Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/80005.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Ethan_Rayne/Xander_Harris
  Character:
      Ethan_Rayne, Xander_Harris
  Series:
      Part 1 of Sorcerer's_Apprentice
  Stats:
      Published: 2007-11-06 Words: 3973
****** Finders Keepers ******
by trollopfop_(storyinmypocket)
Summary
     Xander thinks he'll be a hero. Ethan thinks gifts from Chaos should
     be put to good use.
Notes
     I wrote this when I should have been doing NaNoWriMo, because I
     wanted to make Xia smile. It ended up far darker and far longer than
     I intended.
     Six hours. Almost 4000 words. Half a pack of cloves. And what comes
     out of it all? Ethan Rayne and Xander doing naughty, naughty things.
     There's abuse and violent sex and potentially triggering stuff in
     here, just as a warning.
Ethan Rayne looks at the boy before him. Gifts from Chaos, for good or ill,
should be taken with all due respect. And this one... Oh, this one is one of
the good ones, and he'll never cease being pleasantly surprised by the way
things seem to just... work out, when one throws a wish out into the aether.
He's young and lovely, and probably untouched, knowing what a prude Ripper's
gotten to be in his old age. And this boy, this... Ethan gropes for a name:
Xander, the boy calls himself... Xander is kneeling at his feet, trembling
slightly in what, unless Ethan misses his guess completely, is not all fear.
"And just what brings you here?" he murmurs, walking a slow circle around the
boy. He brushes his fingertips against the back of Xander's neck, soft dark
strands tickling his fingers, and feels the boy flinch. Delightful.
                                     * * *

Xander, for his part, is thinking maybe this wasn't the best of ideas. Okay,
he's done a stupid thing or two, or ten, maybe, but walking into a sorcerer's
lair while the sorcerer happens to be conjuring up something that feels a whole
lot like Bad Juju... Well, that gets a place in the top five. Leaning a lot
towards number one, in fact, when this Rayne guy's got him kneeling on the
floor, and he's not sure exactly how that happened.

He's secretly (okay, maybe not so secretly, from the looks Wil gives him
sometimes) found the whole older British thing kind of hot. More than a little
hot. And the magic thing, that hits all kinds of buttons labeled "dangerous"
and "sexy" and most importantly, "DO NOT PUSH" in big, flashy red letters.
Throw in a few alarm sirens for good measure, and it's a pretty good
description of what his hormones are doing right now.
Which brings him back to the all-important question of just what he's doing
here. Ethan wants to know as well, which makes two of them. It's nice that
there are two of them, because one is the loneliest number, and okay, he's not
getting that song stuck in his head, thanks. He'll be strangling the internal
DJ just as soon as he gets out of here.
Topic at hand: Maybe it was Giles. Yeah, it was probably Giles, and the way he
kept not-talking about this guy. Xander had at some point gotten the idea that
there was History there, more than Giles was willing to let on, and so he was a
bit curious (jealous) and so maybe, just maybe, he could do some scouting.
Possibly some day-saving. Make Giles look at him like he'd been useful for
once, make him want to...
"I asked you a question." The words cut through his thoughts, the words and the
magic behind them, and remind him that he's in the hands of a half-naked and
very dangerous man who's pretty much got him at his mercy. Also, the pain
that's dancing a flaming samba over his nerve endings right now shouldn't be
making him hard, but it is, as his back arches and his hips thrust forward,
making it pretty much impossible for Ethan not to notice. Older. British.
Magic. Hooshit.
"Giles," he stammers out, hoping that Ethan will get the message, because
between the pain and Ethan's fingers on the back of his neck and his hormones
screaming in five separate keys, he's not at his most articulate right now.
"So Ripper sent you, did he? Not content to let old friends conjure in peace?"
Ethan finishes his circle, tilting his chin up and looking into his eyes with
this little smirk that's incredibly (sexy) creepy, and this would be the time
to explain, since, goody for him, he's not hurting anymore.
"No! Not really, no, he was just talking about you, or more like not talking
about you, and you're in town and one of the bad guys, and so I thought maybe I
should come by and..."
                                     * * *

Ethan smiles. The boy's painfully, beautifully transparent. A bit of an
unrequited crush on his mentor, and Xander is so very eager to please. He can
use that.
