Subject: [OTL]: NEW: BtVS/Hellblazer "Border Men" by Janete 2/2 Date: Thu, 10 May 2001 23:26:39 -0600 From: Jane St Clair Warnings and disclaimers in part 1 * He stands, long snake-body rolling up to John's and holding there, an inch from his eyes, close enough for John to smell himself on the man's face. Tiny little tilt that John barely registers before Rayne leans in and kisses him again. Whip-thin against him, the thigh pushing between his more of a tease than he would have believed. Ache of his still half-hard cock through the cloth and it *hurts* and he still growls into it. Bites the smile he gets in return and grabs Rayne by the hair and *takes* the kiss. Slips in his tongue and fucks Rayne's mouth as brutally as he can. Not much -- the man knows precisely how to give it up. One more victory, over and above making this about sex, power dynamics helpfully limited. John whispers a Word and can feel the heat of his mark burn through Rayne's skin to touch him. Heal him in some nasty, fundamental way even it as it weakens the other man. Better to have gasps to work with, a shudder in the helpfully pliant body. Stills his tongue just long enough for Rayne to get used to playing with it before breaking the kiss with a yank. Can't bloody wait to shake out greying hairs when he lets go. Eventually. "Who raped you first, Ethan love?" Not even a hitch. "I didn't know her name." "Did she hurt you." "Badly." "What did she do?" "Beat me." "With what?" "A whalebone stay from her corset. Very flexible. Quite pale." "Show me where." Rayne extricates himself and curls forward, rolls down to his knees. Shows the shaded white line of an old scar network running through from his shoulder blades down to his hips. John traces them. Breathes through it. He never gets used, really, to the damage people do and knows beyond all reason that if anyone ever asked for it, this one did. Teasing and tempting and too much power in him, too ruthless too willing to break his own hands to get the shackles loose. He scrapes the rough side of his thumb across one pale streak. Measures the answering shudder as a function of subjection and pain and "Get up." Bends the thin body back from the knees onto the natty roughness of the bedspread. Scrapes his ribs and his navel and bites once at the flesh between navel and cock, hard until he draws a blood edge out of the imprint of his teeth, and offers it on his thumb to Rayne's mouth. Skins the trousers off. Skins off his own. Trousers first, and shoes. Pants after. Shirt last, opening it and leaving it on and coming to stand between Rayne's elegantly long feet. Aware somehow of the desert burning outside but thinking of London's grey wetness. "Pull your knees up." Grey, grey... yeah. Perhaps the only place and time for something like this. Two old, too old, and nowhere near done. Scratches at a burn inside the left knee and suddenly Ethan writhes like something boneless, electrocuted and too brassed to die. Oh yes. "Who did it?" "Fuck off." Savage and icy cold. Fog curling, or not, at the edges of the room. "Tell me who did it." "You wouldn't know him." John lets the mark do its work, stroking his cock in what he hopes seems an absent manner, but inside... he would've thought it would've taken longer to get *this*. Rayne's Words battering at the mark uselessly, power flooding the small room and putting up John's back hairs. Burning at his bare feet and making his fingers twitch and his cock *ache*. "*Ripper*." Power flow cut off with a snap, slamming into both of them, but Rayne's the one with blood on his chin. As it should be. Playing in silence. Late afternoon light coming through the fig tree by the window. He leaves it to Rayne to lick it off. Sits on the edge of the bed and picks up one long foot from the spread. Plays with it absently, rubbing the arch first hard, then gently enough that Rayne twists in his grasp and *hisses*, shaking against the touch and into it, and from the energy of the Mark running through him. John scoots up the bed, eventually. Sits cross-legged and mostly naked and stares down at the Chaos Lord. Thinks about questions he could ask. Power and knowledge. Not quite as good as a djinn, but close. Almost as much trouble. He imagines pouring the man into a bottle and keeping him stoppered on the shelf. Losing it in the depths of the sofa for months at a time. Having him sit guardian on whatever summonings need more security than John can easily provide himself. Lays both hands on the narrow chest and presses down. Feels heart and lungs and radiant power coursing just under the surface. All down a little, pulled towards Rayne's back and the mark there. "You want to open yourself up for me?" "No. Yes." Interesting, because it wasn't a compulsion question. Just a query to state of mind. "Open yourself up for me." "You're a fool." One last smile and Rayne's eyes on his own and his eyes on Rayne's, rolling themselves back up into his head, smooth as water until there is only the dulling white of the sclera. Blue and red veins. Blue, then indigo then *which first?