You know the great thing about
the morning after a night of grunting, groaning, sweating, fucking, sucking,
All that proof it wasn't a dream.
And sweet holy Jesus if I didn't feel the after burn of his cock up my ass with every heartbeat, one look at Wes would be all the proof I need. Shouldn't be possible for one Englishman to look so debauched. Makes me wanna do it again. I add onto that phone call to Spike later, cause yeah, I've got a good memory for that stuff.
Hey, Spike? He followed me home. Can I keep him? Great, cause the cleaning and security deposit on him's already shot to hell. You want the list of damages? Aww no? Why not? Jealous?
I can just hear Spike in my mind, denying it all, laughing cause he knows I'm just getting back at him for all the times he just had to tell me the details of his last round of marathon sex with Angel. Horny bastards.
But that's not what I'm gonna say. This is:
Spike, he followed me home, and I'm keeping him, and he's fucking perfect awake or asleep.
Asleep. Oh god, the way Wes dreamed, all full color, surround-sound genie-in-a-bottle sex. I could feed off of it; it's better than drugs.
Gotta take it slow, though. And fuck, if it doesn't hurt when the first thing he thinks when he's awake is that I'm gonna wake up, get a good look at him, and regret everything.
Aww, come on, no, baby. It was great. See? Still here. Yeah. Touch me like you wanna, and I'll prove it wasn't a mistake. That's right, sweetheart. Wake me up nice and slow.
I feel his body heat before I see him, or hear his voice, and that's fine with me. You can tell a lot about a guy by the choice he makes when it comes to that first morning-after touch. Intimate? Hesitant? Possessive? I already know where he wants to touch me, wants to start in the dip of my spine, curve his hands over my ass. He's already imagining sliding a finger into me, dry and dirty, to see if I'm still slicked up, and that's enough to have me groaning and giving the game away.
Please, sir, can I have some more?
"Morning," I dredge the word up from somewhere, and turn my head till I can see him, and he can see the stupid smile I can't get rid of.
His hand surprises me. He touches my shoulder instead of my ass, slides across my upper back, and I want to laugh. Not because it's hesitant, oh no, he just changed his mind faster than I could catch it. Because this guy's such an intellectual, he went straight for my tattoos as soon as he really looked at them.
"Tell me," Wesley's voice is still rough with sleep, all sexysoft and I can feel it in my bones, wanna stretch like a cat if he keeps petting me this way. Left shoulder, right shoulder, up and down the spine. Mmm. Yeah. Feels good. "When did you develop an interest in Odin?"
I just burrow down into the pillow, cause it's warm, and soft, and it smells like Wes. And his hands feel great on my back, just warm enough to stick a little, warm enough to leave trails of heat behind them. "You recognize them?" Smart guy, Wesley. Surprised it took him this long to notice. Well, not that he saw much of my back last night.
So I like to see who's fucking me. I've got a kink for the visuals. Kind of ironic, huh?
I feel his hand settle over my left shoulder, a stylized black raven. "This would be Hugin, and this," his hand slides to my right shoulder, over the matching raven, and I roll it under his touch, loving the way his palm fits just right over my shoulder blade, "Munin. Thought, and Memory, Odin's ravens. Used as his eyes after he gave one of his own in exchange for a drink from the Well of Wisdom."
Smart guy. Didn't I say he was a smart guy? I probably make some kind of agreeing sound, but really, I'd be agreeing to anything he says if he'll keep petting me and talking in that shredded silk voice.
"And Hrugnir's Heart." Barely listening now. God, that's nice the way he fits up against me, almost on top, nice and heavy, fingers tracing the three interlinked triangles in between my shoulder blades. Good touch. Tingly. "Also known as Odin's knot or the Valknot." I close my eye, just wanna listen, marinate in that voice while he talks. He's slipping into a rhythm now, like some kind of really intimate lecture. "It's worn by his followers, a symbol of afterlife, of the composite unity of the soul..." If my teachers in High School had ever given lessons like this, I'd probably have gone to college.
Aww, no, don't stop. I liked that. "Hey." I'm mumbling. Okay, so I almost fell asleep; it feels just that good.
"Am I boring you?" He sounds all amused, but it doesn't take much to hear how serious that question is for him, and call me soft, but fuck, I hate that look in his eyes when he's just waiting for me to tell him to stop being a geek. Yeah, I remember that feeling.
"You had my full attention." Really full. Digging into the mattress and making its presence known attention that's so full my balls ache.
"So I see." He's happy. I'm happy. And he's reaching out to touch me the way he wanted to when he first woke up.
"We can talk shop over breakfast." Cause yesterday? I lied. I can't even string together a sentence when he's got his cock up my ass, much less give an interview.
And here comes the other great part of morning afters, the long, slow maple syrup type fucking, all sweet and warm, and waking up all those little achy places that feel so good.
And yeah. I am still slick from the night before, and he loves it, sliding right in like it's home.
Spike can wait. I'll call him later. Maybe after noon.
Xander hadn't been joking about the toaster waffles, even if they were served for lunch instead of breakfast. "You never did tell me when you developed your interest in Odin," Wesley said.
"Want some tea with breakfast?" Xander asked.
"You do realize how frustrating it is for me that you keep evading that question, don't you?"
