*****

debitchan: Te: Cinnamon, cat, compact

Willow has a box of things that she has no idea what to do with. There's pantyhose in there, the high heeled shoes that went with her prom dress and with the dress she wore to her cousin's wedding. She wore them then mostly just to watch her mother struggle to decide whether she was Going Her Own Way or just Subscribing To The Patriarchic Stereotypes Presented By the Media Culture.

It had made for a beautifully silent plane ride, with plenty of time for Willow to make notes on the more troublesome spells in her life.

There's also makeup in there, including the very first compact she ever owned -- a gift from Buffy -- and the cinnamon lip gloss that used to make Oz growl almost entirely playfully into her mouth.

Tara's allergic to makeup, and Tara has gotten her extremely accustomed to comfortable shoes.

Willow is concerned about the stereotyping, but Tara just jokes that if she keeps that attitude she'll *never* be able to pass the tough battery of tests it takes to be a lesbian.

And gives her a little look whenever she orders yoghurt instead of ice cream.

Tara likes to ruck her shirt up over her belly and rub it and drum on it and make goofy faces until Willow has to zorbet her there and hold on to her, and listen to her insides do their thing just inside the creamy swell of flesh.

Tara is the kind of woman you just know would look beautiful pregnant -- she glows anyway.

There used to be a large number of condoms in the box, too, but Willow and Tara, after much research, have decided to invest in something called The Stinger. They hope to every god they can think of that the plain brown wrapping isn't too *obvious* about being plain brown wrapping.

Having the box itself is Admitting things, more than she really wants to. Of couse, there's Tara, and Willow really thinks that she's falling in love and that maybe there'd be less love if Tara was, say, Tom, but still.

Just because she doesn't really need this stuff at the moment doesn't really mean she should throw it away.

Well, OK, maybe all the magazines with the dieting advice, because the fact of the matter is that Willow likes food, and gets plenty of exercise, what with the black magic and the fighting evil stuff.

And Tara is teaching her the dark art of Cooking Really Well, too.

And she doesn't *have* to throw out the box, for all the jokes, and, OK, for the fact that they immediately acquired a cat, they're still their own people, Willow and Tara, not Lesbians 1 and 2.

It's just that so many of the stereotypes are so *practical*. She doesn't exactly miss the half-hour makeup drama every day, after all, and her feet feel really, really good almost all the time.

Willow is comfy. Rounding a bit, and still fretsome about that, but definitely comfy. Even with all these things in the box.

"I made some um spare room in um the closet. If you need it."

Willow abruptly realizes that Tara uses the exact same tone of voice to say things like that as she does to say things like "you have a really um beautiful pussy um can I fuck it?" and giggles and feels her nipples get all nipply and her beautiful beautiful pussy wake up and start sending waft signals Tara's way.

Closets don't have to be all bad.

*

Deb: Te: Gargoyle, lamp, scarf

The first moment I realized just how drastically my life had changed was when I found myself cringing back from the gargoyles on a church.

Of course, I was unbelievably stoned at the time, and not a little pissed, but still. It was a small church, and the gargoyles were cheaply made.

But they bore far too close a resemblance to the demon that had nearly eaten Deirdre the night before. I'd killed him with a heavily tarnished silver blade Phil had been trying to scry with that night, but you could never really tell what might choose to come back.

At the time, I laughed it off for the sake of whoever might've been watching St. Edward's at 2 in the morning, but I made my way back to the flat silently, and just a touch more sober.

It changed nothing, of course, not in the long run. I came home to find Randall had hung the sword -- properly gleaming -- on the wall, and Ethan waiting for me.

Or perhaps simply sitting on the couch, idly casting the small pile of mismatched bones the flat had, by all appearances, come with -- I was 22. An Ethan not actively involved in casting a massive summoning or fucking was waiting for me.

Sometimes even the fucking was waiting for me, but most of the time no amount of cheap rum could allow me to really believe that. Ethan just didn't give a damn, sometimes, and I would be bloody fucked if I ever let on that I did.

With anything but my body.

Maybe if I'd had a few more years to the be the 'dissolute rebel with dark secrets' I could have learned to make my body say only what I wanted it to, but I didn't.

