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She’s so small underneath him, all wiry muscle belying supernatural strength, dirty-blonde hair spilling across the floor of the teachers’ lounge. Her chest is heaving, her lips parted, her eyes round with shock that Xander’s managed to get one over on her. He might not be able to win against her for long—she’s still stronger than him, even if only by a little bit with the extra power the hyena is lending him—but the element of surprise has gotten him pretty far.
“Get off of me,” she blurts out.
“Is that what you really want?”
He pins her wrists, and the whiny little noise she makes as she tries and fails to squirm out from underneath him goes straight to his cock. She stills again when she feels him getting hard, pressed against her through both their jeans, and he can smell her body’s response: mostly fear, acrid and mouth-watering, but musky with arousal, too. He figures she can’t help that anymore than he can; she probably hates that being overpowered turns her on as much as it does, just like somewhere deep down in Xander there’s a human soul that hates how the hyena is turned on by overpowering her. But the human soul’s not in charge right now, and neither is Buffy. It’s the animal.
He tells her, “We both know what you really want,” and rubs himself against her thigh, gripping her wrists tighter and feeling the way her tendons shift as she flexes. “You want danger, don’t you? You like your men dangerous.”
“You’re in trouble, Xander.” She’s trying to reason with him, voice remarkably steady. He could laugh. “You’re infected with some hyena thing—it’s like a demonic possession!”
“Dangerous and mean, right? Like Angel, your mystery guy?” The thought of Angel has a tide of possessive rage welling up in Xander; he resists the urge to grind his teeth, to gnash and snarl and dig in with claws that he doesn’t even have to show her just what he thinks of his mate’s feelings for someone else. But he won’t do that—won’t hurt her, won’t kill her, not yet. More than he wants to see her bleed, he wants her to pant and groan and arch as he ruts into her, wants her to get on her knees and present for him even as she trembles and cries. Maybe when he’s done, he’ll reconsider eating her.
“Well,” the hyena murmurs, salivating as it leans over Buffy, “guess who just got mean. D’you know how long I’ve waited until you’d stop pretending we aren’t attracted?” He cradles her face with one gentle hand, mocking Xander for the tenderness he holds for her, and this gesture moreso even than the violence makes whatever’s left of Xander’s conscious self want to writhe and shout in anger.
It gives Buffy an opening, though. With a hand freed, the hyena having let go in favor of that sickening caress, she’s able to throw him off herself and leap to her feet, dropping into a fighting stance.
Xander gets to his feet less hurriedly, his posture all slouching beast. He carries on talking like he was never interrupted: “Until Willow stops kidding herself that I could settle with anyone but you?”
“Look, Xander, I don’t want to hurt you,” Buffy tells him, cocky and confident now that she’s on her own two feet again.
He lunges, slamming her back against the vending machine hard enough that she yelps. It’s a good thing she’s not very breakable.
The scent of her arousal perfuming the air becomes stronger as he presses himself against her, front to front, crowding her back against the machine. He shoves his erection against her thigh again, warm even through the denim, and breathes against her mouth, “Now do you wanna hurt me?”
She grunts as she tries and fails to dislodge him; he likes the sound. It’s an unrestrained noise of effort, unconcerned as she is right now with sounding polished like usual. He wonders if she’ll sound the same when he’s fucking her, if she’ll sound just as animal as he does when he makes her let go of all her propriety.
Her eyes are wide and scared, and they make him think of prey, of rabbits and sparrows and that tiny squealing piglet. He’s hungry, and he doesn’t know what part of himself he wants to sink into her, his cock or his teeth.
Maybe both, he reminds himself. Cock now. Teeth maybe later.
He keeps her pinned, and this time he’s not going to let go. “C’mon, Slayer,” he tells her, “I like it when you’re scared.” She wiggles a little, ineffective. “The more I scare you, the better you smell.” He buries his nose in her neck right beneath her jaw, inhaling the scent of her, the heady fear and arousal mingling together irresistibly. She makes a tiny noise of protest that sounds halfway towards a moan and it drives him to roll his hips into hers.
“Stop it,” she gasps, pushing feebly against his grip, but it doesn’t matter that she’s a bit stronger than he is when he has much firmer leverage. “Xander, you don’t—you don’t mean any of this.”
“Oh, please. I’ve wanted you since day one. I just didn’t ever have it in me to take what I wanted before. But now I do.”
