the pearl

L.A. Story

Three hours from Sunnydale to Los Angeles in a well-tuned Saturn equals five hours in a broken-down Bel Air. Thank you, Uncle Rory, the car is truly a gift.

Santa Monica, Palo Verdes, Long Beach, driving along Pacific Coast Highway from the town that says sunlight, happiness, and painful demonic death. L.A. County has a different feel from his hometown, sunnier, brighter, the sharp crisp gleam of a chrome fender mixed with the gentle shimmer of heat on sand. Tacos and burros painted on a Mexican fast food stand, and one of those huge Angelyne billboards right along the way.

And when the sun set upon the glittering Pacific, gentle waves sliding through the thick clunky rock of the breakwater, Xander Harris, a teenage wasteland, found himself in Casa Tequila, a large combination plate in front of him, a icy margarita to the right, salt encrusting the rim. Eating and drinking came naturally to him and before he knew it, he was wavering slightly as he walked out the door, a crumpled twenty left on the table.

It was a dark night, and he drove down PCH, heading towards the pier, family training equalling driving straight and mellow, no DUI for Xander Harris, no sir, watching the women standing along the side of the road, slit skirts and go-go boots. He paused in front of one with long dark hair and glittering eyes, eyes of hunger, and he pulled up alongside her, unlocking the passenger side door.

She slid in with practice, smiling a glassy smile, curling up against him, sliding a hand up his thigh. "Hey baby...wanna party?"

Xander swallows roughly and nods, refusing to look at the woman as he drives into a darkened alleyway and turns off the ignition, refusing to look as she giggles and unzips his pants, her mouth working with the talent of the professional.

It feels so good, like nothing Cordelia, Faith, or Anya could ever do, because this dark haired creature is a professional and no one comes close.

And as she sucks, he feels like she's sucking away his soul, and it's so good, but then it slides into pain — deep, wrenching pain, and all of the sudden, he has to look. His eyes barely open, and it's not a girl, it's a creature, scaly and horrific. Xander knows he's going to die, and the only thought going through his mind is "I thought this was different than Sunnydale..."

Suddenly, she's gone, wrenched away from his soul and his cock with a force near pain, but it's so obviously relief as well.

His eyes open as he takes a deep breath, and he sees someone standing over him. Tall, dark, handsome, and Xander closes his eyes again, his head falling back against the seat and he curses. He's caught with his pants down and a demon hooker in his lap by the one, the only, Angel, protector of innocents, fighter of darkness, vampire with a soul and a guilt complex to rival Woody Allen's — Angel's justified, of course.

Angel just stares down at Xander with that amazingly expressionless face of his, causing Xander to squirm. He opens his mouth, about to say something toeing the line between witty and horribly stupid, and —

Angel's mouth crushes down on his, a cool tongue sliding into his mouth before he even realizes his mouth was open. A chilled hand grasps his cock and it's one, two, three, four strokes and Xander's coming all over Angel's hand, hot sticky surprise.

Angel moves away from Xander and smiles, barely a smile, but it's there, and Xander could swear there's a twinkle in those brown eyes of his. He swallows dryly, licking his lips unconsciously, and looks up at the other man. "Do you do that for everyone you rescue or am I special?"

Angel chuckles, a far cry from the barely restrained moaning and weeping Xander remembers in Sunnydale, and nods. "You're special," Angel says, his voice so soft and low, Xander has a moment of Angelus-induced fear, but it passes quickly, because Angel leaves, his black trenchcoat waving artistically in the faint sea breeze as he walks out of the alley.

Xander pushes his hair back with his hands, stares down at his unzipped pants and softened cock, and sighs heavily. "Fuckin' L.A.," he says tiredly, starting the car and seeking out the highway.

This Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at