girl smut

The New Men

2007-05-12T23:58:00.000-07:00

Title: The New Men (or, A Present from Ethan)

Pairing: Giles/Wesley/Xander

Rating/Warnings: NC-17, a kind of drug use

Summary/Notes: 4th season Btvs, what would have happened if Wesley had been along on the demon hunting trip in A New Man instead of Willow? And if Ethan had felt less like turning Giles into a monster and more… mischievous? Written for and in particular who requested Giles/Wes/ (with the third as either Xander or Ethan) and books. Sorry Mir, Ethan popped in, but then kind of ran away after he'd set his plan in motion. Silly man.

Disclaimer: Joss is fairly fabulous, and you can tell I'm not exactly him, I just like to play with his boys from time to time.

Feedback: Welcomed and appreciated. Concrit is valued as well, although preferred in an email.

Thanks: To Elizabuffy and Lostgirlslair! You both rock my world beyond the telling of it! All corrections are theirs, all remaining mistakes are mine.

.: Wesley :.

Giles' call came as quite a surprise. Wesley had left his Los Angeles number with the other watcher, just in case, but he had never, ever expected to be called as backup. Evidently Buffy was no where to be found, and there was a demon rising. Wes couldn't stop the little warm glow in his chest when he thought about the call – he'd proved himself, at least to someone. Or proved that he could be counted on in an emergency, at the least.

But the entire drive up he'd thought about his time in Sunnydale. It wasn't that long ago, and yet… there were worlds in-between the man he was now and the man he'd been then. The thought of long hours researching in that atrocious high school library made him sigh a little bit with nostalgia – Angel and Cordelia were lovely people, but it was never truly interesting to be the only one searching for something, and he still didn't trust Cordelia's insistence that they could find everything via Google. The sum of human knowledge was not on the internet. Human stupidity, perhaps. But Rupert Giles was a man who knew the value of a good book.

The road stretched in front of him, and his eyes tracked the lines and cars around him mechanically, while a memory of Giles' hands played across his inner eye – the way his long fingers would stroke over book covers, each page was turned, with the right book, with a delicate grace. He had spent long hours in that library watching Giles with his books. He never worried that Mr. Giles (at least that's what he'd called him, even in his head, back then) would notice his obsession, the man was always too absorbed in what he was doing. Wesley felt safe watching, quietly wishing that the man beside him would show interest like that in him. He spun fantasies about those hands, and then shook them off to engage in heated debates with Giles (and sometimes the others – Xander and Willow and Oz, and more rarely Buffy) about the Mayor, the Council, this or that translation. Even though he'd been at odds with them so often, their camaraderie had been stimulating, and he'd thought nothing of his quiet fantasies. He'd always had them about someone, after all. It had been his way of escape, through years of lessons and college classes where he was too determined to study to properly fit in. It was locked up in his head, nothing he would act on, just the quiet contemplation that never went anywhere. Harmless, really.

He'd felt safe in that, at least. Until he'd turned his eyes up after one long afternoon, and been caught by someone else's look. Giles was saying something to Willow about a panel he'd managed to find, unconsciously smoothing the page he was discussing under his fingertips with deft strokes. Wesley was daydreaming about how that soft touch would feel along his shoulder blades, when Giles gestured towards another book, further down the table, and Wesley's eyes had followed his hand to find Xander, across the table, doing the exact same thing. At least until Xander turned right back and looked Wesley straight in the eye. There was a moment of recognition, when the knowledge that they were both doing the same thing, watching the same man, thinking about those same hands, reflected in Xander's eyes. Wes had almost gasped, but had the good sense at the time to merely raise his eyebrows as if there was nothing wrong. Xander had grinned, though, a feral grin that seemed out of character, and shifted his gaze back to Giles' hands on the books between them.

At the time Wesley had felt he'd been revealed somehow. He assumed Xander would say something, would do something, to call attention to Wesley's obsession, embarrass him. But the young man had been uncharacteristically silent – at least about that look.

And that had been that. The Mayor was vanquished, the town made safe from apocalypse again, Wesley sacked from his job, and Los Angeles on the horizon.

Now he was going back, and Wesley wondered why his unconscious had called up those particular daydreams, and that moment of recognition. He wondered what Xander was doing these days.

***

.: Xander :.

That didn't work out exactly how it was supposed to, Xander thought. He'd started out the night wondering if he should be sad about Anya. Tonight had been their final fight. After the Gentlemen had come, and he'd punched Spike out, thinking he had saved her, he thought she'd be ok with him not being in love with her. Apparently the idea that love might develop but hadn't yet wasn't what she was looking for. Not that he could really blame her. It's just that he wasn't sure – and he wanted to be sure. After everything with Cordy and Willow, after Faith, he just didn't know if he was built for love. Lust, sure. Like, oh, he could do like. But love? Buffy-and-Angel-soul-mates-love? He wasn't even sure that he wanted that. And even though Anya staggered him every time he saw her, even though when she walked into the room he had this little shiver where he went, "that girl is mine? That girl is mine!", he was pretty sure his mental happy wasn't the kind of thing she was looking for.

She'd left the basement looking sad, and he'd wanted to hug her. But she'd cut him off, saying that she couldn't do that with him right now, that it was too misleading. And he felt like a jerk, because even though he was sad, he wasn't sad-sad, and he knew it. Which is why the whole conversation had worked out the way it had.

But Giles had called, and he thanked telephone operators every where for getting him out of his basement before Spike came back and wanted to save the world. Not that it wasn't what he and Giles… and apparently Wesley… were going to do, but something about the vampires' new perky attitude had really creeped him out, and he'd rater be saving the world with the human people that weren't quite so bouncy, even if they were British.

He'd found Giles and Wes standing around kind of awkwardly at Giles' house, and they'd headed out to the crypt only to find it swept clean. That's when Xander had made the mistake of mentioning the Initiative, only to find out that Giles didn't know anything about it. Xander felt so bad when he saw the guy's shoulders slump. He knew that things between Giles and Buffy weren't quite the "I see you every day and tell you all" kind of stage, but there was nothing he could really say to make Giles feel better. He was sure the Buffster was just a little preoccupied with Riley to remember to call. After all, it wasn't like they had their free study period at Giles' house or anything and could update him on every night's slayage. Heck, Xander hadn't even been out on patrol with Buffy for a couple of weeks, either. Luckily this was one of those times when Xander kept his thoughts to himself, mostly, though, and didn't make it worse for Giles.

Only now they were heading back, and Giles was apologizing to Wes for making him drive, and suggesting that the least he could do was buy the guy a drink, and Xander's evening prospects were looking pretty dim again. At least, until Giles had invited him along. That was a little different, but Xander perked up, thinking maybe that meant Giles was thinking of him as one of the guys. Or, as "one of the guys" as you could get when their group of guys included Wesley and Spike. But, whatever. He had a fake ID. He could have a beer. So he sat in the booth, sipped a beer, and watched Giles and Wes be British with each other. He felt like he was back in high school, watching the two of them argue about some text Wes wanted to take with him when he went back to LA.

Well, that's what he thought he was doing, until he realized he wasn't watching their faces or paying attention to their voices, but had switched to concentrating on their hands.

See, this was one of the other reasons why he didn't really think it was a bad thing that he hadn't promised Anya he was in it for the long haul. He didn't know if it was just watcher hands or what, but…

Wes' hand drummed on the table, and Xander watched the precise movement of each finger. Wondered what those fingers would taste like. Yes, he could admit it, he'd wondered for years. Wondered if the tips were as sensitive as they looked. And Giles – both of Giles hands were around his pint glass, strong hands, kinda bumpy and weathered, not as long as Wes' but … he thought about them too. About how strong they could grip, about how they knew what they were doing, always knew.

It made him remember that one afternoon when he'd caught Wes staring at Giles' hands. That had been crazy, recognizing that the other guy was doing the same thing he was. Wes had raised his eyebrows. It was a challenge, and Xander felt a little competitive spark rise in him, and he grinned back. Yeah, so, he was looking at Giles' hands too. They weren't Wes' property, were they?

He hadn't thought about that in ages, but now, seeing them both gesturing and moving, he wondered again if maybe it was something about watcher hands.

And that was when their waitress brought them the next round

***

.: Giles :.

Giles looked at the fresh pints and turned to the woman setting them on the table, "Thank you, but we didn't order these."

"Oh, no, don't worry about it. This guy over there…" she turned to the bar to point at a man Giles vaguely remembered rescuing from a vampire attack several weeks ago, "bought 'em. Said the least he could do was say thanks for the jam your friend here helped him out of the other night."

Giles felt his eyebrows raise at that. He turned to look at Wesley and Xander, but both looked as surprised as he did. The waitress had lost interest at this point and moved away from their table.

Xander was grinning, "Look at that! I knew that this hero business was going to come in handy someday!" He finished his own beer and reached for one of the new ones. Wesley put his hand on Xander's, and Giles watched as Xander took a small quick breath, and then looked questioningly at Wes.

"Do you know that man?" Wes asked.

"Nah, but I'm guessing that somebody saved him from a fang attack at some point."

"Actually, I think I did." Giles broke in. Wesley looked at him in surprise, but then reached for one of the remaining glasses. "The other night coming home from the college, I found a single vampire stalking a man that looked very much like our benefactor in a blind alley and was able to dispatch him."

"There, see Wes, nothing to worry about!" Xander took a sip of his new drink, and smiled again at them both. "I wish all slaying came with this kind of reward. But, then again, probably make it hard to get home after said slayage."

"Probably." Wesley agreed, although he looked like he privately didn't think a single beer would affect him that much. He took a sip of his own drink and raised his eyebrows in appreciation. "At least he picked something with a taste."

Giles raised his own glass to savor and agreed with Wes. This was better than the first pint they'd ordered – in fact, he knew for sure this wasn't on the menu. Their mystery benefactor certainly had good taste. He took another, larger sip, and felt the refreshing glide.

An hour later and they all had another pint in hand, and they'd moved from talking about books to the Initiative. Giles knew he was being maudlin, but he couldn't help himself.

"You know what gets me? This is what gets me. Twenty years I've been fighting demons. Maggie Walsh and her Nancy-ninja boys come in and six months later, demons are pissing themselves with fear. They never even noticed me."

Wesley drunkenly asked, "Who's Maggie Walsh?"

