In Every Parting Redux



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 since he doesn’t, Angel 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 are slowly parting for Angel, saying ‘Yes—here—more—’

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 and right into his cock. Oh yeah, this is almost too easy. 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.

Xander’s not too big, but big enough.  Roughly pushing the boy back against the car-door, Angel grabs his hips and tugs so that he’s splayed out, body open and easy for whatever Angel has in mind.  And what that might be, Angel’s not really sure.  He could take the boy, flip him around and pound him into the side of the car. . . but that’d be noisy and they’re still close to enough to Buffy’s house that she might appear.

The thought of Buffy finding him like this, stroking Xander’s exposed cock and tugging at his balls chills Angel.  And then makes the whole thing hotter.

“Oh, no,” he taunts the boy, who is too lost in his own pleasure to even babble.  “You’re not gay at all.”

“Shut—shut up!” Xander pants out, his hips starting to rock despite most of his weight being centered on his shoulders, pressed painfully against the top of the door, and his buttocks.  “I’m—I’m not—”

Tugging him down a little further, Angel pushes jeans and boxers—Bugs Bunny?—down to bunch around Xander’s feet, locking them together.  Perfect.  A bit more rough rearranging, and Xander is spread out along the seat, his legs in the air and half over his head like a baby getting his diaper changed.  The implication isn’t lost on Xander, who starts squirming.

A sharp slap on his exposed buttock and Xander goes still.  “Ah, ah.  Unless you want me to leave you here. . . like this.”  The spike of fear is tantalizing and Angel knows he can’t stop this now.  It’s been too long since either the fear or the arousal, and his self-denial snaps like brittle twigs.

There was no chance screwing Xander would lead to ‘perfect happiness’.

Dragging his fingers up and down a silken-soft perineum keeps Xander mostly still, enough that Angel can open his pants.  He’s hard.  Taking Xander dry isn’t an option, so he bites down on his wrist.  Stops playing with Xander long enough to rub his wrist over his cock and fingers, squeezing out a little bit more to make sure he’s coated thoroughly.  Droplets of blood stain his clothing, but Angel doesn’t care.

Xander whimpers into the night air, smart enough to swallow most of the sound, but too aroused to stay totally silent.  His cock is hard and twitching, flat against his belly.  He’s pretty like that, twisted in his own clothes.

“Now, then,” Angel says.  “You can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

“What, now I’ve got a choice?”

Xander is practically spitting with hate and lust combined, and Angel hardens more because of it.  He can’t help it, and is disgusted by it.  But he doesn’t let Xander go.

“Yes.  Now you’ve got a choice.”  Angel reminds himself that he’s not Angelus, not anymore, no matter how good it feels.  And pushes his first finger inside.

He moves gently, at least as gently as his own increasing agitation will let him.  Xander chokes back a cry of pain, mindlessly repeating ‘ow’ over and over again as Angel works him.  But after a few minutes, the sound is more ‘oh’ than ‘ow’.  More fingers are added, slowly, carefully, and soon Xander’s virgin ass is rocking back to meet Angel’s fingers.

Angel could make Xander come like this, he knows.  Fear makes for intense orgasms, and Xander’s always been ready to pop.  Instead, he withdraws his fingers.  Xander, predictably, moans in disappointment. 

“How do you want it, Xander?  I could take you like this, like a woman—on your back, your legs in the air.  You wouldn’t have to do anything but lie there, like a good. . .girl.”  And oh, Xander hates that, his eyes narrowed and venomous.


“Or you can get up here and ride me.”

Xander is panting.  He gasps out something that could be a growl, but is probably a moan.  He’s trapped, and he knows it.  His pride is too strong to let himself be done to, especially after his encounters with Faith—but he’s too wound up to leave.  There is no choice, really, which is the twisted beauty of Angel’s offer.

“I hate you,” Xander grits out, struggling to right himself so he can crawl over.

“Mutual,” Angel growls back.  The shoes and jeans and boxers are effective chains, but Xander manages to work one leg free, giving up on the other when he bangs into the dash for the third time.  Denim and sneaker rub against Angel’s thighs and knees as Xander twists and shimmies awkwardly, trying to jam his feet under the steering wheel and keep his knees open at the same time.  Angel doesn’t offer to help, although he does push the seat back a bit.

Finally, Xander is positioned on top of him with his weight mostly on his hands.  It’s not comfortable.  There’s a small impasse while Xander figures out that Angel won’t do anything.  It’s up to Xander to do this, or not.  Angel isn’t going help one way or the other.

Xander's breath comes in short, hard pants, bursts of heat flaring over Angel’s chest as Xander thinks.  Angel doesn’t comment on the picture Xander makes.  Just folds his hands behind his head, shifting his hips just a little, so the head of his cock drags against Xander’s balls.  It’s a warning.