He drags her arms up and together, using his height to force her onto her tiptoes, and then grabs both her slender wrists in one of his hands. He’s not a particularly big guy, but she’s tiny, and it’s so easy it makes him giddy. Now with one hand freed—safely, this time—he’s swift about flicking open the button of her jeans and shoving them down to get tangled around her thighs. He’s even swifter about pulling his cock out, and he doesn’t miss the surprise on Buffy’s face. He takes advantage of that moment of unsurety to put his hand back over her wrists, regaining his surer grip on her.
“What are you so surprised about?” he wonders. Surely she’s not shocked by the size; what he’s working with is pretty average, if all the insecurity-inspired research he’s done is to be believed. Is there something else weird about the way he looks? That he’s cut? That he’s so hard already without being touched? Those things are expected, aren’t they? So what is it?
Before he can start spiralling—which might look less than usual like nervous joking and more like ripping out throats, with the hyena’s spirit putting a cruel gleam in his eye—Buffy answers his question not with words but by blushing furiously and looking away, jaw clenched.
“You’ve never seen one before,” he realizes, and bubbling rage fizzles away and turns into glee.
“Let go of me,” she demands instead of responding.
He howls with laughter. She’s a virgin. That’s going to make this even more fun.
Xander is, too, of course, but that hardly matters, surely. He’s borrowing something else’s confidence.
Unfortunately, he’s so busy laughing that he slackens his grip, and she manages to shove him back a step, lashing out with a fist and slugging him hard in the gut. He goes careening backward, catching himself on a table, but he recovers fast and grabs her by the wrist to yank her after him. With her jeans still trapped halfway down her thighs, she stumbles, and he’s able to use her momentum to push her over the table in the center of the room where the teachers take their lunch. Then he lets himself fall on top of her, trapping her against the table with his body weight, and finds her arms to twist them around behind her back and pin them there.
Now that he’s got her underneath him again, he allows himself a moment to shoulder the pain of her punch. She’s strong, and she really knocked the wind out of him; he’s breathing hard, and he feels bruised.
But it doesn’t matter, because he’s regained the upper hand. She may be stronger, but he’s just as fast thanks to his new primal reflexes, half a head taller, and a fair amount broader. She wriggles uselessly underneath him, her feet swinging to try for a kick, but with her hands against her back, she doesn’t have the leverage to do anything.
“You are getting dangerously close to getting your ass kicked so hard you can never sit down again,” she tells him, but her point is sort of undercut by just how much of an advantage he has.
“Talk all you want, Slayer,” he replies, “we both know I’m winning.”
To further prove his point, he shifts both her hands into one of his yet again and uses his free right one to cup between her legs. She’s hot through her panties, the fabric damp, and he keeps his palm there for several long seconds to test the strength of his grip on her wrists. She struggles, thighs shifting around his hand and arms trying to weasel out of his grasp, but flat on her belly like this, she can’t quite get out. He presses his hand up harder just to see how she reacts, and is delighted by her whimper and the way she tries unsuccessfully to arch away from him.
He leans up and off her body to hook his fingers into the gusset of her panties and rip right through them, shredding them off and exposing her cunt. She’s flushed pink and slick; he runs one knuckle along the length of her to gather wetness on his finger and then licks it off.
“Knew you liked being scared,” he murmurs. “You smell good enough to eat.”
One of her wrists almost escapes his grip, then, so he returns to a two-handed hold. What he wants is accessible now anyway, so he doesn’t need his hands free anymore.
Buffy’s head turns slightly, and he realizes she’s glancing at the door to the teachers’ lounge.
“Class is in session,” he tells her. “Nobody’s gonna come in here. What d’you wanna do, scream for help? If someone hears and comes running, what happens next? They find us together doing the deed, we both get expelled? Or are you gonna tattle, tell them I forced you, get me in trouble? I thought you liked me, Buffy. I know you do.”
“This isn’t you,” she says quietly.
He adjusts himself to press his erection against one of her asscheeks and remarks, “Feels like me.”
“Just think about it, Xander,” she pleads. “You’re seriously gonna regret this when I figure out how to cure you. We’re friends.”
“Friends,” he echoes with a chuckle. She’s his mate, whether she likes it or not.
He moves again, this time trying to get his cock between her legs. Without his hands to aim with, it’s not really working out for him, but he does manage to trap the tip of it underneath her, pressed up against her. She grunts and shifts away, not making it easy; when he tries to push inside, he just slips along the seam of her until his whole shaft is pressed up against her, his cockhead bumping near where he thinks her clit probably is.
“Quit squirming,” he tells her, annoyed. Is it supposed to be this difficult?
“Let go of me,” she fires back, and manages to stomp on his toe enough to actually hurt a little.