What I had was Ethan, and... the fire between us. The rope, the chain, the blood and magik. Choking him with my scarf, riding his cock and feeling so scandalous and also lost.

Pushing his head down just a little farther on my cock, just to see his eyes roll back in his head.

And the coven became a shadow of an excuse for us, wrapped further and further in each other, fucking other people more and more rarely.

Staying in and casting on each other. Summoning with my cock buried inside him and the things we summoned grew more and more depraved with our hunger, feeding on our ratcheting need for each other, slipping between in cool clouds of being, feeding on the sweat and blood and come.

I don't remember which of us first summoned Eyghon. I do remember stepping out to bum a fag off Phillip and finding him ridged and pocked. The rest of the coven was laid out on the floor, unconscious, but still breathing. Eyghon introduced himself, sniffed me thoroughly and went for Ethan.

Who invited Eyghon in immediately.

Before the sun rose I was tattooed and sore enough to feel every bite, every cut and bruise and the steady dull ache within. My cock was raw.

I was euphoric -- drugged and sated for what felt like the first time in years. It didn't last, of course. In no time it was back, that itch just under the skin that had me dreaming of killing myself and Ethan both, just slitting our throats and dying that way, tacked together with the blood and semen we couldn't stop spilling.

But I knew the cure, and I barely had to think the welcome before Eyghon was in *me*.

And so it went, the coven splitting in on itself on who would get the right to be used, who could get used. Over and over, ripping through the six of us and I remember screaming inside my head that this was going to kill me, and I remember thinking it *right*.

There was no blankness when Eyghon took over, just a long ride with a hungry, hungry companion, experiencing everything sharper, brighter, musky and sweeter and oh.

I took them all that first night, forcing Ethan to sit and watch, and not touch himself. Watching the fever writhe under his skin more and more, until he was trying to fuck the air itself.

And taking him like that, with his need raw and blatant and open in the air... I loved him, then, or knew that I did and... Eyghon made me cruel.

Ethan just took it all and it made me so *angry*. I remember that clear as day, just like I remember the first time we, just the two of us, had sex after that... and how I smashed a lamp and took off when he kept demanding it harder, rougher.

Meaner.

In retrospect, what he wanted probably wasn't much different than our usual. But at the time I simply went back to Eyghon, and begged him inside me so I could punish Ethan, make him see that it wasn't what he needed.

And as he slipped in I remembered the gargoyle, and my own fear.

Of course by then, it was much too late.

*

spike: te: cheeseburger, slide, grass

He showed up to the meeting with grass-stained knees, radiating heat and lawnwork with a sort of ruddy-faced *thereness* that not a single one of us remarked upon. Apparently, Xander had moved out of the frozen treat field into something involving landscaping, and sitting there, I could suddenly see him.

Kneeling on some patch of lawn and painstakingly pulling dandelions, young maples never to be. In the image he's shirtless, but it didn't strike me as a danger sign right away -- in the real world, the shirt is practically pristine compared to the rest of him. He hadn't been wearing it.

But the mental image held my attention for much too long, and Xander caught me drifting just as the previous two weeks of college gossip quieted down, and we had a moment to hold each other's eyes. And his were open, and openly challenging.

I surprised myself -- and by all signs, him, too -- by smiling, and then on to the meeting's purpose. Yet another older-than-most vampire moving into Sunnydale, come to challenge the Slayer.

There were records enough available, and Willow demonstrated her new ability to slam a stake through a target with magic alone, and there was only one near-death experience when she lost concentration.

Perhaps predictably, it was Xander.

Perhaps predictably, he laughed it off and jokingly flinched everytime Willow looked at him.

I wouldn't be surprised if looking at him had been what caused the loss of concentration in the first place. Xander has been... if not distant, lately, than definitely otherwise occupied. Something has changed, and I think it has a lot to do with how he sees himself within the group.

Some part of him has, gracefully, given up on playing the integral role he's longed for for the past several years. I count my observation dear -- I have managed far less grace, though I can soothe myself with the thought that I've had much less time to get used to being, well, useless.

Though, of course, that thought is equally uncomfortable, because it calls into question nearly everything I've ever said to Xander, in poorly couched jest or otherwise.

But Xander, after his challenge, went back to wherever he had been in his head before noticing my lack of focus. Perhaps to thinking about Anya, or the work-day ahead, or the rent, or his rather frightening family.