"Oh, she's awful." Giles screwed his face up in disgust, "She said I was an absent male role model. Absent my ass. I'm twice the man she is."

"Cheer up Giles," Xander slurred, "it's not like Buffy's going to go running off and join the Initiative. She'd hate the uniforms, for one. Besides, what's Maggie Walsh know about you?" Xander reached out and patted Giles' hand across the table.

"That's right, she can't know anything. Who does she think she is, presuming to know what the Slayer needs." Wesley was getting indignant now. "Let's go over there and tell her a thing or two! Gods man, you've helped Buffy survive two apocalypses and a vampire boyfriend intent on raising indestructible demons and destroying the world!"

Giles grinned at the two men who sat opposite him, both defending him in their own way. He'd felt so frustrated minutes ago in the evening, but now, with them both trying to console him in their own ways, he wondered if it wasn't such a bad thing that the evening had worked out as it had. They'd come a long way from that school library. He liked them both though – respected them – as more than comrades at arms. Truth be told, he'd liked to have more than friendship from either one of them, but … that was another story.

***

.: Xander :.

Just then their waitress appeared at the edge of the table, "Last call – anybody interested?"

Xander frowned. It was time to go? But… he didn't want to leave. Giles was finally in a good mood, and … he frowned again as he realized he'd muttered that whole thing out loud. Wes shoved him a little bit with his shoulder and Giles was looking at him with a grin. Ok, fine, maybe he wasn't the soberest of sober people, but he didn't have anything else to do and the thought of the basement was less and less appealing.

Giles cleared his throat, "Well, if Xander doesn't want to go home, and we can't stay here, you'd best both come over. You can get your book, Wesley."

Xander brightened at that. "Okay, but Wes, you gotta let me out before we go. I need to see a man about a horse." Wes looked confused, and Xander pushed a little at him. "Wes, I gotta go." Comprehension dawned (slower than usual, it seemed to Xander, but he didn't really mind, since he was still pushing at a warm shoulder), and Wes scrambled out of the booth. Xander threw some money onto the table for their tab, and half-skipped towards the bathroom, hearing the tale end of Wes' comment as he moved away, "I don't suppose I could impose on you, Giles, for the night? I don't think I'm quite in the best condition to drive at the moment…"

He wandered through the door of the men's room and wondered if Wes was really that much of a lightweight. They'd only had like three beers. Xander himself was feeling pretty good, but not in a beery kind of way. Though, as he pulled up to the urinal, he realized that things were kind of soft around the edges. Pretty, really. Not the room, but kind of the light. And his clothes seemed more comfortable than usual. He stroked a hand down the denim and then freed himself, and sighed in relief. Wow, didn't realize I had to go that bad. Man this is kind of fun. It's been a long time since I've had fun peeing. But even signing was fun, so he kept breathing deep, and felt this silly grin break out. I'm just happy not to be in that crappy basement, and kind of happy to be hanging like one of the guys. That's all he rationalized.

Finishing his business, he moved over to wash his hands, and realized then that the water felt really good. Better than usual. Good enough that he wanted to kind of stay there, under the cool. But then he remembered Giles and Wes out in the bar, waiting for him, so they could go back to Giles' place, and grinned even wider. He dried his hands on his pants mmm… denim and wandered back out.

"Ready to go gentlemen?" he said as he approached the table. Giles smiled up at him, moving to rise, and Wes slid out from the booth. Yep, just three guys, going back to Giles' place to hang out.

***

.: Wesley :.

That was the most fantastic walk he'd taken in years. He really couldn't believe it. But the Sunnydale night had been without fear – just a sparkling crisp California evening. He knew it had something to do with the company though. Xander had babbled and grinned and joked their way through the streets, Giles laughing out right at some of the worst puns, and Wesley felt as if these two men were somehow sharing friendship with him in ways they hadn't before. And the air felt so good! They trooped down Giles' stairs, rather, he and Giles trooped down them and Xander hopped like a bunny, grinning madly all the way, and they had trouble keeping their voices down for the neighbors.

Not that Giles was any help. He turned at his front door with keys in hand and said, with a clear voice and a smile, "Shhhh! I have neighbors, you know, and they like to sleep."

"Sure Giles, you totally have neighbors," Xander grinned back, not bothering to keep his voice down, "but you think they're going to notice us when they didn't even come out for the Shumash attack?"

"Shumash attack?" Wesley wondered aloud.

"Yeah, you must've heard about it from Angel, right Wes?" Xander bumped his shoulder against Wes' again, a sensation Wes was rapidly beginning to enjoy.

They tumbled through Giles' door, and Wesley remembered Angel's trip to Sunnydale. "Oh absolutely. Angel came back complaining about Buffy's new paramour, and … " he grinned and butted Xander's shoulder with his own, "Was that when you got the funny syphilis, Xander?"

Apparently nothing could dampen Xander's mood. He toed his shoes off, plunked down, feet and all, on Giles' couch with a laugh and a strangely nostalgic smile. "Yeah, although it didn't feel exactly great at the time. But at least Giles let me crash on his couch while I was sick." He smiled at the owner of the apartment, who moved the offending socked feet into his lap as he sat on the other end of the couch.

Giles petted Xander's feet and his eyes crinkled, "My furniture is yours anytime Xander. Especially when you get the mystically induced diseases." That made Xander laugh again and murmur his thanks.

Wesley found himself standing in front of them, unwilling to sit across the room on the other chair and unable to figure out why it seemed so offensively far away. Both men were watching him, both seemed relaxed, and he watched as Giles' hand moved over Xander's foot, and Xander's hand moved to pet his own stomach. Xander closed his eyes, "That feels good Giles. Wesley, you need to sit down. You're too tall like that."

Wesley nodded, as if statements like that made perfect sense. He mourned, "It's just that the chair is so far away."

"Then sit on the floor," Giles suggested, pushing the coffee table with his feet so that there was more room for Wesley. Wes settled on the floor in front of Giles, between his legs, leaning against the furthest one so he could turn to see both men above him. He took a deep breath, then relaxed, and Giles' free hand reached out to pet him. Wes leaned into the touch, and then had a momentary sense of disorientation. This wasn't really how he usually interacted with Giles or Xander, and he was fairly sure this wasn't how they acted with each other, either. He almost said something, but was distracted by the feeling of Giles' hand in his hair, the warmth radiating from the man's legs, and the feeling of contentment that settled over him.

He closed his eyes, and titled his head so it was leaning against Giles' knee, felt those fingers sliding through his hair again and smiled.

***
.: Giles :.

"Something's different" Giles mused aloud, as he scratched at Wesley's hair, loosening the gel and enjoying the rough blunt edges of the ends.

"Yeah, I know. Feels good though." Xander responded from the other end of the couch, his eyes closed down to slits now.

Wesley butted Giles' hand, almost like a kitten, "We don't usually sit around and pet each other. I wonder if it was the beer?" His voice was soft, a little rougher around the edges as if he was a bit dreamy too.

Giles considered. Of course, while he considered he continued to push his thumb up the arch of Xander's foot, and smiled at the "mmmm" noise the man made. Really, Xander was adorable like this, relaxed and sleepy looking. Giles breathed deeply, remembered Wesley leaning against him, and wondered at his own contentment.

"I suspect…" he began, while watching Wes remove his glasses and set them on the coffee table. Wes moved back against his legs, snuggling between them, and wrapped his arm around one. Giles lost his train of thought when Wesley dropped his head against Giles' knee and nuzzled, just a little. It sent shivers through him, as if Wesley was doing more than simply cuddling around his leg.

He cleared his throat. "I suspect it was the beer. Although I'm wondering if we were somehow given ecstasy."

"Ecstasy? Like, you mean, the drug ecstacy?" Xander opened his eyes at that, and Giles noticed his pupils were impossibly large in the soft light. "How would you know? Have you done it before?"

"Not really my thing, but I've heard of it." Giles responded, and wondered if his own pupils were that large. He knew he should be worrying right now, but he didn't really feel the need. The only thing he really felt like doing was being exactly where he was. "Or perhaps it was a spell? I've never heard of a spell quite like this, but I can't imagine that someone hasn't invented one at this point."

From below he felt Wesley humm his agreement, "I thought something was funny. I wonder if your friend from the bar did that?" He looked up at Giles, and then at Xander, "Although, I find that I'm not as concerned as I probably should be."

Xander laughed. "Yeah, we're all sitting here calmly discussing this like we were talking about what we ate for dinner. It's probably because we're distracted. That's why I had so much fun in the bathroom though, huh?"

Giles felt the beginnings of an indulgent frown start, "Fun in the bathroom? What were you doing in there Xander?"

"Oh, nothing, the usual, but my jeans felt really comfortable in there. And the water was really soft. Kinda like right now. Your couch is the most comfortable place in the universe." He stopped for a moment, looking speculatively at Giles and Wesley both. Giles noticed Wes still had his eyes closed. He had such a lovely face. Giles couldn't help himself – he ran a single finger down that cheekbone and watched Wesley's lips as they smiled.

"Giles?" Xander asked, and caught his attention away from the man against his knee. Xander sat up, and then moved towards Giles' end of the couch. "Can I snuggle too?"

Giles felt a surge run through him at the question. Oh, it was a lazy surge, a warm rush that tingled from head to toe, then lodged in the back of his throat and made his cheeks feel tight from smiling so much. He didn't want to deny Xander anything at this moment, and so raised his arm, and Xander settled in, this time stretching his feet in the other direction. Giles heaved a great sigh, and then curled his arm tighter around the younger man. He was a heavy perfect weight against Giles' side. But Xander kept twisting, as if he couldn't get comfortable. Wesley shifted again on the floor.

"Am I the only one perfectly comfortable here?" Giles asked.

Xander moved a little to grin up at him, and Wesley nodded against his knee. "The floor isn't soft. Is there anywhere else we can all sit together?" Wesley asked, a longing tone in his voice.

"Wesley?" Xander said, "Are you asking what I think you're asking?"

Wesley turned his head towards Xander, and in the world's most serene voice said, "I think I am. What do you say Xander? Giles?" Wesley looked towards him, and Giles felt his bones melt under the heat of that heavy lidded stare. He couldn't say no to that, whatever it was Wesley was asking… offering…

He whispered into the shell of Xander's ear, "What do you think, Xander? Should we take him up on his offer?" Xander shuddered, and Giles felt anther surge of want, knowing his voice could do that. Well, his voice combined with whatever Wesley had just put on offer.