* The woman is familiar, planes and angles and what used to be a soft mouth, withered thin with age and whatever prosaic wickedness. Something Romany about her, though not in her simple sixties clothes. Her hands reached out toward him, toward Ethan, bloody palms first and a wide, wide smile. Mama. He doesn't know her name and never will. A flood of images and impressions, beatings and the first stirrings of power. The feel of his mark from the other side the most incredible feeling he's ever had, knowing himself from top to bottom, unable to do anything but love. Gone in an instant, but the small part of John that is somehow *away* from this knows that he'll crave it forever. Knows what could come from burying himself in this man just to get it. Addiction and addiction, and a tall, strikingly plain man with a put-on East End accent and a wicked backhand and perfect control of their shared soul. Ripper. Ripper. Demons and dreams. Living his own memory through another's eyes, harder and harder to separate, flashes of the two of them in the real world, Rayne splayed out and writhing, the perfect sacrifice. John, cross-legged and moaning aloud, sweating and swaying and chanting and praying to gods whose names he's purposely forgotten and the power rising and rising between them, his own soul cracking and burning itself out of its shell, just in retaliation and it has to end has to end has to end won't stop can't please. Please. Yes. Wet. John pulls himself together, piece by piece, and finds the hot of the room and the slick of his semen on the inside of his thigh and his belly. Shaking. Harder than last time, more like it's been *pulled* out of him. Controlling in a way he doesn't like, but. But still. Rayne's eyes are closed. Small movements of the eyes underneath shifting the lids. Still hard. Violet-purple under the skin's translucence, and John closes his hand around it almost absently. Nothing like a violation -- Rayne moans into the first scrape of a nail along his length. Leaks messy and wet onto John's palm, enough to slick things, enough to fulfill the bodily fluid needs of most spells. He could, he supposes, banish the man from this plane forever. Mark out the room's dark floor in desert sand, light the emergency candles in the car's boot, blow the pre-ejaculate into the fire and rid the world of someone who's undoubtedly done enough harm to deserve it. He's seen a little. But aching, still aching, for the connection again. Rayne's body, Rayne's contained selfness, Rayne's contained memory of the slumming Ripper and the delicate frames of his glasses. Little crackle of want that flares through him at the thought. But instead he says, "That wasn't what I meant." Spits in his palm and mixes it with the slickness already there and lays it into the long hand open on Rayne's belly, getting the fingers wet. "Open yourself up for me." *Give me what you gave him yes I want that again* Hazy moment while Rayne's eyes open, and the look he gets then is deadly. But Rayne gives a long, spine-cracking body-arch, drops back to the mattress, and does as he's told. Finger in himself, making it terribly visible, and John *knows* he won't be able to get it up again, but some other brand of arousal is making a hot pool in his belly and spreading upwards and he *wants*. Wraps his hand around Rayne's nearest thigh and forcibly lays it down so he can see this happen. Sick and perverse but hasn't his sex life always been, really? And there are no innocents here, at least. "You were very pretty," he offers conversationally. "I was beautiful." "Do you miss it?" "Do you want it?" Shimmering of power, brief illusion of fuller, softer lips. A body pale and lean, without scars. "If I wanted a boy I'd take one." A smile as Rayne adds another finger. "Men, in the end, can be infinitely more entertaining." "Do you want me to break you?" "I don't know." It's... soothing, somehow, to be here like this. Rayne is so hard, teasing brightly against the edges of John's satisfaction. Peaceful. Power to power. "You were born to Chaos." It isn't a question, and Rayne doesn't answer. Arches a little, opens his mouth as he pleases himself. Beautiful in the way certain ruins have. "Stop. Arrange yourself for me." "So soon? Why John, I didn't realize --" Shuts him up with fingers in his mouth, fingertips grazing teeth, sliding wildly over the man's tongue for a few seconds before he pulls out. Shifts back a bit to give the man room to settle back against the stiff little pillows. Pull his knees up and start again, two fingers. And while he watches, Rayne slides a third finger in and *keens*. Tighter than he pretends to be, and it has to hurt some, but this was never meant to be painless. Necessary domination. Needing this as a channel for the power and all the nervous energy he's been building. Pulls Rayne's hand away by the wrist and strokes his fingers across the opened hole and watches the man twist under his touch. "Give me your hand." Rayne does, and John traces it. Suppresses the urge to lick it clean... that's not the game this time. "Give me oil." A brief shudder -- John's going to have to get the man fed very soon -- and Rayne does, his own too-hot fat and the power. Slick and bright and looking not at all like its origins. Familiar disgust at the pure filth at the heart of the power. Blood and bone and fat and shit and come and spit. Beautiful. And when he plunges in with his own three fingers Rayne arches and bites off a scream, muscles tensing and flexing, all in offering. No boy could give him this. Not with so much *meaning*... The ripple of muscle against his hand, the heat, nothing at all like being inside. The fever for knives and blood just under the surface and John's not sure if he's grateful or not for being in control of himself at this moment. But Rayne.... John twists and rocks, the motions of preparing, though he has nothing to prepare the man for but more of this. It's good. Everything silent but the pound of their blood and all of Rayne's sounds, gasps and curses falling