"You thought you'd play the hero?" he purrs, stroking Xander's cheek.
"It sounded like a better idea in my head, yeah," the boy admits, looking away.
And... he's blushing. Charming creature. Ethan thanks Chaos again for the
opportunity that's been dropped into his lap.
There's still plenty of energy left from his conjuration, and he wraps it
tightly around Xander, weakening his will, making him just a little more
agreeable. Pliant. Flexible, now there's a good word. And there's a gasp from
the boy that tells him that, oh yes, he feels it.
"You'd like to make me go away, is that it? Vanquish the evil wizard, and reap
the benefits of the Watcher's gratitude? Rupert can be quite enthusiastically
grateful sometimes, I'll give him that." He watches Xander's eyes widen in
understanding.
"So you two were...?" The blush is spreading down his neck, and Ethan thinks
he'd like to see just how far it goes. From thought it's only a quick step to
action, to reaching for the ritual blade on his altar and laying it gently at
the neck of Xander's t-shirt. Ritual implements, he muses to himself, can be so
wonderfully multipurpose.
"Oh, yes," Ethan says, watching the boy stiffen, terror warring with the magics
that hold him in place. He pulls the shirt away from skin with his free hand,
bringing the knife down across fabric, slicing it neatly down the center. The
tip just grazes skin, and he watches the shiver run down Xander's body, ending
in a twitch of the erection visible through his jeans. "We were once much, much
closer than we are now."
He presses a hand to the bulge in Xander's jeans, running a thumb along his
shaft through the layers of denim and cotton, and continues as the boy -- his
boy, after tonight -- moans softly. "But I'm afraid age and the path of the
righteous have taken their toll on dear old Rupert. He wouldn't dream of
corrupting some innocent boy. Wouldn't dare consider making him moan... Just.
Like. This." Another stroke, and Xander's moans grow more wanton, the muscles
of his stomach visibly tightening through the slit in his shirt. "Wouldn't give
in to what he wants, to take you and make you come for him, make you scream his
name... It's a shame, really."
"I get the feeling," Xander says, his voice trembling, "that's not so much of a
problem for you."
"Not as such, no. But," Ethan says, his tone at its most ingratiating, "I
thought you wanted me gone? Out of Sunnydale, away from the Slayer and her
devoted Watcher?"
"That was the plan," Xander retorts, and Ethan smiles. Even now, there's a hint
of resistance. He'll be fun, Ethan can tell already.
"Perhaps we could both get what we want?" Ethan abandons Xander's cock and
reaches for both halves of his shirt, sliding them off the boy's shoulders.
Lovely skin, supple and... No, not unmarked. Ethan frowns and considers the
pattern of small scars, all of varying ages, one or two relatively fresh. Very
possibly the result of boyhood accidents, but somehow Ethan doesn't think
that's the case. He's got a sense for when something beautiful has been not
just marred, but desecrated. He's been on the receiving end, and, from time to
time, he's done a bit of desecration, himself. From that, it's not hard to
guess what he's looking at.
And there's so much energy remaining -- so very much, in fact, that he wastes a
bit of it on a short incantation, tracing the scars, commanding the boy's skin
to tell him its secrets. As soon as the words leave his lips, he knows. He
feels the impact of a thrown bottle, the shatter of glass, the burn of a tossed
cigarette, the crack of belt against skin. He knows intimately the crunch of a
broken wrist ("I fell," runs the old excuse, and he's not surprised to find
himself mouthing the words), fear and pain, and the silent pleas for someone to
notice, even as he hides the wounds and makes his excuses.
This won't do.
"Rupert never noticed when your father hurt you, did he?" he asks, his voice
the softest whisper, lips close to Xander's ear. "Funny, isn't it, how someone
so skilled in those games can be so oblivious when someone else is playing
them. He never thought to ask, or to comfort you. Or to save you."
He's skilled at lying, but his words are skating over a larger, deeper truth
than he cares to admit. Of course, with Ripper, their games had been played
with full knowledge, and an angry, drunken sort of consent. Of course. But
dear, dear Ripper never had the sense for it he did. Never knew when someone
had walked those paths on another's skin before. And, Ethan knows with a bitter
certainty, he wouldn't have cared if he did.