"Yeah," came the breathless reply. "Yeah, we definitely should."

***

.: Wesley :.

They were both grinning down at him, and Wesley didn't want to blink for fear that this was just a dream. It felt like it, like every movement was more charged than real, and that the words Xander had just uttered still hung in the air with a caressing weight. But he didn't want to wake up. Oh no, he wanted to dive deeper. And apparently that was fine with the two men above him.

He took Xander's assent as the invitation it was, and stopped resisting that pouting bottom lip on the other man. He leaned across Giles' leg to capture it, eyes closing as he brushed against Xander's mouth. It was succulent, that kiss, and Wesley thought he might just be able to stay there forever, lips against Xander's, feeling the pressure get stronger as Xander's surprise gives way to interest. And then Xander's lips parted, his tongue brushed along Wesley's lips, and he felt as if a live wire hand exploded in his spine as he opened his mouth to the other man. Everything movement of their lips together was soft, explorative, as if neither man could quite believe what was happening, and yet Wesley was loath to pull away.

Until he heard Giles groan above him. That delicious noise was enough to surprise him away from the tender heat of Xander's lips, to look at the watcher above him, and see those green eyes darkening. Wesley realized Giles' hand had slipped to the back of his neck, and had been kneading through his kiss with Xander.

Xander, who leaned away from Wes, panting. Wesley smiled. He'd made Xander pant.

"Oh man. Ok, um… Giles?" Xander seemed to be caught in a long slow blink, "Giles, any way we can get Wes up here? Because that was worth doing again."

Wesley smiled. He liked the sound of that. The thought of kissing Xander over and over, until he completely breathless.

"I think," Giles responded, "I think we're going to have to move to the loft, to do this properly." Wesley glanced upward, remembering that the only thing Giles had in the loft was a bed. He couldn't help himself, he moaned. "I think Wesley's in agreement." Giles chuckled. "Xander?"

Xander slid off the couch and stood, holding out his hands to pull Wesley from the ground. "Bed? Oh, yeah, I think I can get on board with that."

~ TBC ~

Thunderdome

2007-05-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

Title: Thunderdome

Pairing: Mal/Oz

Rating: PGish (pre-slash)

Disclaimer: Misuse is unintentional. Borrowing is a productive process. Joss is fairly fabulous, and you can tell I'm not exactly him.

Feedback: Always welcomed and very appreciated. If you do have concrit, I'd prefer it if you'd email to katekat1010 @ livejournal.com.

Written for and in particular who requested nostalgia, awe, and a cup of coffee. Well, at least I got the coffee!

A/N: Oz fell into the Firefly universe through a dimensional hole. No, it wasn't random: it was created when Willow was doing the spell for the slayers - they were popping up all over, but since he's not in contact with the Council he wouldn't have known. This occurs sometime prior to the timeline for the film Serenity.

Translation Notes: (all translations are from here)
Kuágrén = madman
Hundan = Bastard
shun-sheng duh gao-wahn = holy testicle Tuesday
lángrén = werewolf

A/N2: I'd like to thank for not only doing a last minute beta, but being fabulous, giving me huge help, and making this better. All corrections are hers, all remaining mistakes are mine.

A/N3: Finally, I need to thank my darlingest because not only did she read this, she offered me fabulous beta advice, over IM of all things, to help this get better.

**********

Mal walked to the caf, lured by the smell. Something was cooking. Smelled better than chocolate – darker somehow. Found Oz waiting patiently, watching a glass stein filled with . . . dirt?

"Want some?" asked the man at the table.

Mal licked his lips. "Does it taste the same way it smells?"

"Not exactly. Unless you make it sweet." Flash of smile. Packets of sugar suddenly spilled onto the table.

Mal fiddled with the stopper on the stein. "What's it called?"

"Coffee."

**********

Mal didn't know how he'd done it, but . . .he fit perfectly. It wasn't that he was small, not that it hurt; no, it had nothing to do with size. Hell, Jayne fit on Serenity. No, it wasn't that about Oz. From the moment Kaylee'd made pouty eyes at him, told him that the only way they could get the converter they needed was to let Oz on board. From the moment Mal said yes . . . Oz fit.

Mal got used to seeing him walking around the corner. Talking to Book about that damn bible and playing poker with Jayne. Watching River make growly noises with a smile. He didn't get that one.

**********

Mal had a bad feeling in his gut. Didn't get any better when they were led to a dais instead of a cozy back room. A dais with a ceremonial warrior armed to the teeth on each step. Got worse when their contact turned out to be a pierced and chained headman whose accent was so thick he could barely make out words.

Something about a trial. He knew the guy said something about a trial. But after trying out one of his best "charming boy" smiles and getting absolutely no reaction, Mal knew this conversation wasn't going to go anywhere fast.

Nope. The only thing that moved fast were those ceremonial boys, who were looking mighty unceremonial as they surrounded him and Oz.

"Mal, what's going on?" Oz asked, as they rotated, completely surrounded by the foreboding men.

"I'm getting the sense that these boys aren't real friendly."

"You think? What did the headman say?"

Mal edged closer to the one avenue of escape, his hand on Oz's arm, all the while keeping his eyes on the men who were closing in… "Not too sure. I think he understood what we wanted, but I don't think he's terribly inclined to give it up."

Just as Mal was about to put his foot on the final step that would get them safely back to Serenity, the guards pulled their spears into a locking circle around them, barring their way to anywhere safe.

"That might be a problem" Oz said.

**********

Mal crossed the cargo bay, on his way back from talking to Kaylee about that final engine part Oz had silver-tongued his way into getting for them in the last port. He saw them down below, Oz and Simon, playing weiqui.

"Why does River call you wolf?" Simon was asking, putting a black piece on the Weiqi board.

Oz waited a few moments, considering the game. "She didn't tell you?" He placed his white piece slowly, carefully.

"No, she said I'd have to ask you myself. She said . . . that things were different where you'd come from, and that you were more than just a JOAT. Then she started signing a nursery rhyme." Simon leaned over the board, placing another piece, and then softly sang, "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?"

Mal watched as Oz looked sharply at the other man's head bent over the game. He didn't think Simon had caught the glance, but from where he stood it was clear as day. Oz looked … worried.

"What's a JOAT?" Mal thought Oz had wanted to ask another question entirely, but that's what came out of his mouth.

"You know, a Jack of All Trades… you're the man who knows what we need and where to get it." Simon smiled, a little bewildered at Oz's ignorance.

Something in Oz seemed to relax at that. "Yeah. Well, I've always been a social person."

Just then Kaylee walked out of the engine room, and all of Simon's attention was diverted. Oz, on the other hand, looked directly up at Mal, and smiled a small smile that left Mal feeling as if he'd missed the joke.

**********

Mal turned away from the bars in the window of their cell. He hated this. Unceremoniously shoved into a dirty six-by-six space that stank. No place to sleep, no place to shit. Not an ideal accommodation for anybody.

Three days. They had to survive for three days. And if they were alive after three days Mal was personally going to kill somebody. Oz had laughed when he'd said that out loud.

Mal couldn't believe it though. Well, he could believe it, it was just his luck that the easy peasy job had turned into a * shun-sheng duh gao-wahn*. Hell that they were going to have to fight their way out of. Hell that no one on Serenity knew about. The rendezvous with Wash wasn't for another week. And they weren't being allowed anywhere close to a vid to tell them otherwise.

He hated fights. Oh, sure, give him a good bar fight. But he hated this "prove your strength and worthiness" crap. Hated that it was just him and Oz that were going to have to do it, too. Hated that he had to think about it for an entire evening. No guns blazing here. No, they'd have to win with fists at dawn. And again. And again.

"Never seen you in a brawl." He turned to Oz, standing quietly beside him, "You ever been in a fight like this?"

"Not exactly, but I should be ok."

Confusing response, but Mal just nodded. "Just remember, these are nasty men, with nasty intentions. Don't let ‘em corner you."

Mal turned back to the window in the cell. It had a great view – if you felt like seeing the arena where men would soon try to spill their blood. It was going to be one hell of a fight. He just wished they were out there now, instead of sitting around in this stank cell *thinking* about it.

"Mal…"

"Oz?"

"Got something to tell you."

**********

Kaylee whined in that winning way she had. Mal refused. She whined the next time they touched down on Evercrest, and the next one after that. Mal didn't want extra passengers, even if this *kuagren* could get them every missing part they needed as soon as it broke. Kaylee apparently introduced him to Wash, and now they were both after Mal to let this strange guy on board. Something about wanting Serenity to actually run right for a change. They kept ragging Mal about that damn converter, and that Oz wouldn't give it up unless he was allowed to come along.

Mal sighed, and agreed to meet the man. He was sure that Kaylee and Wash had cooked up this extortion "plan", and he didn't like it one bit. But he met the JOAT, for them. Only true spacers needed their own JOAT, and his crew was just fine the way it was. But he couldn't stand the nagging. And they needed that part.

Oz wasn't quite what Mal was expecting. Sure, JOATs came in all sizes and shapes, but usually they talked a little more than this guy. Usually they tried to convince Mal they were needed with endless bravado. Usually once they'd sprung the trap of asking for a free ride, they did everything they could to make you feel the thumbscrews. This man didn't even bother. Made Mal curious.

"Why should I bring you on board again?" Mal asked, "You've got my crew all fired up, but you don't seem to care one way or t'other."

"I'd like to do some traveling again, and Kaylee says you run a good ship. But it's up to you if you take me on or not."

Not a bad answer, but Mal had to ask, "Kaylee put it that you insisted I let you on board. Said we couldn't have the converter unless we took you on too. You have anything to do with that?"

Oz looked surprised, "Huh. Well, I knew she had a plan, but didn't know that was it. You can have the converter if you want it. Don't have to take me too."

"That's it? You don't want plead your case?" Mal was shocked. Gave him an opening and he didn't take it.

"Nah. I'd like to get off planet, but I don't do blackmail."

He liked that. Liked that a lot. Maybe Kaylee wasn't so wrong. "So, you don't mind seeing the finer back woods and narrow ways of this great universe? Kaylee didn't make you promises of inner-planets and fancy balls did she?"