Xander recognizes it, biting off curse as he slowly balances on his knees.  His hand is clammy and it trembles as he grips Angel’s blood-soaked cock.  He’s clearly disgusted, but his erection never flags.  It takes several tries before Xander finds the correct angle, his cock thrust practically in Angel’s face to tilt his hips enough, and he almost overbalances twice.  It’s humiliating, they both know it.

When Angel does slip inside, he inhales sharply.  It’s been a long time and the heat of a human body is scorching.  Xander is whimpering again, his heart pounding so fast that Angel wonders if it will burst.  The rush of his blood, the slide of sweat down his skin, the way Xander’s body slowly expands as he settles all the way down: it’s intoxicating.

The part of Angel that still remembers he’s supposed to be good knows he can never come back to Sunnydale.  Not after this.

There’s a pause when Xander has worked him all the way inside, like the boy isn’t sure what to do now.  Angel knows he needs to move, just a little, to make sure he’s angled correctly.  But he’s not sure how to—consideration now would be a slap in the face. 

Reaching between their bodies, Angel cups the balls resting on his stomach, kneading them a little.  Xander’s heartbeat accelerates even more, but he doesn’t move.

So Angel squeezes.

Xander can’t muffle his shout of pain and rage.  His body tenses, sliding up and away from what is hurting him.  When Angel relaxes, he slides back down, glaring in surprise.  “Did you enjoy that?” he spits out.

Angel makes sure not to grin.  “Sure.”  He squeezes a little harder this time, prompting a bigger jump.  The whole process repeats at least three or four more time before Xander understands, but his body is caught up in the rhythm, by then.  Up and down he moves, Angel’s hand still on his balls, squeezing every once in a while if Angel wants something different—faster, a different position, or just for the thrill of control.

Angel wants to talk, all the wrong things to say.  Wants to call Xander a bitch, a sweet whore to take all of Angel’s considerable girth in one try.  Wants to tell him why Faith took advantage of him—not the real reason, of course, about her confused search for acceptance and friendship.  No, he wants to tell Xander about those dark eyes that beg to be hurt just a little bit more.  About the instinctive deference that’s a clear invitation for anyone who’s stronger.  Angel wants to talk about his curse, and why it won’t be broken tonight.  He wants to taunt Xander for losing himself in it, giving himself over to sex and a pleasure so strong it hurts.  Insults from two hundred years crowd his head: shirt-lifter, poofter, queer, tonk, bardache.  Slut.

But Angel doesn’t say anything.  Just uses Xander’s balls as reigns, forcing a virgin to move like a partner long familiar with Angel’s preferences.  There’s no sound, not even moaning, except for their breathing and the low creak of the car moving under their weight.  It’s unnaturally still.  Nothing comes from the houses that aren’t too far away, and no headlights sweep down the street.

It’s a sweet fuck and Angel can last a long time—but Xander can’t.  Soon there’s a note of panic in Xander’s breathing and the delicious sound of blood rushing is moving too fast.

Angel thinks about finishing without touching Xander’s cock, wonders if the boy would orgasm with him.  The puppyish need for approval might be enough of a trigger, and Angel knows he’s rubbing against Xander’s prostate with every down-thrust.

But then he remembers he’s not Angelus.

Xander is oversensitive with need by the time his cock is roughly stroked, and Angel knows that it hurts as much as it feels good.  He moves his hips for the first time, giving in to the need to thrust.  A dozen strokes and Angel freezes, coming hard.

Xander stills at the first spurt inside him, face blank with surprise.  When Angel is certain he’s done, he doesn’t pull out, softening slowly enough that he can thrust twice more, jacking Xander in time.  Then he loosens his grip without letting go completely so Xander splatters all over his bare chest, his head thrown back, keening almost inaudibly.

It’s several long minutes before either of them move.

Angel waits until Xander’s body returns to its normal rhythms before lifting the boy straight into the air and depositing him on the seat.  He does up the boy’s pants and puts on his shoe, smoothing down the garish shirt and making sure he looks mostly presentable.  There’s a mess on the leather by the time he’s done, but Angel doesn’t care.  He’s too busy trying not to think about dolls of any kind.

Dressed, Xander rests for a moment.  His silence is unnerving, since the boy always has a glib remark for every situation.  Especially the inappropriate ones.  Angel knows he should say something, but he’s not sure which way to go.  Should he try and apologize?  Or should he give that final mocking comment that would cement the boy’s hatred.  It would be cleaner that way, at least.

But Xander slips from the car before Angel makes up his mind.  He watches as the half-limping figure walks down the street.  Xander was hurting and angry. . . but his head was up.  The lines of his body were strong and proud.

It was a fitting farewell.