"No," Xander whispers. "He didn't." And there's enough pain and desperation in
those words to make Ethan reconsider what he's about to do, but only for a
moment. The boy is his. Just perhaps, this isn't entirely about spiting Ripper
anymore, or having a pretty new toy. No, not entirely, but he won't be denied
his pleasures. And at the same time, he can make it all better.
"I can fix it," he whispers back. "The hurt, the memories... I can transform it
all."
"How?" Xander's voice is hoarse, and Ethan can feel him warring within himself,
desperation and loneliness battling caution. They boy doesn't yet know that
Ethan's already won.
"I'll show you." Ethan pulls away, staring into Xander's eyes again. "And I'll
even give you what you came here for. I'll leave Rupert alone. Stop taunting
your Slayer. Find myself another Hellmouth to play on. All I ask is the chance
to take you with me."
"...Why?" There's disbelief in Xander's eyes, a certainty that there's got to
be a trick somewhere if the only price Ethan asks is him. Lovely, hurting
child.
"Because you're beautiful," Ethan says, a hand running along Xander's jaw, a
smile playing across his lips. "And I like things that are beautiful." He moves
closer, near enough to feel Xander's breath against his face. "...And broken,"
he whispers, closing the distance with a kiss.
He's almost certain he can feel the exact moment when Xander gives in.
                                     * * *

Ethan Rayne is kissing him. Kissing him. And he's kissing back. And if he ever
thought the thing for Giles was anything other than a clear sign of Impending
Gay, he's just been proven wrong, because this is so good it's setting off mini
fireworks displays in his head. Upstairs head and downstairs.
Giles... Giles bring up a lot of thoughts he really doesn't want to deal with
when a completely different sexy British guy (okay, yeah, creepy-sexy, but
sexy) has his tongue in his mouth, but there they are. Giles, who never
noticed. Probably never thought about him enough to wonder.
Ethan's right, and it hurts.
And Ethan's still kissing him. Ethan, who within ten minutes figured out what
no one else -- no one else -- ever got. Ethan, who called him beautiful (and,
manly pride aside, that feels good, feels really, really good, almost as good
as the way he's being kissed right now) and promised to make things better.
He's the Bad Guy, he thinks, and the Bad Guys have this thing they do called
LYING. But everything else has been true. And if it gets the Bad Guy out of
everyone's hair... Not necessarily a bad thing.
Lies and pain and ETHAN KISSING HIM and the insistent throbbing of his cock and
ETHAN KISSING HIM and Ethan's a dangerous, evil Chaos Mage WHO IS KISSING HIM,
and something inside him crumbles and gives way...
And then Ethan's not kissing him anymore and he makes this little hurt and
confused noise. Like he's a puppy or something. Okay, Ethan's obviously thought
this through with the kissing and doesn't want him, and that's okay. Good,
actually, because being wanted by someone who's obviously the Bad Guy is
something that he's learned over time is not a good thing, and not conducive to
his usual lifestyle of Wacky Hijinks and Occasional Slayage. And high school,
which he figures fits somewhere on his list of priorities, though if he's going
to be honest, it's a few places under nachos.
And, oh, Ethan's looking at him.
"Well?" Ethan asks, looking amused and impatient and tender all at the same
time and oh God, hungry.
So Ethan still wants him? The thought ricochets around the inside of his skull,
dislodging small, unimportant things like morality and common sense and self-
preservation. Ethan. Still wants. Him. Ethan, lean and shirtless, and looking
like pure sex. Evil sex. Evil British sex.
A small part of his brain registers that those internal sirens are still going
off, but he's not so sure why that's important anymore. And then, somehow,
words come out of his mouth, though it doesn't sound like his voice, low and
desperate and pleading. "Show me."
Yes, he wants this. He's not sure exactly where that puts him on the White Hat/
Black Hat scale, and he's not sure that he can trust Ethan (How about NO? his
subconscious whispers, NO with a side of OH HELL NO and topped with a light
sprinkling of YOU MUST BE CRAZY), but he doesn't care about that as much as the
fact that Ethan's promising a kind of understanding that he'd hoped for from
(Giles) everyone else, and been disappointed more times than he can count.