Oz smiled, and Mal noticed his whole face changed, even though you might not see it unless you were looking closely. "Back woods are fine with me. Not much of a fancy man myself."

Mal couldn't disagree. In fact, he wondered if this JOAT was worth his while. But he'd gotten them a whole rasher of parts every time they were in port, at below cost. And Kaylee said he could do it again. He trusted her, and her sense of what was good for Serenity. It's what made her family.

"Well, I'm not bowled over by your personality, Mister Oz, but you'll do. Kaylee vouches for you, and if it's one thing she knows, it's what's good for the running of Serenity. If you'd like to come with us, you'd be welcome."

Oz nodded, a little glint in his eye. "Thanks. But it's not Mister Oz, it's just Oz."

**********

He never trusted anyone right off. Not anymore. But there was something about that Oz. They hadn't exchanged more than thirty words, but there was . . . something. Mal realized he liked to watch Oz move around the ship. He went from room to room like it was still new, like he could see the original paint on the walls. Or something.

He did that with people though, too. Never surprised by what they said, no, that wasn't really Oz's way. But he delighted in ‘em. Liked talking to Jane, or listening to him go on and on about Vera. The day Mal had stopped on the edge of the kitchen to hear that conversation was a laugh. Oz was willing to listen to anyone, about everything – from flintlock to magazine, cleaning mech to dealer.

But it was more than that. He caught Oz signing to River one day, an old guitar clutched in his hands. River went off on some ramble about angles and cowboys, and Oz didn't do anything but smile. And Mal could tell it was one of those delighted smiles, like he could've sat there all day.

Made him see why Oz was such a good JOAT. After three days he'd heard the life stories of the entire crew, and they all just . . . accepted him. Mal was surprised to find that he didn't mind. Oz wasn't the type to share all his secrets. Or anybody else's.

**********

The headman gestured again, and the guards poked them down the dais.

"Now, now, gentlemen," placated Mal. "We're all friends here, aren't we?"

All he got was a grunt in reply. They were steered around the compound, and they walked around a corner to find this gigantic dome of metal in front of ‘em.

Oz started laughing. Mal looked at him in curiosity and a bit of fear. Wasn't like Oz, really, to laugh that much.

Between giggles, Oz explained, "There's a . . . story where I come from. Story about a dome made of metal, where men fight to the death. The story goes, ‘Two men enter, one man leaves.'"

Mal grimaced, since he couldn't quite see the humor. "Best be two men leaving tomorrow, and the days after that, if I have anything to say about it."

Oz grew quiet, serious again, and nodded.

**********

Something still bothered him though. He lay in his bunk below the decks, listened to the warm hum of Serenity as they sped away from another job well done, and wondered what it was. Some itch he couldn't seem to scratch. Pictures flashed in his head.

White skin. A pink shadow on a jaw-line just going to stubble. A grin that he could tell was a grin from just a twitch of the lips.

Mal pounded his pillow, turned over, closed his eyes. And was caught again, by a memory of calm storm colored eyes.

He didn't know what was wrong with him. The pictures kept coming though, turning and tossing doing nothing to stop ‘em.

Then came the full sense – sight and touch and sound. The sight of that pale skin lade bare beneath him. The sound – a low murmur turning into a growl – he'd never heard a man growl, but he liked the thought of it. Touching, being touched, made his body writhe on the sheets. He gasped.

And woke. And wondered when he'd slipped from waking to dreaming. When Oz had gotten that far under his skin?

**********

They stood back to back in the center of the metal dome. Men crawled along the outside, screaming, chanting, jeering. They pounded on the metal structure and made it clang. Above them there was a cloudless blue sky, mocking Mal with its pretty color.

Inside, it was just fith. Filth piled around the bottom of the dome, fith standing outside it, fith came after them with fists and guts; stinking of fear, trying to make him and Oz fail. The ground was packed dirt, with blood spattered here and there, and he'd had a bad feeling when they'd walked in.

Oz insisted that he call it Thunderdome. He couldn't quite get the joke, but it made Oz smile. Mal wondered at the man gone furry at his back. Who would've thought, a lángrén? Mal grinned a feral smile at the fear he saw in the faces of the crowd the first time Oz changed. They were gonna beat these men. Beat ‘em to the bone.

**********

It was his kind of job. Easy peasy. Mr. Universe needed a package picked up. A world that didn't have major fire power. He and Oz could hop down, pick up, and be out before anyone was the wiser.

Zoe didn't approve of running errands for Mr. Universe, but Wash was on board. They'd planned it so everybody else would be off getting new supplies at Saganaw base, and he and Oz would meet ‘em back at the rendezvous.

Nobody had said a word about it being him and Oz. Mal wondered a little at that, but chalked it up to that strange power the other man had. Nobody asked him questions he wasn't ready to answer. Did it for both of ‘em, these days.

So they hopped off ship, and into a right mess.

**********

They were winning. He loved that feeling. Loved it. Loved knowing they were striking fear into their hearts with every punch, that strong men shook every time they heard Oz howl. Hell, it'd made the hair on the back of his head stand up the first time he'd heard it, but now it was part of the sounds of their opponent's defeat.

Two days. They'd made it through two days with nothing from the crowd but jeers and shrieks. Nothing from their jailors but grunts. Nothing from the thieves and murderers put in to fight them but the sounds of fists whistling through the air.

Now, on the third day, it was quiet. Something big was coming. Mal knew it in his bones. His hands were bloody from fighting, and Oz had blood on his muzzle. But he knew they were gonna beat this last bastard and were getting home.

At least he knew it until the ten-foot giant they'd saved for the last day stepped through the metal gate and it clanged shut behind him.

"What right did one man have to get so damn big?"

"Maybe he ate all his vegetables growing up." Oz responded, as Mal realized he'd said his thought out loud.

"Must be." Mal girded himself, "This is the last, Oz. He may be big, but you know what they say. . ."

"The bigger they are, the harder they fall?" Oz asked.

"Sounds like a damn fine plan to me."

Mal decided to wade in, and get this show on the road. That was his last real thought for a while; he and Oz moved in unison, to take that giant *hundan* down.

But he wouldn't go. Mal punched him, straight on, everything he had behind his punch, and the bastard just grinned at him. Oz tried jumping onto his back, and was thrown off and against the iron grating. They brushed themselves off, and tried again. Mal decided to stop being polite, and kicked the man right in the family jewels. He got mad at that. Mal didn't care – he liked mad.

Or he liked it well enough until that giant fist connected with his face, and he dropped to the ground like a stone.

**********

He woke to find Oz's human face above him. A smile bloomed in those eyes, erasing the concern that had drawn the sides of his cheeks in. Mal liked him better smiling. Oz's smile widened, and Mal realized he'd said that out loud.

He tried to sit up, but found he was weaker than he'd thought. And he was back on Serenity.

"Oz? We made it then?"

"We made it."

Simon piped in at that moment, "Well, you almost didn't make it. That was quite a concussion. And if you expect to be able to stand up on your own for the next two days, you've got another thing coming."

Mal started at that, "Why not? I just took a knock to the head, right?"

Simon shook his head in dismay.

He turned to Oz, "Right, Oz?"

"Not exactly Mal. He kind of broke your ankle when I was taking him down."

Mal sank back. Zoe appeared in the doorway. "And if you think you're going to get off easy just because you've got a broken ankle . . ."

Wash came up beside her, "Now Zoe, I told you I wasn't their fault. You can't go blaming them."

She raised her eyebrows in that quelling look that Zoe could do so well. "You probably don't want to talk to me right now about being nice, since you were involved in this little job as well, and I'm not exactly in the mood to think about my *husband* lying to me."

Jayne appeared in the doorway behind her, "Yeah Mal, you could've at least invited us to your fun."

"Fun? Jayne . . . trust me fun it wasn't." Mal looked up at Oz, still standing beside him, "Next time I'll pass on that kind of fun." Oz smiled a little again, in agreement. "I don't suppose I could get off this gurney and rest in my own bed?"

"You can, if someone will help you get there." Even Simon sounded annoyed at them.

Oz moved to release the restraints, "I'll help you."

Mal grinned up at him. "Been doing that a lot lately."

"Yeah, it's not such a bad job, as far as it goes," came the reply. Mal thought he could get used to that.

5 Things

2006-08-27T22:21:00.000-07:00

5 ways Spike and Giles Never met.

1. His father had rewarded him for his first term performance with a look at the vampire archives. The records of known vampires – things he would have full access to once he was done with training, but that was many years away. Rupert poured over the charcoal drawings of the Scourge of Europe, his finger tracing a cheekbone of the vampire that looked too young to be so cruel, and wondered what it would be like to have no soul, no responsibilities, no conscience.

2. Ripper stood at the fringe of all the madness, pissed at Ethan for getting them in and adoring him for it. Then a shock of blond hair passed him and all thoughts of Ethan fled at the memory of those cheekbones in charcoal and lurid thoughts in a library once upon a time. Ripper couldn’t resist. he had to see if the devil that looked out of those eyes was as evil and as tasty as he’d thought. He found his answers in a dark corner of the party, where no one could see them. Spike was amused by his boldness and Ripper learned reality is much better, and far more dangerous, than any schoolboy fantasy.

3. He didn’t care if he lost a little bit of his soul. After losing Randall, he knew he didn’t have much of one left, anyway, so asking some nameless vampire to suck it away with his blood for a few minutes of oblivion didn’t seem like such a high price. What he didn’t expect was blue eyes that challenged him, an amazing mouth wandering over him, calling up better memories than those he could not seem to put away, and sharp teeth that pierced his skin making his body burn with loss and lust and life.

4. He gave Buffy a lift into the heating tube, and then turned down the hall to find others and get them out. Instead of humans though, he caught sight of Spike and was struck dumb. Even in game-face and snarling at minions he was beautiful. Giles shook his head, and suddenly Spike noticed him. Noticed him and grinned, that predatory grin that shot fire into Giles’ veins. For a long moment the world narrowed to that hall, with the two of them standing, staring, wanting. Then something down another hallway crashed them both out of their reveries. Spike was out of sight in the blink of an eye and Giles headed in the opposite direction, looking to find the other humans that were trapped.