Or any number of things the rest of these children have never had to give a moment's thought to.

He slides too easily under their radar, under mine, too, except when he's distant like this, when *his* focus is utterly inward, and he's unconscious of the way he sits, and speaks, and moves.

Performing for no one at all. And I wonder if this was how he was with Jesse, or with Willow before Buffy came and stole some idealistic and desperate part of his soul.

But like this, he is *there*, a singular being with his own life, his own thoughts, and his own *presence*. And I wondered if any of them could know why they sometimes frowned a little, and watched Xander so curiously.

And when the meeting was over, and they went their separate ways, Xander stayed to help me straighten things up, and looked at me again. Searched me again.

And all I could do was apologize, which made him look at me oddly for a moment, and then hug me fiercely. I held on, and breathed in clean sweat and growing things and... sunshine. Strange that it has a scent, but it does, and more noticeable here in Sunnydale than anywhere else, I'd think.

When he pulled away I felt a little dazed, but his grin was infectious.

"It's OK, G-man. It's um... OK." Watching me expectantly and I hadn't the foggiest clue how to respond beyond what was undoubtedly a dopey smile.

He reached for me again, but aborted the movement. Ducked his head for a moment.

"Hey, I'm heading to Crazyburger for something artery destroying. Wanna ride along? I have the car."

And I found myself nodding, and smiling just a bit wider. I was beginning to feel like the village idiot, but there was something... There had been something incredibly liberating in apologizing, gentle in Xander not to force me to be specific. And there was something like the way I felt when I was young, and was almost entirely un-cynical: That irresistable pull to get to know a person you had reason to believe was *good*.

And sitting here with him *is* good. Watching him eat what appears to be 6 separate cheeseburgers makes something in me swell, maybe warm a little. He's young, and he's worked hard, and he's quite, quite beautiful.

A beautiful young man, who smiles at me as I babble something utterly meaningless about the state of fast food in England.

The state of English food in general, which I remember theorizing with Phillip one day had more to do with the steady perversion of the youth than any amount of rock music.

You needed drugs just to consume it.

I steal quite a few of his fries while waiting for my strawberry shake to revert to its liquid state. I'm not entirely sure what it's made of and --

"Seaweed."

"Ah. Splendid." Rather revolting, actually. But though it smells absolutely nothing like strawberry, it is a *hot* day, and I imagine it will be sweet.

Xander's eyes actively twinkle as I move to take a sip. Or attempt to. "Even Ethan couldn't exert as much suction as this... thing seems to need."

Xander chokes on his cheeseburger while handing me the spoon he'd been hiding all along. Little bastard deserved it. I reach across to thump him a good one, but he's already recovered.

I find myself squeezing his shoulder instead, and sharing the not-quite-joke.

"You know, Giles, you just answered a whole lot of questions, there."

"I hadn't already? Don't all you Americans just assume all British men are gay?"

"Well... OK, yes, we do. It's the tea thing."

"Yes, I always suspected it might be."

More smiles, and maybe something of a blush on Xander's face. I'm not being very fair, I don't think. In fact, I think I must be acting rather ravenous. I miss adult company, and Xander, somehow, is the closest thing I have.

Which isn't as much of a joke about my life as I would've believed a few hours ago. I want to apologize again, but I'm not especially sincere. What comes out when I open my mouth is: "I'd like to be your friend, Xander." Serious and subtle as a brick dropped in a wedding cake.

And Xander did the head-ducking for me before reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. "I think you'll find your Xanderfriend loyal, accessible, and only occasionally embarrassing, Giles."

"Call me Rupert."

"When hell freezes over."

I snort pureed seaweed, which in turn makes Xander choke again, and we spend the next few minutes recovering, and breaking into random laughter.

Finally, he says: "Why *Rupert*? You've never been a Rupert. Even when we all thought you were just a librarian with a lot of weapons you weren't a Rupert. Is there even anybody that *calls* you Rupert?"

"No one alive," I say, and he folds in on himself immediately.

"Jesus, I'm --"

"No, it's all right. Most of them only called me Rupert because I insisted."

And we both know that has nothing whatsoever to do with the topic at hand, and I am grateful when Xander lets it rest there, anyway.

