t know if you’d changed your mind, or—“ Xander kisses him to stop the nervous babble making its way to just this side of whiny. Chapstick smooth, Andrew’s mouth is warm and sweet. When they part, Andrew’s breathing hard, bare body twitching forward.
“You’re naked,” Xander finally says. He feels Andrew smile against his mouth.
“I’m saving time.”
“I can tell.” Xander’s hand slides down smooth skin in the dark, closing around Andrew’s erection. “What would you have done if I hadn‘t shown up? Waste this?” He’s joking, but when Andrew doesn’t answer, he realized he’s said something wrong. “Hey.” He knocks his forehead to Andrew’s in the dark. “Hey…,” he adds again, bending his head until his lips meet Andrew’s neck below his earlobe. “Why so quiet?”
Andrew doesn’t answer him but he begins rocking his hips forward. His erection pushes against Xander’s hand and reminds him what he’s here to do. Xander’s lips drag over Andrew’s skin, kissing his collarbone and the smooth dip at his throat. Andrew’s hands pull Xander’s flannel shirt back and off, then work quickly at his T-shirt beneath.
Xander lets his shirt be removed, then he shivers. It’s not cold, but exciting. Not drafty, but so deliciously dangerous that he shakes like the linen closet is a movie theater in July.
“Cold?” The words are panted just below him, where fast fingers are unfastening his fly.
“Yeah.” Liar! His mind screams, but he has an image to maintain. Xander the Brave or at least not Xander the Chicken-hearted. He’s only been a hero in the eyes of two people. But Dawn’s growing up, and he’ll be damned if he lets go of the only admirer he has left.
Andrew stands and advances, pressing his body against Xander, whose arms come around him and hold him there, warm. Andrew’s hair is getting long; the soft spikes tickle Xander’s nose in the dark. He takes in a big whiff of boy-scent. Andrew’s not perfumed like Anya, not sweet and lush like Cordelia, but there’s something comforting none the less. Soft towels, soft skin, warm and safe.
Xander feels Andrew pull his head back, and Xander soon feels kisses on his chest. They’re tiny and hesitant—kitten kisses from someone no more experienced at this him, which is more comforting still. His hands find the back of Andrew’s head in the dark, and he strokes his hair. Andrew’s head descends until Xander feels a warm hand on his erection. Then the kitten kisses give way to sure tongue and lips.
Xander’s head bends back instinctively and rests against something firm but soft. Sleeping bag, maybe, Xander thinks groggily as pleasure streams from his cock and sends a pleasant ache to all parts of his body. Soon, too soon, the ache gives way to full scale bliss, and he shudders hard, clenching at the hair under his hands. He cries into the dark, and his body feels heavy and exhausted. Wet kisses to clean him up, then a cool musky mouth finds his own.
“Thank you,” he mumbles when Andrew pulls away.
He drops his hands to Andrew’s hips, then lets them slide around his small waist and down, drawing him close and, okay, copping one huge feel because the goosebumping curve of Andrew’s ass is just about the greatest thing since Star Trek Monopoly. He kisses him again. Again. He bends down and takes a chilled nipple into his mouth, then kisses it, all loud and sloppy.
“You’re cold.”
“You were cold first.”
“It wasn’t an accusation, Andrew.”
The floorboards in the hallway squeak. If Buffy opened the door right now, they’d have more than a little to explain, but Xander hardly cares. They’re all self-destructing, and comfort comes where you least expect to find it.
Xander rubs the soft skin covering Andrew’ tailbone, earning a gasp. He pulls hard on Andrew, and the young man falls forward, buffered by Xander’s body.
“Smooth,” Andrew mutters as his leg wraps around Xander like it has a dozen times in the last two weeks. Xander lifts him awkwardly against a protruding shelf. His hand slides down, grasping at Andrew. In the dark his cock is long and pale, kind of like Andrew himself. Xander brings him off slowly, each stroke drawing a moan from warm lips. His free hand holds Andrew’s head, fingers tangled into sweaty spikes while his mouth works softly against Andrew’s.
Low moans turn into muffled cries. Xander smiles in the dark. Andrew’s always like this: quiet then loud: bold, then shy: brainy, then silly. It may be that dichotomy as much as anything else that keeps him returning to this closet. Or it might be the abundance of knee-melting orgasms. Either way, he can’t think of a better way to spend his last days on earth.
His last days on earth. He shivers again.
After Andrew comes, his body goes still.
When the hall clock clangs its usual deep sound, Xander realizes it’s later than he anticipated. There’s work to be done, so much work.
Andrew is sliding off the shelf, rubbing come into his skin and scrambling in the dark to find a towel, a washcloth, anything. Xander steps back, bumping his own head on a board game in the process. It makes a lot of noise. Maybe it’s a puzzle. He kneels, then he licks heartily at Andrew’s stomach. He feels Andrew shiver and then a timid hand strokes his hair. Xander is reminded of the way his mom used to stroke his hair before he went to bed. Then he shoves *that* thought out of his head because it’s *so* not the time to be thinking about his mom. But the fingers in his hair don’t stop and neither does he.
When Andrew is more or less clean, Xander rests his head against Andrew’s stomach.
“I-I should go,” Andrew says at last.
“Yeah.” Neither moves, and Xander kisses at Andrew’s belly button, then rests his head once again. “But not right away, okay? Just…just another minute.”
Xander feels Andrew nod, then sigh contentedly. Andrew’s heart is beating fast. The sound is comforting in the dark.