5. There was a knock, and Giles knew it wasn’t the children at all. He dreaded, and wanted, the door to open on a vampire with blue eyes and blond hair. So when it happened, he couldn’t be surprised, not by that. What shocked him was the way his body reacted, the way he almost said the words of invitation, the way he almost forgot that he had to resist that smile and those eyes, and those lips. But he knew he had to be careful now – he had other things, other people, a Slayer, that he had to live for. He stood firm. Nevertheless, when temptation called with such beautiful lips, he couldn’t resist one kiss, standing in the doorway between the night and the light, Spikes lips cool against his own.

*************************

5 ways Buffy notices, even when she’s not supposed to.

1. Giles always limps after they’ve sparred. Nothing that anyone else would see – just a half second slower on his left side. She wishes she could tell him they don’t have to practice, so that he wouldn’t be in pain, but he’d never be ok with that. Instead, every time it gets almost pronounced enough for others to see it, she beggs off. Giles thinks she needs a night off to go to the Bronze or something, and she doesn’t care if that’s what it takes to give him just a little more time to heal.

2. Her Watcher doesn’t go home some nights, when he’s researching hard and fast and furiously. He hides the signs – he’s got two spare suits in his office and it’s not like he’s never alert, with all the gallons of tea. But she sees the little extra rumple in his hair, the little curve in his not so perfectly knotted tie, and she has this overwhelming feeling that she should thank him. But that’s silly, because it’s not her that he’s doing this for, it’s the world. Every night she goes out and saves the world a little bit, but she wouldn’t know how to without him.

3. After a couple of hours of translation, especially if he’s writing with a fountain pen, his hands cramp. He has exercises that he’s supposed to do – he did them once – but it’s like he won’t do them now because he doesn’t want to admit to the pain. She can see it, though. She can see it and all she wants to do is grab his hand and make him stop writing for a minute, calm his fingers down and warm them up. Hold his hands, his beautiful hands, in her own, just for a little while.

4. He was relaxed. Relaxed in a way that she didn’t want to think about too closely because it reminded her of band candy and patrol cars and thoughts that weren’t hers. Even when he’s slightly embarrassed that she’s standing there, that they’re standing there, all three of them, he doesn’t blush – just smiles with chagrin – because he’s relaxed. It makes her a little envious, because she’s never felt that relaxed, not from sex… not yet at least.

5. When he’s truly happy he giggles. Giggles like a fifteen-year old who’s gotten away with hiding the porn mags under his bed. It’s a new thing, this giggling, but she knows it comes from the best place, because it’s the same place that her urge to smile and hug every one comes from. That place where you’re so happy you want every body else to be that happy too. She’s been smiling for two days and can’t seem to stop, and he’s been giggling at Xander’s jokes and Anya’s deadpan and Willow’s babble. Every one’s starting to give them both the ‘hmmm, straightjacket?’ looks. And she doesn’t think her smile can get any wider until he goes and throws his arm over her shoulder when they’re researching that night. The crazy-looks turn into understanding-looks and all she can do is stare into green eyes and grin the biggest grin she’s ever had. And all he does his giggle, a little, and smile down at her like she’s the most precious thing in his world. Which is fine with her.

*************************

5 ways Buffy stopped Glory (without jumping)

(ps - screwing with cannon a bit to get these accomplished)

1. The Bloody One:

Buffy saw him, saw them, she thought, down an alley, through the vampire dust. Three hours before the witching hour and she found them lurking a block away from the Magic Box. She couldn't believe her luck. They were fighting with each other, and the moment she heard Ben give in to Glory she knew that she could kill him. It was messy when she launched herself at him and struck his chest. Human - or not quite human - bones crunched and shifted. There were all kinds of fluids that vampires never ... guess they really were more human in that moment. All in a second, all those months of fear, were gone. She stood in the alley and looked at the blood on her hands.

2. The Happy One:

They modified the spell to include the new ones. This time it read "Make us innocence, valor, strength, mind and heart and spirit joy. Let the hand encompass us. Do thy will." Willow still said it, and Giles still lit the candles, and Xander still chanted along, but this time Tara was able to burn the incense, and Anya drew the circle, and Spike did more than guard. This time they were six strong, those who lent their power to Buffy - the power of the dead and the undead, the former demon and the healer, combined with the Watcher and the Witch and the Heart. And this time Buffy felt as if she was going to explode with power. It was enough. It was more than enough. They saved the world, with joy and laughter and tears and terror. Again. And this time, there weren't any angry dreams.

3. The One With Character Death:

"You know you have to let me." Dawn cried, "It has to have the blood. It has to be me." She looked up, fierce and almost angry, “It’s my turn to save the world, ok Buffy? You gotta let me save the world this time.” Buffy nodded through tears. She knew. Knew her heart was breaking, knew she'd failed ... and this time she couldn’t fix it. The First Slayer’s words echoed in her brain. She held onto Dawn as long as she could, before the gap got too big. Dawn hugged her back, and whispered, “now” as Buffy nodded, and then softly slipped the knife between her little sister's ribs. "Thank you," Dawn whispered. "Buffy, thank you... just… promise, promise not to forget me." Buffy nodded again, no words left. The gaping hole in the sky began to close just as the blood stopped flowing from the wound Buffy had made. Wouldn’t stop the hole in her heart. That would be there forever. But it was done.

4. The Silly One:

"You found a WHAT?" Giles thundered. Willow looked down at the book again, but she wasn't going to back down, even if Giles was freaked. She patiently explained the ritual. The ritual sex. The ritual sex that, if they all participated, her and Buffy and Giles and Xander, if they did it right, would obliterate Glory and every one associated with her. So that's what they did. They got the special candles, they got the secret oil (that was really just pure rosemary oil with some rose petals thrown in), and they signed the "we resolve never to speak of this again" paper Xander had typed up and photocopied. They grinned at each other after the magical sparkles dissipated, and Xander decided it was his favorite method to stave off apocalypse. Funny how Buffy and Giles and Willow kind of agreed.

5. The Utterly Absurd One:

They had a plan. A plan involving the hammer, the sphere, and a small nuclear bomb that Xander had managed to scavenge from the local army base. Yeah, who knew? But it fit in the palm of Buffy's hand, and she figured even 'she who must not be named' would be knocked back a bit by the fire of a million suns. It worked, more perfectly than anybody could've anticipated - they followed Tara, got there before anybody had the chance to take Dawn up those rickety steps. The hammer and the sphere weakened Glory enough that Willow could do her spell, and Buffy could shove that activated (and conveniently timer-ed) nuclear device down her throat. When it went off, Glory's skin contained the explosion, and it was like she melted inside an iron husk. Dawn had wanted to roast marshmallows, but Buffy didn't really think it was such a great idea. Instead Willow and Giles did a spell to stick her destroyed body in a toxic waste dump, and they called it a day. A very long, very weird, day.

*************************

5 Ways Xander Knows He Doesn't Love Deadboy

1. Because he's never aware of the way Spike is always moving. Nope. Xander never watches all that coiled tension, never sees the bunch of muscles under tight t-shirts or painted-on jeans.

2. Definitely not because those slim pale fingers draw his eyes. It's for sure, those fingers wouldn’t feel great spread across skin. Of course he never notices how Spike's always doing something with his hands, smoking, clenching, running those fingers in-between t-shirt and pants, revealing a little sliver of tight stomach. Nope, Xander never sees those fingers at all.

3. Because soulful eyes don't draw him in. They really don't. He's not some girl to be distracted by them when they kind of shine, especially when combined with that soft voice Spike uses sometimes when he's serious. There's no way Xander's falling for those dark eyes that kind of glow when Spike's grinning, twinkle when he's about to run into a fight, or get all soft and three shades darker when the real smile Spike shows actually transforms his face. No way.

4. Especially not because Xander's noticed that Spike is fiercely loyal. No, that's not attractive at all. That's not what makes Xander's heart flutter, when Spike gets protective and fierce, when he demands respect because he's stuck to his word. That doesn't make Xander want to curl up right next to the vampire. No, it doesn't. It really doesn't.

5. Of course it wouldn't be because Spike can be so sweet. No, there's no way Xander could love Deadboy because of his tenderness. There's no way Xander's heart skips a beat when he watches Spike stroke Dawn's hair off her face, when he sees Spike curl his arm around Tara, when he notices Spike making sure Giles stays further back in the fight so he won't get hurt.

Xander totally knows he doesn't love Deadboy for any of those reason. Totally not because any of those things at all.

*************************

...and the totally goofy and multi-partner switching Xander....

5 Ways Xander Did Not Get Knocked-Up

1. He didn't do that spell with Willow and Tara. The mystical, magical, artificial insemination spell. He didn't damnit! It was just a crazy dream brought on by too many triscuts and spray-bacon-cheeze-whip. And that was why his stomach hurt. Just the cheeze! Really!

2. He didn't run afoul of Angel and that Gnostic-whatitis demon at the same time. No, he didn't jump in the way of it's magical stick o'power, and it didn't touch his stomach. It really didn't. He didn't care WHAT Angel said.

3. He didn't follow Spike down to the cellars the other day, to clean out the M'Zarnuk nest. And even if he had, he knew he would remember Giles' warning about the possibility of breaking open the eggs and getting pregnant. Wouldn't he? Unless he'd fallen asleep during the Scooby meeting again. But... he'd always had cravings for pickles and cookies and cream ice cream. Right?

4. He didn't have sex with Spike in the middle of Restfield cemetery, spread open in the cool green grass with a blue moon hung in the sky overhead. He hadn't said those words, the words Willow claimed were the claiming spell, he really hadn't... or... he thought he hadn't ... unless he screamed them as Spike moved inside him. But he couldn't be blamed for that, could he? How was he to know that screaming out "I'm yours! I'm yours!" while having sex with a vampire during a blue moon in August when the stars were aligned in the Nostrious combination would get him pregnant? It's not like they taught you that in sex-ed.

5. He really didn't remember waking up in bed with Wesley, Angel, Spike and Giles all at the same time. And he thought he would remember, since he'd had fantasies about them all at one time or another and man, having them all happy and horny in the same place would've been a bonus his young mind wouldn't soon forget, right? He knew they'd all been playing Spin The Bottle (the drinking and kissing game) the night before, and he remembered at the time he walked into the room he’d wondering what the heck was going on and where were the girls. And he totally remembered Angel's lips were softer than he'd thought they’d be and Wesley's stubble was kind of cool, and so was Spike for that matter, and boy, how he liked the feel of Giles' hands on him. So he knew remembered all of that. But waking up? And getting pregnant? Nope, he didn't remember that at all. So it couldn't have happened then, could it? Don't remember it, didn't happen.