"So I take it I can't call you Ripper, then."

"No." And I manfully resist the urge to tell him what he has to do to earn *that* particular privilege.

"Huh. Without that, I still find myself fond of G-man, G-man."

"*Giles*."

"Uh-huh, anything you say."

And I find myself returning yet another grin, and... warm inside. Very warm.

*

spike: Te: rose, van, moth

"Moths," said Devon, "are the insects of glam."

And he waited for it to sink in, knowing he is not the only heavily spliffed individual in the van. When it was time, he continued.

"It's not only the glitter on their wings, or the way they fly again and again to any light available. It's not even the way moth sounds like it could be the name of a drug." And for a moment Devon had *no* idea what it *was*, but he recovered quickly. "It's all of those things, man. And the little black insect bodies, too."

"Huh," said Oz.

"What about the little *brown* insect bodies, huh? What about them?"

Dev could always tell when Xander had had too much, because he got to be exactly like he was sober, only really, really fast. The only thing to do was smoke him back down. "Oz..."

"On it, Dev," and rolling another fattie while Xander focused on everything and nothing at once. Which was of the cool, but only when Devon wasn't quite this fucked up.

"Cool. Now like I was saying, it's the bodies most of all. Brown and black and brown and. Whoa. Yeah. Six-leggedness. All hard and segmented, like a really long ant."

Devon watched Oz shotgun Xander a few hits, rubbed idly at his rising cock. He loves being able to tell just how good a kisser Oz is just by looking at Xander. Who's like, super silly putty or something. Press something on him hard enough and it's all right there.

Or maybe like a mirror, only soft, and velvety like petals. Roses, only maybe not so cliche.

"But you were talking about the glam." Exhaled on a serious cloud of smoke. Xander was still a little manic looking, but Oz was licking his neck now. Mania wouldn't last long.

"That I was. Points to the X-Man."

"Hmmm," Oz's voice muffled by Xander's skin. "How many?"

"Dude, I was talking about *moths*, all right?"

Xander moaned from somewhere on the floor. Devon decided to take it as an agreement to pay attention to the wisdom dropping down from on real fucking high.

"It's about the change, man. The way these ugly little fuckers can put on these wings and... and bust their little insect asses to get to the light and drop their glitter all over the place, knowing that some asshole's gonna try to swat 'em down, but doing it anyway. Until they die."

"Hunh."

And silence, then, save for the wet sounds of Oz's mouth on Xander's skin, and the quiet tinkle of dust just behind Devon's eyes.

"Does this mean we have to listed to Bowie again tonight?" Xander. Fucking Xander. Not a bad idea. But first,

"Dude, hit him again, he's still verbal."

Oz looked up. "I think he's pretty much always verbal."

"We just gotta try harder, Oz. Think of the moths."

And Oz chuckled, and passed the joint to Xander. "You're right, Dev. The moths change everything."

"Told you."

*

spike: Te: polish, coral, panties

Coral pink nail polish and white satin panties. We skip the bra -- he's just not shaped that way. I still can't quite believe he agreed to this. Xander trusts me in ways I can't quite wrap my mind around. It's just too big, and much too frightening.

Even more than his wide brown eyes and parted lips. I can smell his fear, and his arousal. That acrid bite of shame beneath it all, sort of waxing and waning as he stares at me. I do my best to look as reassuring as possible, though in truth it had been little more than a whim.

Xander staring at my collection of nail polish -- and it's funny the things you choose to take on the road with you -- and stumbling over a confession of slightly more homoerotic than usual frat boy humiliation.

He wasn't comforted at all by my suggestion that the frat boys in question were just trying to find an acceptable means to express their desire, though it did make him laugh.

And something about the sight of him, head tilted to one side, eyes half-closed... I pictured him made-up. Sparkling and distanced by all the illusions I could create. I knew it was me that had done this. And I drove him out to Finnian state park, and asked him if I could try something.

Forgetting not to watch as he stripped down and wishing, wishing he could smell my arousal, too.

Instead, we're pretending we don't see the insistent curve of Xander's cock through the panties. He doesn't ask me why I had a pack of women's underwear in my van, and I think, maybe, I'll offer the story later. If we're still here, if he's more comfortable.

Laid back on my mattress, head toward the warm outside.

