Post by Jack Lupus on Jun 11, 2007 21:36:10 GMT -5
Cassandra is giggling helplessly, leaning on Xander's arm with knuckles pressed white to tiny teeth in an attempt to smother uncontrollable titters, cheeks flushed red with joy and alcohol. Xand—trying not to remember laughter of another sort—shakes his head and wonders why they let Sandy throw a "party"; he knew something bad would happen. But Cass—?
Cassie, for all pretenses, appears to not even know she's intoxicated. Xander supposes this is not a good for the better (he remembers distant times and distant parties and distant migraines from too much "punch").
When Carrie found him—also giggling like a march hare—and said Cass was getting a little "friendly" with the other party-goers, Xander had all but ran to the apartment where the festivities were being held. Now, as they entered Xand's front door, he assures, "You just need some rest."
But Cass retorts, in that chipper, buttery-yellow voice of hers, "I'm not tired!" She leans from him, grins in what might be a sexy manner—it looks goofy—and begins to "jive" as she says, "I feel like da-ancing!"
"Cassandra," Xander grumbles, grabbing for the little brunette. But Cass laughs (bubbles up from the chest, over red lips, full smile) and gets away. So he grabs again, gets Cass’ hood as she spins away and—.
They fall, Xander with a very undignified yelp, and Cassie with a squeak and then more giggles. Her arms loop, high and wide on his shoulders, and Xander lifts his torso away, ready to run.
But Cassie's lips are hot and chapped, sloppy and virginal but not at all unsure with what she's doing. Xand freezes (the wrong reaction, nono, you have to kiss back like you mean it, and mean it when you do but everything is spinning, spinning, downward and in and this was never supposed to be like this—) for all of half a moment.
Then Cass is tilting, grabbing his hair, tugging him back. For such a waif, she is strong—or Xander is not adverse to the whole idea, falling willing pray to juvenile kisses full of hot breath and wandering tongue.
When the kisses fall away, Cassandra is strewn on the floor, panting and flushed and giggling again (fluttering lashes and heaving breasts). She smiles that sunshine smile (never hurt, She's never hurt, She just keeps smiling, smiling, smiling for him), arms still looped on Xand’s shoulders, hips rising and falling in a particular fashion. For a moment, all he can do is stare at Cass’ kiss-bruised mouth and feel the insistent press of young breasts on his chest through his clothes.
Then, in a flurry of movement, Xander is kissing Cass again, pulling her up and pushing her toward the couch because the bed is too far away. Cass is gasping and gripping at Xander’s clothes, and Xand knows that she doesn't know what's going on. He sits on the couch and pulls Cass on top of him and they just kiss for a while, until she starts moving and Xander groans and has to stop her.
"Xa-and," Cass whines, but it's not really a whine. Xander blushes, just because he can, and can barely think why he's doing this. He just is. He's taking off his jacket as Cassandra tries to be coy and does what might be a strip tease—it looks goofy—on his lap. He's impatient, and kisses Cass because she keeps making sounds. He's tugging at Cass’ skirt because there's nothing left to tug at, and it’s in the way. Cassie whimpers like a kicked puppy or something, but her neck arches, and Xander actually bites her and knows that Sandy’s going to know something happened. She'll never let him live it down.
"Xan-der," Cass whispers, right on his ear, and Xand is fumbling at the side table. There has to be something, anything, because he won't—he can't— and there's something, just under his fingers. Cass is rubbing against him, panting—her breath smells like fruit punch and alcohol, and Xander wishes it didn't. It would make it easier.
Make it not seem like he was doing a bad thing . . .
It's not going to work.
"Cassie—uh—."
And saying it isn't going to work either, because Cass is drunk, and apparently getting a little sleepy, because she's leaning against Xander and her breath has evened out a bit. Xander frowns, nudging at her a little. Cass starts up, and giggles again, maybe shyly this time. He can't stop now. She sighs, smiles that sunshine smile over her shoulder and Xand kisses her shoulder. He can be tender. He can be sweet.
Cassie gasps and squeaks and makes annoyed little noises when Xander grabs her hips. Her back arches, and he can’t be gentle for too much longer. Both hands now, one smearing gun oil all over Cass’ pale-pale skin (so pale, like lily-milk or what have you. Like white flowers. Like wings), grab Cassandra’s hips.
Cassie looks over her shoulder, and Xander kisses her, just a little. Just bruising. Just on the side of her mouth, and Cass bites his lip a little and Xander can't help but smile.
The door opens, but Cass doesn't open. Neither does Xander, for a moment.
"WHOA there! Tha f**k—!?"
Xander stops, and Cassie makes a sad little noise. But Xand doesn't listen, because he can't hear her—just the blood rushing in his ears. All he can see is the light from outside and Pat’s surprised and disgusted face, and Sandy behind him with sleepy eyes, and Carrie covering her mouth and looking away.
Patrick hurries them outside, saying, "We didn' see f**kin' nothin'!" just as Cassie shifts her hips back, and moans and says Xander’s name in this quiet, really drunk murmur. Xander wonders how much she drank, and how much trouble he'll be in for just thinking about this when Cassie doesn't remember in the morning—
"I luff yoo," she murmurs in this sing-song little voice, and giggles a little, and murmurs a name that is not "Xander" but that's okay, he supposes. No it's not, but he won't say a thing.
After he gets Cass off of him, and bundled up in the blankets on the couch, but there are a couple of bruises that he hopes Cass’ clothing will cover—he gets dressed and he leaves, because he needs to shower and swear and hate himself, just for a little while, just for what he did.
Pat’s outside, smoking and smoldering and glaring a little bit. Sandy and Carrie are gone.
"Yer f**ked," Pat tells him. "The f**k, Xander—." But Xander’s walking away (walk it off, walk it off, and all the stress and the anger and the sadness will go with it), telling Patrick to drop it, telling Patrick it's not his business, wanting to tell Patrick to go f**k himself. Pat keeps talking, follows him a little, wants to confront him about his "little f**king problem"—.
"Just drop it," Xander tells him, and he thinks he might be tearing up just a little (but he can't cry, because She won't stop smiling) but at least Pat drops it and walks off swearing and glaring over his shoulder a bit.
Xander swears—loudly, startling a couple of late-night passersby—and goes to the bar.