Ticklish

2006-08-27T22:17:00.000-07:00

Pairing: G/B

Rating: G? Something light and fluffy

Summary: Buffy’s bored, and it’s summertime. What’s a college girl to do but bug her Watcher?

Timeline: Summer between Season 4 & 5 (sorry, Riley’s not in this picture)

Disclaimer: The real fact is that no infringement on any copyright of any kind is intended, and I’m simply borrowing some names and places and will give them back when I’m done. I’ll even clean them up afterwards. Promise.

Feedback: Much welcomed and forever appreciated.

Notes: To Neil. You'll probably be able to figure out why. (and sadly, this is unbetaed ... so I guess you're warned!)

*************************

Our little story begins on a sunny day in a town called Sunnydale. A Vampire Slayer showed up at her Watcher’s apartment, looking for someone to play with, since she didn’t have summertime classes . . .

“Giles? Hellloooooo? Anyone home?”

His voice floated downstairs, “Buffy? I’ll be just a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

She wandered into the kitchen, checked for drinkables in the fridge, and turned the teakettle on automatically. Then, since there was nothing to do but wait, she stood idly opening and closing cupboard doors. She ran a finger along the counter, watching the contact between fingertip and formica. If she had to pick, she would’ve named the twitchies currently spurring all this idle activity ‘restlessness’. But, right now she didn’t really feel like thinking about it. Just continued on, opening and closing drawers, looking at Gilesian kitchen implements, snooping.

As she opened the doors of the floor-to-ceiling cupboards Giles used for a pantry she heard him step down the last of the stairs. Peeking from behind the door, she was surprised: her Watcher leaned against the doorway of the kitchen, towel in hand, kitted out in sweats and very sweaty. Her hazel eyes took note of his softly curling, slightly askew hair, broad shoulders clothed in a black t-shirt that seemed stuck to a well defined body, and, below tapered hips, there were, revealed, bare feet. She quietly sucked in her breath. Wow. Then her brain synapses reconnected.

“Hiya!” she greeted. “Whatcha doin’ in bare feet?”

Giles shook his head in persistent dismay. The English language was usually so simple, but she always reduced it to rubble with brain-defying contractions. Some had crept their way under his skin, like the mangler herself. He wondered at her momentary hesitation before speaking, but chose to ignore it.

“Greetings. I was ‘doin’ yoga. Now, I assume I’m waiting for the kettle you kindly put on to boil. You?”

Buffy looked back into the cupboard when she realized that if she didn’t she wouldn’t stop checking out her Watcher. Then she took note of the shelf contents, “Realizing that you’re stocked up with enough finger foods to lure 5 Hansel and Gretels into staying! Well, as long as Xander isn’t eating with them. Just what do you do with all of this sugar? It’s like Halloween in summer.”

Without waiting for an answer she began to name what she saw, “Hershey’s Kisses, M&M’s, Marshmellow cream, Truffles, three types of cookies *and* chocolate syrup. Your name may now become synonymous with sugar overload.” Her head snapped back towards his with a little frown, “Yoga? You never taught me yoga. How come you know yoga and I’ve never learned it?”

Giles smiled, loving the lightening quick questions. He chose to answer the latter before he admitted his reasons for the former. “You’ve never really been excited about learning relaxation techniques, so I simply focused on other forms of training. I thought you wouldn’t be interested in it because it’s not terribly . . . animated.”

Buffy noticed the smile – she liked that smile – while she considered both what he did and didn’t say. A couple of years ago she hadn’t trusted “relaxation techniques”, not since the crystal gazing-crucimentium. But now, maybe it was time for more Slayer training?

“I hate to be the one to tell you this Giles, but -- not that this is a bad thing -- you’re kind of covered in sweat. Yoga doesn’t really look relaxing. It seems pretty,” her mouth quirked on the word, “animated to me.”

He ducked his head and grinned at her, “Yes, well, yoga does get rather taxing once you get deeply into the training. I could teach you if you’d like to learn?”

“Yes, please. That’d suit me right down to my toes! Particularly if you have to take your shoes off to do it.”

She thought to herself: [Today is a much better day for bare piggies and learning relaxation! Particularly with my Watcher, who seems to be quite . . . cute when he’s sweaty. . . where did *that* thought come from? Oh, yeah, because he was standing a few feet away looking sexy.]

“What do I need to do?” She asked. She realized that she’d come to the right place to quell her earlier jitters. She smiled to herself. Giles’ was always the right place.

“Well, you might consider changing into that spare set of sweats you have here – your shorts won’t work for some of the poses.”

“Sure.” She headed into the bathroom, stopping by the spare room for her things. She turned back to down the hallway, “And don’t think you’re getting out of explaining the sugar reserves, Giles! When I get out I’m going to expect quality training and good explanations.”

His laugh echoed down the hallway after her.

*******************************************

“Now, just breathe into the posture, extending your hips up as far as you can and feel your blood circulate from the tips of your fingers through the ends of your toes, then back up your body to start the cycle again.” Giles stepped closer to Buffy’s form – she was in classic downward facing dog position, bent in half with hands shoulder length apart. After pushing the coffee table out of the way in the living room, they’d been working for half an hour on the basic positions. Giles was guiding her through them once more, connecting each in a single pattern.

Giles sighed, trying to get rid of the terribly naughty thoughts that crept into his head. His Slayer was stretched before him, relaxing into each pose as if she’d been doing them for years. [Buffy’s so delightfully bend-y. Oh dear lord, now even my thoughts are beginning to sound like her. She’s corrupting me on every level.]

He shook himself out of his daydreams continued, “Lovely. From this position, bring your right foot forward between your hands, turn so you face to your left, rotating your back foot. Now bring your left arm up, reaching towards the sky.” She followed his directions almost perfectly, breathing through her nose, as instructed. But even Buffy’s balance wasn’t completely perfect. Giles reached out to her waist to steady her and his fingers grazed along her ribs.

“Eeek!” Buffy fell over, giggling.

“What did I do?” Giles was confused.

“Giles! You totally tickled me. Some how I don’t think you’re supposed to tickle someone while they’re doing yoga. Not exactly relaxing!”

“If I’d known you were ticklish I might’ve been more careful. You never laughed during training.”

Buffy shrugged, still smiling, “You never ticked me during training.”

Giles arched an eyebrow, “Shall we continue?” Buffy nodded, then tried to assume the same position that she’d been in before, acutely aware of the warm presence of her Watcher standing beside her.

Although she assumed the pose perfectly, Giles couldn’t resist the little demonish streak that made him reach out and graze his fingertips over her ribs again. This time the Slayer squealed, falling directly into her laughing Watcher (as if she could possibly do anything else), pushing him to the ground.

“So not fair, Giles! That time you did it on purpose!!” she cried. “You know what that means, don’t you? REVENGE!”

She sat on top of him and tried to tickle his ribs in return. He struggled to get up, but she held him captured between her legs. She tried tickling his stomach, but got no response. She tried his underarms, and reached behind her to try the back of his knees. Still perched atop him, she growled in frustration.

“Giles! How come you’re not ticklish?”

Giles was having enough trouble not responding to the delightful weight holding him to the floor. He tried to take a deep breath and quell his automatic reaction. He only hoped Buffy would stay distracted enough she wouldn’t notice she was practically sitting on the evidence of his arousal. He yanked his attention back to her question, and smiled a secret smile in response.

“I am ticklish. Simply not in the conventional places.”

Buffy frowned, wondering what Giles meant by conventional places. Back of his neck? Mid thigh? Where? She sat on her Watcher in pretending to think, but more to prolong the contact. She’d been noticing the body now pinned to the floor beneath her for months. Giles appearing in the doorway all sweaty and sexy this afternoon had just added fuel to the flame. And now, after she’d just thoroughly searched that body and found that it was just as fun to touch as it was to stare at, she wasn’t about to move. She could feel the tension in the Watcher between her legs, and she wanted to see just what he’d do next.

Just as she was considering other likely places to attack, Giles began to realize Buffy wasn’t simply trying to tickle him. There was no way she couldn’t know what effect she was having on him, by now. She straddled him, staring down expectantly. He looked back at her, the room thrumming with tension. Dare he move?

Buffy caught his indrawn breath and wondered if he was getting ready to push her off of him. Then she felt something she’d never dared hope – her Watcher’s erection pressed against her. Suddenly she knew why he hadn’t done anything, why he hadn’t tried anything. He was afraid. Well, she wasn’t. Buffy trailed fingers down his chest, watching the hitch of his breath reflected in his face. She smiled her own secret smile at her Watcher, savoring the feel of him, loving the shift of his body under hers.

At her first touch his eyes lit with wild hope, and she couldn’t help but grin back at him. Wordlessly he shifted her, just a little, as if she’d changed his entire world and with a tiny movement he could get in synch with the new alignment. His fingers traced her calves, then came to rest on her thighs, not pressuring, but somehow inextricably possessive.

She splayed both hands on his chest, bracing her weight a little, and leaned over to bring her lips within inches of his own. And stopped just shy of kissing him. He didn’t wait – he couldn’t let her wait – he lifted up and met her lips with his own.

The heat between them that had simmered into existence moments ago suddenly flared so bright they both gasped into each other’s mouths. Handily, this gave way to an exchange of lips and tongues - a stunning kiss that continued for long minutes.

“Is there an alternative word for wow?” she asked, bemused, when her breath came back.

“I believe there are several, although none currently come to mind. That might have been caused by all of the blood leaving my brain, though, so give me a few minutes and I might be a little more helpful,” Giles stroked up and down her back, breathless and heated and teasing. Buffy giggled at him, settling into his arms.

A she lay across his chest, still panting, happy, and curiously unwilling to move, she idly drew designs across his chest with the tips of her fingers. A thought suddenly occurred to her, “Giles? You still haven’t told me where you’re ticklish.”