"Do you mind if I straddle you?"

His arousal spikes and settles. I can admit to myself that I didn't *have* to ask the question that way. But he doesn't mind, and I climb in. Turn and straddle his waist, and use the afternoon sunlight to work by. Peach lip gloss and eye shadow, traces of Devon's glitter still on it.

Just a hint of color for his cheekbones, and a little silver beneath his eyes. I use my fingers, letting the slightly different shades blend together. I love the feel of his eyelid beneath my finger, the way he consciously relaxes the thin flesh.

I love the waxy-sweet smell, and his plush lower lip.

And it's one of those tactile necessities. Something that needs to experienced fully, and I feel one of the hazes descend. There are different ones, steps on my adjusted ladder of enlightenment, where humanity has become nirvana. Which is an interesting idea, though not necessarily something I agree with and --

I'm suddenly sure that I've given Xander at least eight coats of gloss. Shaking the haze away and his mouth is slack, passive. And his eyes are glittering.

I settle myself upright again and Xander follows up onto his elbows. I've left a greasy smear of gloss on my leg. "How are you doing?"

Xander pauses just before licking his lip, tongue showing for a moment. He's thinking. I like the way his chains fall over his collarbone and touch them, too.

"So... Oz."

"Yeah?" There's a tiny blue sun bead on one of the chains.

"Is this a new aspect of our friendship or do I just make a really hot woman?"

"Both, I think." Though, aesthetically, I want his smile to be crueler. More arch. Darker colors, maybe and rocking down against him. Thrust and rub and press. I love the sound my jeans make against his panties.

The pinks and peaches blend into his skin well, maybe too well. He looks like someone who wants to look fresh faced and innocent. He looks jaded, somewhere beneath his actual expression of hungry concentration. Faintly ridiculous, shocking with his eyebrows and jaw. Beautiful.

Scratch at his nipples and he moves in a sea roll beneath me. Pinches make him gasp, arch closer and I have to get out of my pants. Break away to strip and he reaches for me, then fingers at the wet spot on the panties.

Starts to slip them down over his cock but I grab his wrists before he can. A questioning eyebrow that pulls his features into something more becoming the makeup. The mirror is somewhere in the box of randoms behind me and for a moment I'm torn between releasing and... it only lasts a moment.

Kissing him, pushing down through the gloss and the taste overpowers Xander's own briefly. Then a dark, smooth taste, coffee without the bitterness, hint of sweet.

Xander.

Thrusting against him, cool satin chafe getting hot, and wet.

Still holding his wrists down on the mattress and Xander is a wonderful, generous kisser. Open mouthed and easy, coaxing my tongue inside again and again, nibbling at my lip. I can smell his shampoo and his fabric softener. I can smell his cock, fresh sweat and bleeding pre-come and human animal musk. I growl into his ear and earn another sea roll, and a perfunctory struggle against my hold.

More pre-come, making my mouth water and I lift up just long enough to yank the panties down myself and skin. Crisp hair and waves of scent and soft slick skin and his hands free, roaming over my back, tugging me closer, higher, there. Sweet groove that I can't tell is his or mine or both.

I can feel him, I think I can predict his every reaction, even despite the shock of his leg looped over my own, of the taste of his moans.

Burrowing into his neck and wanting more than just to kiss and mouth and nip and holding that hunger back sends soft-ended thick waves of need to my cock, my belly. My spasming hands and I thrust faster and he arches up and up and the van is moving, door is wide open, Xander's head tilted back and I do it.

Bite a little too hard but not hard enough and he jerks hard beneath me. Smelling him come the eyeblink before he sprays me and it makes me want harder, push him down harder against the mattress and stroke and stroke and the sound I make when I come isn't human, isn't close.

Falling on Xander and staying there, wanting to get stuck, get our chains tangled, stay just like this and let it hit again. That need in spunk and lip gloss.

Look over and Xander's face isn't as smudged as I thought it would be, and with his eyes closed he looks soft. Sweet and vulnerable prey, breathing short pants and still mostly hard.

I press my thumb against his mouth and he kisses it. Pauses, then sucks on it, slow and thorough, eyes still closed, though not all the way. And it's heat, triggering aftershocks and making me twine tighter.

And I think I'll get my wish.

fin