Fuck it. This is novel enough, the top side of his shaft sliding through the wetness between her legs; he can have fun with this for now. He draws back and pushes forward again, his cock getting coated in her slick, brushing her clit on the upstroke and causing her thighs to quiver. It’s not bad. It’s soft and humid and kind of sweet, and when he picks up speed and humps her fast enough, the slippery friction of her thighs around his cock is good enough to get him off. He pants and yips and giggles with near-hysterical glee as his hips move, her body heaving with huge breaths underneath him.
But—this is pathetic, isn’t it? Humping her leg like he’s a dumb pup instead of the predator he is. He couldn’t help himself for a few minutes—it was all too new, too overwhelmingly good to have his cock anywhere near her—but he slows himself down and tries to fight through his sex-muddled thoughts to remember what he actually wants. She’s flustered and dripping on him, but she’s not in pain, and she’s certainly not going to come if he’s not even inside her.
If things were perfect, she’d be on her knees, spreading her legs a little wider to present for him. He doesn’t have that, but with her bent over the table, he’s got something close enough. He should be fucking her properly, not messing around between her thighs when there are better things on offer.
He’s gonna need at least one hand back. To distract her, he sinks his teeth into her shoulder. Her shirt is in the way and he doesn’t break skin, but her whole body jerks in surprise, and he takes the opportunity to shift both her hands back into one of his yet again. With his newly-freed right, he grips his cock, and manages to resist stroking it.
“Xander,” she says, warning.
“Buffy,” he echoes back to her, and presses the tip of himself right at her entrance.
She’s so incredibly hot right here, so wet and soft and throbbing, that a kicked-animal whimper makes it out of his throat. She feels incredible and he’s not even inside yet.
“Xander,” she hisses, more insistently this time, and shimmies her hips to try and dislodge him. “Don’t.”
He doesn’t listen, of course. She’s his to do with what he wants, and what he wants is to mate her, to grip her hips and fuck into her over and over and over again, to fill her up with his come and bite the scruff of her neck ‘til she knows she’s his. He has fantasies of fucking her for hours, using her until she’s limp and exhausted and purring for more, tear-tracks on her face and come leaking down her thighs. His whole body tingles with the thought of it.
But the hyena affects his instincts, his desires, his reflexes—it doesn’t affect his stamina, and when he pushes the head of his cock into her, breaching her entrance for the first time, he’s so overwhelmed by the intensity of the sensation that he shudders full-bodied and nearly comes inside her, just like that. He just barely holds himself back, tensing and twitching with the effort of it. For Buffy’s part, she lets out a cry that sounds half-pain and half-pleasure, one leg jerking in reflex and her hips arching back like she wants to take him in deeper. He tries to oblige, the tightness of her cunt making it a slow-going thing, and when he finally bottoms out she gives a low, plaintive moan and lets her forehead drop to the table beneath her.
He gives a few experimental pumps of his hips, tingling from his head to his toes, and then finds a clumsy rhythm. Her shoulders are stiff and shaking, her fingers clenching and unclenching like she can’t decide what to do with them, her cunt clenching too. She makes little hiccupy noises every time he pushes in, and they sound pained but high-pitched and girlish and breathy, too, like maybe she likes it in spite of herself. He wants to talk to her more, to snarl nasty things into her ears, but he’s practically cross-eyed with how good fucking her feels, and he can’t manage to string a sentence together. His every nerve ending is firing, his brain foggy. He thinks it hasn’t even been hardly two minutes before the pleasure sharpens to a peak, his hips stutter in their motion, and his cock spurts into her as his muscles go taut. He’d be embarrassed if he wasn’t so thoroughly and dizzyingly pleased to be claiming her like this, messy and rough.
With a rumbling laugh in his throat, he pulls out of her, his cock followed by a thick white trail of come. He watches in disoriented fascination as it dribbles from her cunt and into her pants. The hyena is all sparkly-eyed with pleasure; Xander would be sick, but the feeling is locked away by the spirit.
He’s thinking of trying to jerk himself to full hardness again—he may not last long, but he can definitely go another round—when he realizes that he’s let go of her, and suddenly her heel connects with his shin, hard. He has just enough time to stuff his cock back into his pants before she’s getting up on shaking legs, using one hand to drag her jeans back up around the tattered remnants of her underwear.
Xander tries to chase her, but his movements are clumsy, orgasm-drunk, and when she picks up a nearby desk, it’s game over. She chucks it at him and he’s out like a light, but in the split second before he falls unconscious, he regains just enough control over his own thoughts to be glad.