"Oh yeah," Xander said, his grin growing. He entertained himself with Wesley's mental huff, and the feeling of those storm-sky eyes raking over him while he brought out everything he needed for enough tea to wash the waffles down and caffeinate him till his next fix. Yeah, he was usually a coffee guy, but never let it be said he wasn't shallow enough to try to impress a new lover.
He waited for it.
"Am I permitted to ask where you learned to make tea properly?"
"What? You mean everyone doesn't make it this way?"
"I certainly hope you're not going to be this evasive during the interview."
Xander laughed, carrying the tray to the table. "Nah. I'll be good. Ex-boyfriend. He got me all trained-up when it comes to tea. Before him, I was drinking Lipton's iced."
Xander shrugged, pouring them both a cup and snagging a waffle for himself. "Convert here."
"My complements to your ex-boyfriend," Wesley said dryly.
"Now that's something you don't hear every day."
"He's performed a great public service."
"Hey! I don't have that many guys over for breakfast." Xander said around his waffle.
Xander choked on his next bite at the perfect alarm of Wesley's thoughts and the sudden larger than life image of a burly, tattooed bruiser of a casual boyfriend. Named Spike. With the name tattooed across his knuckles. He laughed, gave up on the waffle, and padded into the living room, coming back with a small framed photo of a slight bleached blond on a custom motorcycle big enough to dwarf him. "This is Spike. The ex." He laid it on the table between them, and flopped back into his chair, watching Wesley watch Spike.
"He seems..." Wesley trailed off, his hesitation heavy with the realization that he very likely had nothing in common with Spike beyond their shared nationality.
"Like a bloody-minded stubborn git with a bruiser of a husband he's madly in love with and a match-making complex when it comes to me? Yeah, that'd be him," Xander said, and moved the picture back on the table, leaning his head on his closed fist. "Wes, gotta trust me, baby. Gotta believe me now when I say I want this--you. You did last night. Because I'm not going to be able to pick up what you're thinking much longer, and I'm not nearly as heart-smart as you think I am. I'm just another stupid guy in here when you take away the ability."
"What? Is it fading then? It's not permanent?"
"No," Xander said, attention turning to his finger against the dark grain of the table top, tracing a spill of tea around a scatter of crumbs. "It's permanent. It's just not perfect."
"What do you mean?"
"Blind spot." Xander glanced up, and gestured to the patch. "I know, sounds like a kind of joke, but swear to god, that's the best I can explain it. I can sense, and I can see, sure, but nothing about me. I mean, obviously I know my own thoughts, but I can't sense anything that'll happen to me directly. I only know things'll happen to me if it's reflected off of other people, you know? If I'm going to happen to them."
"Oh believe me, sweetheart, I'm going to happen to you like you've never been happened to before."
A slow red blush spread across Wesley's cheeks and ears, and he ducked his head. "That wasn't entirely what I meant. I do, Xander," he said, "trust you. At least I want to."
And damned if that wasn't true enough to make Xander reach out to him, slide a hand along his thigh until he felt Wesley relax, and look back at him. "Keep trusting me then. Cause when you're close enough that you finally feel like a part of me, like a limb it'd kill me to lose, you'll be so close you're in my blind spot. And yeah, I know that's gonna happen. And when it does, your mind, your future, it'll all be a big blank to me."
Wesley's thoughts left Xander's heart aching in the bittersweet way. "It's okay, baby. It's a fair trade. I'm not losing you. I'd rather have you in my arms, in my bed, hell, in me, than keep you at a distance and know every little thing that's gonna happen to you. It's fair. It's worth it. You're worth it."
"No I'm not!" The words came more quickly than the thought, and Xander felt the last of his heart melt into a pile of goo and ooze around, all warm and messy in his chest.
"Y'know, Wes, if there's one thing you learn when you know what's gonna happen, and what people are thinking, it's that nobody's as bad as he thinks he is."
"You don't-" Wes bit off the protest in mid-sentence, eyes growing wider behind his glasses as his hand drifted unconsciously to the thin white scar marring his throat.
Yeah, I do know, baby. I know exactly.
Still psychic here, remember?
I know your Dad's an ass.
I know he never deserved a kid who tried as hard to please him as you did.
I never would've thought in a million years you'd met Angel, though, and I so wouldn't want to have been you when the shit went down with him either.
But I know you had his best interests at heart. I know you were only trying to help even if he didn't. And I know how much he owes you now, even if he doesn't. I am so gonna kick his pasty white ass next time I see him.
"Sometimes things fall to shit," I say, and okay, so maybe it isn't the most comforting way to put it; I never claimed to be a poet, "but it wasn't your fault. You're a good guy, Wes." Probably a better guy than I deserve, but fuck that. I already said I was selfish, didn't I? "You're worth it."
It kills me, you know, really kills me, that I'm the only one who's bothered to say that to him?
Hurts watching his throat move under the scar like he's in pain, like the memory's enough to take away his voice, send him a million miles away from me. Back to everyone who ever hurt him.
Like they're lining up and taking numbers to do it all over again.
I reach out and grab his hand, sliding it around to the back of my head and folding it around the base of my skull. Weird? Yeah, I know. Just weird enough to bring him back to me.
"Wanna see my other tattoo?"
I hope I put batteries in the razor. Cause if he says yes, I'm gonna have to shave my head again.