And hey, all Ethan asked for was a chance to take him with. Just a chance.
But Ethan's picking up the knife, and it's not moral debate time now. It's
pretty definitely panicking time. Panicking and running-like-hell-if-he-could-
only-move time. The not being able to move, he realizes dimly, is a problem.
Ethan just strokes his face, and makes this little soothing noise. "If I was
going to kill you," he says, "I'd have done that already."
"Well," Xander chokes out, noting with a bit of dismay that he's still hard,
"knives aren't usually my friends. I like them fine, when they're far away from
me, and not so pointy, and a little less... sharp?"
Ethan smiles indulgently. "This one's your friend, Xander. Trust me. Oldest
magic in the world comes from the body itself. Blood, saliva, tears, semen,
urine... Potent, all of it." He traces a line down Xander's arm and stops at a
small burn scar. His dad had thrown that cigarette at him years ago, and it had
caught in his shirt, and he really doesn't want to be remembering this now...
And Ethan sort of sings something in what sounds like Latin. He cuts a shallow
nick over the scar, and Xander watches, fascinated, as a trickle of blood flows
out and the knife is replaced with Ethan's lips, the full-body hum of magic
intensifies around him, and Ethan kisses the cut, a slow, wet kiss, his tongue
tracing the edges of the wound.
And that moment, that kiss, wraps itself around the memory. The pain and the
panic and the oh shit I'm on fire and his dad's laughter (bastard) are all
wrapped in that kiss, the sensation of Ethan's lips and tongue on his skin, the
magic pressing around him strong enough to touch, and even with the pain and
fear, it's good. It's so goddamn good.
"Like so," Ethan murmurs, maybe a little too pleased with himself, but Xander's
back to not caring. "Shall I continue?" Ethan asks.
"Yes," he rasps, barely aware of the words. "Yes. Please. Anything. Just do
that again."
And Ethan smiles again and the knife presses into his skin while Ethan sings
magic to him, the knife so sharp and clean it barely hurts, and then the lips,
and the kissing, and another memory's twisted into something it wasn't, but
it's okay, because it's Ethan and it's good. Every cut and bruise and broken
bone, every single one of them's being turned into another way for Ethan to
touch him, until a lifetime of (abuse, say it, it was abuse) family dysfunction
turns into a love letter from the Twilight Zone, or maybe just the world's
kinkiest foreplay, until all the memories don't leave him feeling ashamed
anymore, just wanting.
He's panting and whimpering and so hard it hurts, and he thinks that if this is
violation, he's all set to sign up for more of it.
And then it ends. More than that, he can move again. Ethan's hands are in his
hair, stroking and soothing, and it's only then that he figures out he's been
crying all this time, which might be embarrassing, except he's pretty sure he's
past that point.
"Better now?" Ethan asks, and he can only nod in response, over and over, like
someone's got his head on a spring. It's enough of a response, though, because
Ethan kisses him again, and this time, he can wrap his arms around the older
man, pull him closer with little pleading noises, and the taste of his blood on
Ethan's lips shouldn't be hot, but it is, oh God it is.
Help me, he thinks, and he's not sure if he wants to be saved from Ethan, or if
he wants Ethan to do the saving, or if Ethan already has.
His head's swimming and full of Ethan (Evil British sex), and he can't even
complain when Ethan pushes him down and cuts the jeans and y-fronts off him,
strokes his cock rough and hard, toys with the bead of precome forming at the
tip... All he can do is moan and whimper and lift his hips higher, begging for
it, and if it hurts, he still doesn't care.
Pain's just another way for Ethan to touch him. Own him. Love him. Love him,
please, and he'd beg for that, too, if he could form anything close to a
sentence.
Ladies and gentlemen, sarcasm has left the building, and coherent thought's on
its way out OH GOD.
Slippery fingers are probing him in places that, until recently, he didn't
think he'd ever want to be probed, and the hot slickness makes him look up,
startled, because it's not like sorcerers usually keep bottles of lube next to
the ritual altar, is it?
He really should have studied up on the sorcery thing.
