Disclaimers: Nobody in the Buffyverse is mine.

Spoilers: Assorted stuff through 4th season.

Ratings Note: People kiss. PG-13?

Summary: Entry ramp blues.

Feedback: thete1@earthlink.net

*
 

It was bloody inevitable. The surviving soldiers were given the choice of
honorable discharge or dishonorable discharge -- not much of a choice for
boys who'd grown up on the teat of God, guns, and Mom's apple pie. In
truth, the demons had won -- a nice change in Sunnydale, though Spike
hadn't exactly been on his preferred side of the battle -- and all the
soldiers had to show for their months and months of bloody good service
was a nice, firm kick in the arse.

Sort of thing to make a man, or, in this case, several extensively trained
and heavily armed men, feel a bit vengeful. Certainly resentful enough to
recapture their favorite neutered vampire and whoever happened to be
within three feet of him.

The solidly Aryan looking looney in charge seemed not to care that said
whoevers happened to be perfectly, annoyingly human -- everything movin
was getting locked up, it seemed. It was cheering to hear the Slayer
finally start cursing along with the pleading. She was down the hall
somewhere. Bloody girl had a mouth, he knew that.

Better to count his blessings that he'd gotten to room with Xander,
everyone's favorite wanker, instead.  In normal circumstances, deciding
between who he'd rather spend the least time with would have been
difficult, but the guards here showed a predilection for popping the boy
in the mouth.

Peace and quiet and a wonderful smell. Blood and fear and fury and the
teenagers' cologne -- sex. Always sex.

Probably what he was using to distract himself until someone got him
out of there.

Spike could while the hours away, too. Xander's lip was too swollen for
him to miss it with his sharp, sharp teeth. A slow, steady trickle of
blood, somewhere within that abused mouth. Spike had been closing his
eyes, musing on better times for hours now.

They hadn't fed Spike anything at all.

Spike gave himself another three minutes before he went sniffing over
to where Xander was sitting, holding his knees to his chest. Went over
and -- lord fucking preserve him -- asked.

Xander could stop bleeding at any moment.

Spike counted very quickly and silently to 180.

Stalked over and crouched, did his best not to morph at the intensity
of the blood scent. No reason to spook the prey. "Xander --"

Slurred, "so much for your vaunted resistance to my charms, Billy-boy.
Come to Xander, hope of the shamed and desperate." And simply left
his mouth open, pink tinted saliva on his teeth, fresh wound cracking
open on his lip.

Spike swabbed a bit of it off with his finger, gentler when they both
felt Xander's internal wince. Got close enough to avoid wasting it on
the floor and sucked, lapped, water in the desert, and sweet, so sweet.
Dru would've liked him.

And Xander was still sitting there with his eyes closed, his mouth open
apparently as far as he could bear. And Spike dove in, licking and sucking
and grinning internally at Xander's shocked moan, and his moan of
something very much like surrender. If they gave the soldier boys a show,
they might just hit Xander in even more places...

Spike wouldn't starve after all.

*

Soft brown skin over the baser ropes and cords of extensive muscle. Kendra
was in far better shape than Buffy would ever likely even care to be. And
thinking of Buffy just made Giles think on their relative ages, and though
Kendra was older, the difference was infintesimal.

Shameful to even think about, though no more shameful than this moment
itself:

Kendra in his arms, alternating between melting against him and stiffening
uncontrollably. Zabuto must have had all the parenting skill of a wire cage
monkey, and the sad truth was that Giles was doing nothing, absolutely
nothing to pull away. Closer and closer in tiny melts and fears, breathing
warm and fast against his throat. His throat, for he was the safest man in
the world, wasn't he? A Watcher, though not her own. A man, far less
volatile than any mere boy.

Kendra's wordless fixation, having showed, perhaps in every relieved smile
at being shunted away from Xander, in every breathlessly happy laugh at a
particularly peculiar bit of research. He could not be her Watcher, she had
no comprehension of what father could possibly mean, and he was there.

Something steady in the hopelessly insane world of American Slaying.

And he was taking too long. She was looking at him now, eyes wide and
steady and puzzled and hopeful. In a moment she would speak, and Giles
would be able to end this.

He dipped deep into her mouth, the taste of her fear almost overpowering
everything else in the heartbeat before Giles closed the last bit of space
between them, let her feel him, and know his own need was the same as hers.

Or enough the same to make her long, low moan honest and open, in turn
enough -- perhaps anything would be -- for Giles to brush the concerns
away with a tiny, dark smile behind his busy mouth.

He would show her life.

*

And, you know, Xander really did have to find out if Larry had really "seen"
something in him beyond his inherent nobodyness that made him worth
pummeling. To be sure. Larry would certainly never believe he was straight
-- Xander had tried to convince him it was all a misunderstanding, difficult
without being able to mention werewolves -- but he knew the truth in his own
head.

Yes.

And so what that he noticed what guys looked like, anyway? Just boning up on
the competition and the flood of images on the heels of that thought made
Xander squeak, just a little. Checking out the competition /hey, sailor.../,
no. studying the competition maybe. Yes.

It took a moment for that thought to translate itself to an image of
several horrifically recognizable males, naked and splayed out on big,
science-lab type things.

The swim team had clearly been bad for him.

All that gratuitous nudity, and steam, and male bonding, and maybe Dad had
the right idea with the whole, get drunk and bitch out baseball players he'd
never actually meet style of male bonding.

Safer.

No confusing thoughts.

Not that he was confused. Just... curious.

*No*.

He was simply confirming things for himself, that's all. No studying for
him. Not a hint of curiosity, no sir big hot hand on his shoulder and he
guessed Larry had gotten his note about the locker room after all and
he's being turned and --

"Mmm, Harris. I've been waiting for this."

Soft, hot lips on his own and a busy, busy tongue. Eager, Larry. Eager
and enthusiastic and extremely gay Larry, as evidenced by the
extremely hard extreme pressed right up against Xander's hip.

And Larry is... licking him. Stroke after stroke against the inside of
his cheek and the roof of his mouth and his lips, making them wet.
Wetter.

And when Larry pulls back to breathe, Xander feels justified in yanking
him right back in, as there had been entirely too much licking for it to
be called a kiss.

Yes.

*

End.