He grinned a Cheshire smile, “I don’t think I will. You’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

“Just you wait mister!” Buffy challenged, looking determined. “I’ll find that special secret place that makes you giggle. Although . . .” she grinned a mysterious smile, “I think it might take me a *very* long time to find it."

Giles smiled again, this time deeper and far more assured, “I don’t think I’m going to mind one bit."

~ The End ~

After All, She Was The Slayer

2006-07-03T21:11:00.000-07:00

Author: katekat

Date: July 2006

Pairing: Giles/Buffy

Summary/Timeline: Moments after the credits roll on Helpless (Season 3). A quiet moment in the library.

Disclaimer: These characters aren’t mine. Plot lines aren’t even really mine; they’re just beamed to me via satellite. All hail the mighty and benevolent Joss for making it all possible.

Feedback: Welcomed and appreciated. Concrit is valued as well, although preferred in an email.

Thanks: To my darling Elizabuffy, who betaed this through a headache and who is always willing to let me throw things at her that come out of my brain, even if it’s after a long stretch of time when I wasn’t writing anything at all. All corrections are hers, all remaining mistakes are mine.

*************************

He held his handkerchief to her temple, and she closed her eyes against everything. He’d betrayed her and lied to her, and she sat under his hand, thinking about the look in his eye, the one that said he was sorry and he was hurting and the one she almost didn’t want to face. It would be easier to be angry at him. She wanted to be angry. She’d wanted to send him back with Travers and the rest of them, get rid of him and be done with Slaying – never pick up another stake. Never deal with another dusting. Never ever have to rescue her mom from a bastard vampire psychopath ever again.

But he looked at her with those eyes, so full of pain an hurt and *sorry,* and she just couldn’t hate him. Not as completely as she needed to. There were too many other people who deserved it way more. Travers. The bastard. He wallowed in her pain, wrapped in his stupid smug smile and is oh-so-sanctimonious congratulations She wished she had the energy to beat that smug smile out of him. But she didn’t. She did the only thing that she could think of to hurt him as much as possible – getting rid of him like he wasn’t important, like he didn’t matter, like he had no power over her.

But Giles sat in front of her, still there, still sorry, and she almost wished she didn’t have to open her eyes ever again. Then she wouldn’t have to face him, and the things she knew, on some level, that he needed from her. She was so tired of giving. Even if they didn’t see it that way, that’s what slaying was, a gift that sucked the life out of her as much as it made her strong sometimes. And now she felt like strong wasn’t a word that applied to her; she just wanted to curl up in a ball somewhere, stop thinking about the bastards around her, and stop being the big, bad slayer, just for a couple of seconds.

She could almost taste it… Her own blood. The look he was trying not to give her. The fear of the last couple of days. It was on the tip of her tongue – a bitter pill she didn’t want to have to swallow.

But it hurt just as much to keep her eyes closed. So she opened them, and looked Giles in the face. After all, she was the Slayer.

varations on a theme: chains to bind her

2005-06-26T10:40:00.000-07:00

Pairing: B/G

Rating: FRAO (adults only)

Summary/Timeline: Season Six. How Giles could’ve come back to Buffy. Warning: Major angst ahead!

Feedback: Always welcomed and appreciated.

Notes: [Thoughts] *Emphasis*

Date: 5/16/05

Thanks: To Elizabuffy, the marvelous: you made this better even if it did break every one of our ‘we should never do this in a fic’ rules. Thanks again for getting the change tracking of doom back out to ply it for me. You rock. All corrections are hers, all remaining mistakes are mine.

Disclaimer: These characters aren’t mine. Plot lines aren’t even really mine; they’re just beamed to me via satellite. All hail the mighty and benevolent Joss for making it all possible.

*************************

Dreaming, he stirred. A tattoo showed on his forearm as he rolled, exposing wide shoulders tapering into slimmer hips. The duvet covered half his body, enough for modesty and comfort. The rest lay bare to the room – salt and pepper sprinkled through the hair on his chest, the strength in his arms, the character in his chin, the blood pulsing through his throat.

In his dreams, Giles watched Buffy slam Spike against a wall and heard the telltale scratch as she pulled his zipper down. He watched it all. He saw her with the vampire again: at the Bronze, against a wall somewhere, down in that dank cave he called his home. He wanted to laugh at the doubled irony – the slayer fucking her prey. He watched the frenzied sex of the vampire and slayer and recognized it for what it was: like met like; predator and predator. There was no yielding, no fumbling, no awkwardness. Only strength and power.

He wanted scream the question “why?” at their flushed faces. But he knew. Steel reinforced flesh. Pleasure and pain. She craved it by whatever means.

He woke, sweating, every muscle tense, knowing he craved her touch as much as the vampire did. His blood beat for her, an ocean away. He woke knowing the dream might’ve been prophecy or prescience or their bond. It didn’t matter. It was true.

He reached for the bottle on the nightstand, pouring whiskey in a glass barely dry. He hadn’t slept long. As the first sip slid down his throat, he mused on dreams…and slayers.

He’d often wondered how Buffy had satisfied the demands of a slayer’s body. The increased strength wasn’t always a blessing; most channeled it with constant training. Or Faith’s constant excess. Buffy seemed unaffected by that sexual need in her high school years, a fact for which he’d been grateful at the time. The thought of having to convince a sixteen-year-old that she had ‘needs’ was abhorrent him. And when she was older, she’d had the Teutonic Poster Boy, and had seemed to get along just fine.

He’d always known she was different, believed she was special, assumed she was unique: that she wasn’t affected by that aspect of the slayer, that it was part of what made her different. He believed her friends and family had balanced the frenzied calling. Perhaps he’d been blind, even about Angel. Was that why she’d been drawn to him? Not for the storybook romance but because of the torture?

The glass rose of its own accord to his lips, the deceptively silky taste smoothing across his tongue. He sipped again, and again, thinking. There was another reason slayers had watchers. He’d just never seen the need in Buffy before: the need for conflict that went deeper than the dusting, the want to struggle against the pain, until it becomes white hot and burns away the impurities. She was born for that. He was born for it, too.

He laughed drunkenly to himself – born for this and she chooses a vampire. [How was I so blind that I didn’t see? It’s the other part of her, so buried no one notices it…so buried not even I noticed it.]

However, Spike wasn’t the one for her. Spike was a danger, chip or no. If she kept going as she was, Spike on one side, the rest of the vampires on the other, she wouldn’t be living anymore. Some day, she’d require that he push too far. Giles realized he’d made a colossal mistake – he’d missed the signs completely. He’d left just when he could have helped her the most. She didn’t need a father, didn’t need him to act the mother-hen. She needed something only he could safely give her.

Whoever sent this dream, I’m glad; glad to know so I can set things right. This is my duty. This is my calling. She. Is. Mine.

*************************

He’d had 18 hours to think about the words he wanted to say. More than eighteen hours, really, as he’d started thinking the moment he woke. In truth there weren’t any proper ones. Seven living languages, dozens of dead or unrecognized ones, and every single word deserted him. Every time he tried to gather the right ones, they fell like burned ashes from his mouth.

He’d found the right words for the travel agent, who’d put him on a plane that afternoon. He’d found the proper responses to customs, who had passed him through without a second glance. Those were the mundane ones, the simple ones, the commonplace words that never left him. They secured him a rental car, and then the only thing between him and Sunnydale was the road.

He knew showing up on her doorstep was unexplainable. But he was here now. He stood in front of the door she’d called home for the last six years, breathing in the Southern California air and trying to gather his courage. He still had nothing but his certainty that she needed him, and that, finally, he could be what she needed; that he had to be what she needed. Otherwise she would die, again.

Before he could move to knock, the door opened, and she was revealed. He was shocked and scared at her appearance. She looked hollow. How could she be so empty? So bone thin? Was she this bad when he’d left her?

Then, when she recognized him, her face lit with joy. He saw the shutters she put on her soul open for the briefest of moments, and her voice was filled with hope when she said, “Giles?”

He responded, to the look and the need and her voice, “It’s me. Buffy, it’s me.”

But, before he could move forward, before he could even reach out his hands, the light was gone. As quickly as it appeared it retreated, to be tucked away. Her shoulders hunched and her body curled around her as if she needed to protect herself, even from him.

Her stare became flat and hard. “What are you back for?” The words weren’t angry; they were lifeless and cold. The kind of cold he knew. He was far too familiar with it. It was the kind of cold that would’ve left him reaching for a bottle if he’d been the one in her place.

He’d known this was going to be difficult, but the gravity of her stare turned him to stone. He knew nothing he could say would break the walls she’d so firmly shoved back into place. Particularly when he’d been part of what put them there.

There were no magic words. So, he tried the truth then, instead.

“You.”

She stared blankly at him, as if his answer wasn’t an answer at all. It was as if she hadn’t heard him. She crossed her arms, pulling them tight to her body, and turned to walk into the house. Over her shoulder she tossed, “Better come in. It’ll be getting dark soon.”

He followed her, watching the way her shoulders moved under her blouse, seeing all the danger signs. The shadows on her skin filled him with horror. She had bruises around her neck, one on her forearm, bruises that wouldn’t have been there if she had been taking care of herself. They would’ve healed in minutes. Instead they looked days old. She had unhealed cuts and scratches up her forearms. Cuts that wouldn’t have been there in the first place had she been at full strength.

But he knew, he knew with the certainty of a man who’d just spent eighteen hours on a plane flying across an ocean on the strength of his dreams, that he was to blame. He’d walked away because he had no place in her life, because he’d been so certain that it was futile for him to try to make one. And every scratch, every discoloration, every tense and painful moment he wanted to absorb, so she didn’t have to anymore.

He steeled himself for what was to come.

*************************

Buffy walked into her living room and stopped abruptly, arms still wrapped around herself. Not for comfort, no, never that. She wrapped her arms so Giles wouldn’t see the tremors that raced up and down her nerves, so he wouldn’t see that she was nearly frantic. The surprise of his appearance had stopped them from shaking for a second, but the shakes were back, stronger now because she wasn’t out there, fighting or killing or fucking something.

But she also stopped, arms still wrapped tightly, because his very presence drew her. It always had, and she’d always locked up the feelings, the thoughts, locked them tight and hard because she knew it wasn’t what he saw in her. Now her arms would betray her in more ways than one. The look, the look she’d seen him give her when she opened the door, made her shiver with need. Her betraying arms wanted to grab him and hold him as tight as she could, surround herself with him and his hope and his love and for once have the shaking cease.