Ethan's got a small jar of something speckled and yellowish, and is busy
working it into him, making every stroke of his fingers feel like... okay, not
heaven, heaven isn't usually associated with the Gay and the Evil, but maybe a
really nice level of hell.
"What's...?" he manages, looking at the jar, but Ethan just shakes his head.
"You really don't want to know," he says, and Xander just lets his head loll
back again and lifts his hips, because, hey, he can live with that, just as
long as Ethan doesn't stop. Somewhere in his mind is the thought that,
amazingly enough, this doesn't hurt. He's pretty sure it's supposed to, and
he's also pretty sure that he'd be happy if it did, but this... This is good,
too.
Somewhere along the line, Ethan's pants disappeared. Like magic, Xander thinks,
and tries to stifle a laugh. Not entirely successfully, but Ethan just seems
amused and predatory. Again, in the good way, the he's really going to fuck me
and I want him to way.
And then the fingers are gone.
"Say you'll go with me when I leave," Ethan says (commands), and Xander nods
frantically again.
"I will. I promise... I... please..." Xander can barely get the words out, and
if he's sold his soul for the sex, it was better than he ever hoped to get for
it anyway.
Ethan kneels between his legs, pushing them apart, and licks a trail from his
navel to his mouth. A hand wraps around his cock (finally! God, yes, finally!)
and he feels the shock of penetration a moment before Ethan's mouth settles
over his. This is the pain he expected, and it's so good and real that he pulls
away from that hungry, smirking mouth long enough to whisper a thank you,
because only Ethan could make this feel as right as it does.
Ethan kisses him again as he fucks him slowly, deliberately, making the pain
last. It occurs to Xander that he'll never be able to hurt again without
feeling Ethan's lips on him, and it's only for a moment that he wonders why
that thought makes him so happy.
                                     * * *

His boy's beautiful. Beautiful and slick and tight around him, and indisputably
his now, just as it should be. His own private work of art, rebuilt in his
image.
No, something better than his image.
I wonder if you know just how much I learned from you, Ripper. I hope so.
Because when you find this boy again... And here his train of thought's broken
by Xander clenching around him, and he gasps in response -- perfect, beautiful,
delightful boy; Ethan thinks he'll be keeping this one for quite a long time -
- and licks the hollow of Xander's throat, prompting another hoarse moan.
Time enough to introduce him to the intricacies of pain and control. For now,
it's enough to have him like this, to drive into him at the kind of slow,
steady pace that just prolongs the agony for them both, to pump Xander's cock
in time with every slow thrust until he screams and begs.
He has so very much to teach him, and it'll be wonderful. Xander has what he
never did, comfort for the hurts of the past, and an incentive to enjoy those
that'll come in the future. Ripper won't see it as a gift, but Ripper's
hypocrisy isn't his concern at the moment.
His concern is the boy beneath him, whose moans are turning into soft screams
even now, and the sound alone is enough for him to institute another change of
plan: make it hard and brutal, make the boy really scream and wrap his legs
tight around him, push them both to the edge and over. Blood and sweat and
tears and come, and when it ends, he leans into the trembling form underneath
him, stroking his hair again, telling him how good and beautiful and perfect he
is until Xander drifts off into the sleep of the sated.
...when you find this boy again, and I know you will, Ripper, I want you to
know that this is what you've created. I want you to see in him the perfection
of everything you taught me.
And I want you to know he's mine.
                                     * * *

It's three months later that the postcard arrives, after Buffy has scoured the
city, after Willow's hacked her way into every database she can think of,
looking for news... After he's dipped back into magics he swore he'd leave
behind, trying to divine Xander's whereabouts.
And then, just like that, there's a postcard in the mail, with a garish dancing
sombrero and Xander's familiar scrawl.
G-man,
Don't look for us -- I don't want to be found, or saved. Already been done. I'm
OK. I'm happy. And there's at least one big bad that won't be coming back to
Sunnydale.
Give Willow and Buffy my love, and tell Wil she doesn't have to return the
movies I let her borrow.
- Xander
But beneath Xander's careless scrawl are the words that leave his blood running
cold and cause the postcard to flutter from his hand before the full meaning
even sinks in... Because that handwriting, too, is familiar.
Finders keepers.
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