gently against the shield of John's mark and he can finally classify the strange feeling as *affection* for this man. This bonded danger to him, this perfect honesty that deserves... more. Knuckles aching at the tightness, four fingers now and some dim, dead John of five, ten years ago is hard again and *growling* for blood but now... The moments stretch and flow into each other, sweat pooling at the base of John's spine, beads of it tickling his flexing wrist as he pushes and twists and *has* Rayne. The man clutching at the sheets, faintly trying to escape, cock alternately flagging and filling. So dark with blood. John's always understood the vampires at times like these, all the killers and all their passions. The simple amazement of having *this* for himself. All his, even beyond the mark. John *knows* Rayne now. Enough to know he'd sooner purge himself of all power than run from this. "Tell me it hurts." "Ahhhh... it hurts, you *fuck*." "Are you going to come for me?" "Yes...." "Just for me?" Broken laugh. "Never, never..." Last resistance broken from deep within John, slipping out just enough to curl his thumb under and *push*. Just a little blood, just enough, and he's in, buried to the wrist, warm and *held* to the sound of Rayne's falling cry. Last of the struggle lost to trembling pliancy. No escape, no possible escape and John studies the peace with real envy. Knows he'd never allow himself that freedom. And punishes Rayne for it. Takes him hard, vicious. Flexing his fist and pushing, tickle of the slight blood over his wrist. Just watching it now. Not the body, not the man, but that harmless little hole he's brutalizing. Sweating freely now, both of them, and they'll have to turn the mattress. Doesn't trust the man anywhere but in his arms. On his arm, and wasn't there a song about this? Trust the Americans, thinking themselves bored and decadent, thinking themselves insensitive. They don't know *shit*. Almost punching in now, and Rayne cries and thrashes, thighs trembling with the effort not to close around his arm, muscles clenching, cracking and pushing at John's knuckles and it's only the strain that makes him speak. Command voice, tendril of power flowing from between his teeth to the mark, to the man's filthy little slow soul. "Come." The scream makes John feel more alive than he's ever been before. In the end, they collapse where they are on the damp, soiled sheets. Rayne loses consciousness when John pulls out, so John simply hefts and arranges the man to his liking, effort triggering his own weariness. Curled around his prize, he sleeps, long and deep. And awakens to the sound of the shower. There was rain in his dream, so there probably won't be any hot water left when Rayne finally stumbles out as clean as he can get. No question as to what John must do, though he aches madly as soon as he moves, left arm quite useless for the time being. The shower is small, and John is more lathered by shifting and moving against Rayne's body than anything else. His cock shows, at best, vague interest. They're both drained, but John wouldn't bet someone else's money that Rayne was as worn as he tries to look. The water begins to cool. "Outside the shower. Now. You may use a towel to lean on." "As you say, John." Easy and low. John grits his teeth against the barely lukewarm water and scrubs down as best he can. He feels... not so much wired as beloved by some old thunder god, running with current and power. He knows it's probably the only thing allowing him to keep his feet. He wipes Rayne down himself, checking at wounds that are already healing, if slightly off center. Examines the man's face and wonders how many beatings it took for it to heal into the current mass of lines and angles. Son of Chaos, allowing it to have its way with him. And what would Chaos do with a favored son mastered by another? It doesn't bear thinking on, certainly not more than his finger in the man's mouth, being lazily sucked and worshipped. Still there could be danger, there. What form does Chaos use to manifest? *Does* it manifest? Or was this all part of Chaos' most determinedly non-plan? What trouble would they cause? What new demon would try to claim his soul before the five years were out? "Open yourself to Chaos." "I'm too weak at the moment." "You will always tell me the truth." "Now what fun is *that*?" Giddying, really. Christ, he had to *eat*... "Tell me the truth now. Why don't you want to open yourself to Chaos?" "Oh, just being an arse about things, really." Kneeling to kiss that smile, biting it and using it and reaching for the mark within the man and *there* A reflection of necessary confidence, of pure unadulterated need and John is hard again. "You make me young." "Is that a command?" "No. This is: Open yourself to Chaos." An aura of all colors and none, noise and pain and the brink of orgasm and he *will* remember not to *share* this with the man next time. Or not. "Where does it wish you to go?" "I could've told you that ten minutes ago. The answer is *always* the same." "And what is it?" "El Boca del Infierno. Have you been?" Hands on his chest now, thumb pressed to his nipple and circling and Ethan's teeth on his earlobe and his own thumb tracing the man's raw cleft, body twitching at the long, slow hiss. "I *do* know the way... Master." "Show me." End Weird? Twisted? Sick? Wonderful? Tell us! 3jane@chickmail.com and thete1@earthlink.net -- Superheroes should be having sex constantly. It's what Western civilisation expects of people who have no clothes on. - Warren Ellis