Her constant sorrow became a desperate kind of rage. What have I become that I need him so much? He says nothing, but somehow it seems like everything. How dare he? Leave me… when I need him most, leave me to become this, then come back? How dare he do this to me?

She found she was saying it out loud; facing his now unreadable eyes with her own betraying arms still wrapped tight, “How dare you Giles? If you’re back for me, why the fuck did you leave me behind in the first place?”

She watched as he began to say something, something defensive and protective and something she’d heard a thousand times before about how she needed to stand on her own and the need to leave her alone to do so. But then, as if he couldn’t tell the same lies to her again, his shoulders slumped. His head dropped, heavy on his chest. He looked towards her, and she was frightened at how naked his face was.

“I was wrong: blind and wrong.” He closed his eyes, as if he was trying to hold back tears. It made her heart clench again, “Buffy, there are no words to take back what I did. I was wrong to leave you: wrong to believe that you had to be alone. There are certain things I will spend a lifetime trying to atone for. I think leaving you may have been one of them. It is a betrayal that cannot be forgiven, yet I’m here to ask, to atone, to redeem, to beg you to forgive.” His eyes opened, and she was stunned at the regret that faced her.

His words began to sink in. In his long-winded convoluted, awkward way, he was trying to say he was sorry. For one brief second she felt his sorrow – she felt his sorrow and his ache, and they felt like the things she’d carried in her veins for months. A sullen kinship of pain.

But she couldn’t forgive. Not just like that. He’d helped to make her what she was, standing before him like a junky waiting for a fix. Slayer, indeed. And suddenly she was blindly angry, hurting, waiting to hurt.

“What do you want from me, Giles? Do you want me to tell you that you’re forgiven now? Is that what you’re here for? Because I can’t do it. I can’t tell you everything’s ok. You can’t walk back in here and expect me to fall at your feet.”

As soon as they were out, she wanted to take the words back. But she couldn’t stop them. They poured out of her like little knives.

“You don’t get to do that, Giles. You don’t get to come back here and tell me that you’re gonna make everything better. You can’t. You told me I had to live a life that doesn’t involve you, remember? There are some things sorry doesn’t – can’t – fix. And I’m one of them. You’re too late to come back here and fix me. You’re wasting your time. I hunt, I keep the vamps down, I do my job and hold it together. You can take your sorry and leave me the fuck alone.”

Giles moved towards her and she fought to stay angry against the look in his eyes. He looked like he knew, like he knew what she’d done. But he couldn’t know. If he knew how wrong things had gone, he wouldn’t be here, trying to apologize to her. She closed her eyes at the look on his face, willing her body to stand for just a few seconds longer. If she could just make it for a couple of seconds longer she could throw him out and get out into the night. She sucked in a shaky breath, trying so hard just to stand her ground.

His voice broke her, made her eyes fly open, “Buffy, I know.”

She looked at him, curiosity getting the best of her. He couldn’t really. He spoke again, his voice low and hoarse, his body canted towards her in a silent plea.

“I know. I know about the tremors. You think you hide it well but I know.” She gasped, and fear raced through her. How could he know? Dawn didn’t even know. He went on, “I know about Spike, too.” His voice roughened on the name. She had no words left to answer him. He didn’t seem to need them as his voice kept going, inexorably, driving deep into her.

“I know what you do at night. I know exactly what calls to you out of the shadows. I know you can feel the vampires crawling over Sunnydale, and they make your skin itch, like an invisible rash of malice festering on your body. I know that your arms shake when you’re not fighting, as if your body can’t come down, as if you long to fight even when you’re sleeping. As if the only time you’re real is when you’re slamming a stake into a vampire’s chest. But you’re tired, so terribly tired. Every day seems like a greater weariness, every color dulled and every sound dimmed. Until you fight again. Oh, yes, I know.”

His words were a spell, and she felt caught, the moment separating out into endless shards of sound as he went on. She didn’t want to hear, yet every fiber of her body strained toward the half-whispered words.

“I know what Spike does to you in the night, Buffy. I know he holds you down, he makes the world burn bright, and for a few petty minutes, a few gasped seconds, you feel real again. His body moves under you and you find you can breathe. He slams you into a wall and suddenly the tremors stop and you’ve got control. He comes perilously close to biting you and you bare your neck, taunting him, wanting him, soundlessly hoping this time he’ll take you up on the offer and drain you till you find oblivion, because you know it will feel that good. I know you’re looking for him at the end of the night.”

She felt naked before him. His eyes bore into hers, and he stepped closer to grab her wrist and pull one of her betraying arms away from her body. He held her, just her wrist and hand, and together they stared down at it like it was some strange artifact, some weird demon they had to capture. Her hand began to twitch of its own accord. She tried to clench her fist, tried to stop the tremor from showing so plainly, making it impossible to deny anything he’d said, but, as her fingers closed, his grip slid from her wrist to her hand, holding tight against her twitch.

“Buffy, I know.”

He could see it. He could see what was wrong and he wasn’t . . . he wasn’t pushing her away. Something broke inside of her. She looked up at him, feeling the tears begin to silently fall down her face.

“Giles . . .” she could barely form words, they came out hushed, broken, whispered between them, “Giles . . . help me.”

*************************

In that moment – the moment she looked at him with trust and naked despair – he did the only thing he could. Thought left, instinct remained. His grip moved, drawing her in.

He clenched her upper arms in his hands, drawing her forward with fast pressure. He put his lips against hers and gasped as the current ran through him – through them both. Lips slammed against lips, pain transmuted by contact, his fingers digging into her arms. It all twisted – the room, the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth – as she opened to him and he opened to her, something fierce and needy clearing the way for them both. She seemed to struggle under his hands, trying to move closer, trying to press harder into him. He shouldn’t have been able to hold her so tight, but need and pain and love gave him strength. The burning fire of their mouths ratcheted hotter, wet and hard and drawing no quarter, holding nothing back, no surprise to either of them, not really. Not when all the shouting and all the curses seemed to lead to this: bodies aching and full with rushing blood, focus narrowed to the smallest of movements, every twist of tongue and press of teeth making them gasp and huff. Neither would back down, either would let go, heartbeats fast and hard and rushed, beating in furious syncopation. He kissed her with his soul bound up in every moment of his lips and tongue.

In the midst of this burning onslaught, he felt Buffy trembling beneath him. . . trembling and suddenly straining in his arms. She was trying to crush close, but he held her so her mouth, his mouth, their kiss, remained the only focus for her throbbing need. He felt himself divide, half wanting – desperate crazed need – half controlled, every fiber of his body consumed by the woman who met his lips with such boundless passion.

Still, he knew it had to stop; he couldn’t take her lust and be greedy with it, throw everything away and take her now, on the floor. He tore his lips from hers, body screaming in protest, to look at her.

She growled as he broke contact with her lips.

It was a complicated desire, this longing for her, this need, and he held it at bay with a wrenching pain that silently answered her protesting growl. Need was his purpose, but not this uncontrolled thing. Not now, not here, not this way. She opened her eyes to stare at him, fury and frustration writ plain.

“Why, exactly did you do that?” She ground the words out, slowly, carefully, barely controlled, but controlled nonetheless, “And why, exactly, did you stop?”

“Look at your hands.” His terse reply brought her up short. She turned her hands, palms up, and raised them between them.

“It’s stopped.” It seemed the obvious was occasionally worth repeating. “It’s stopped.” She looked at him with wonder. “How ... nothing, not even Spike made it stop completely.”

He nodded at her implied question, relief warring with giddy fear. He’d sat in his bed in England, so certain, so resolute. Across an ocean, assured, but nothing had prepared him for this, not even surety. Seeing her so destroyed had tested his faith in dreams and portent and certainty. But it seemed, again, that late night imaginings were right. He grabbed one steadfast hand and pulled her to the couch, unwilling and unable to let go.

“I had a dream.”

~ the end ~

updated Attack

2005-04-18T15:59:00.000-07:00

I know, I don't write new smut anymore. *sigh* But I did finally officially get Attack of the Ipos so it appears now in it's final version. There aren't that many changes, but hopefully it reads a little better now. I'm just glad to be well and truly done with it.

high praise, indeed

2005-01-23T13:36:00.000-08:00

FRIEND: By the way, did I ever tell you I liked your Buffy/Giles chocolate demon erotica?

FRIEND: Very sexy and well-written.

smut writer: thank you!! hee - you read it. i think you're the only one of my friends (who isn't a fic writer) who's read it! *does happy dance of joy now*

FRIEND: I still think the genre's pretty silly. I think it's saying something when you can make a genre I find silly interesting to read... and erotic.

smut writer: i take it as a huge compliment that you actually felt like reading the entire thing. and the erotic part *bows head* thank you. but i happen to think the nice thing about reading erotica (instead of watching it) is that, no matter who the subjects are, you can still have appearances fall away, and if the material's sexy, it's sexy.... and the genre is silly! that's the point

FRIEND: Yeah, but silly things don't usually give me chub.

(reposed with permission from 'friend'. makes me want to write more smut. hopefully some will be forthcoming soon)

i don't know if this rightly goes here, but

2005-01-07T16:21:00.000-08:00

This is an index of all of the LJ Icons I've created in the past couple of months. There seem to be quite a few. Some are horrible (sigh), but I'm getting better I think. If you're inclined, you may use them, just please please please let me know you are doing so. Otherwise, just go see what a person with 100 x 100 can do to make Buffy & Giles look like they're gonna kiss. Kate's Index of LJ Icons

couldn't resist this meme

2004-11-16T22:17:00.000-08:00

What kind of sex scene do you write?
brought to you by Quizilla

friday's dirty thought

2004-10-22T13:56:00.000-07:00

Damn it. I want to write porn. Hot, sweaty, meaty, man-on-man, bondage porn. But, instead, i have to work. Damn it. And I was inspired to start from the same place one of my favorite authors did, but do it without the emotional crap. Because, even though I love her writing, this time it made me loose my hot and horny - too emotional. Oh, I know, a number of people consider BSDM as some kind of alternative therapy. But damn it, sometimes sex is just sex. Squishy, terrifying, exhilarating, raunchy, joyous and fucking fantastic -- but just fucking sex.