I Blame the Dutch (mpoetess) wrote,
I Blame the Dutch
mpoetess

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Smooching and stuff.

Apropos of nothing, the Five First Kisses meme, long past its prime. In order of writing.



Spike/Xander, Count Spikeula [Which is the first chapter of Chocolatey Goodness, but at that stage, the chapter-like things were still faily self-contained and episodic.]

Xander groaned. "Look, the only place to get Weetabix around here is that little import grocery on 5th, and they charge out the wazoo for it. That's the last box of freakin' Weetabix you're getting out of me, so you might as well learn to like Shredded Wheat. So there, good night, parting is such sweet sorrow, don't let the door hit you, et cetera."

"Hmph. Sacrilege. Anyway, this one's empty too." Spike said, tossing the box at the trash can with more strength than accuracy.

Xander propped himself up on one elbow, and spoke slowly and clearly, through clenched teeth. Which was an impressive feat in and of itself.

"So. Find. Something. Else. And. Shut. Up." With one last glare at the hyperactive vampire, Xander buried his head beneath a pillow and tried to sleep.

There was a bit of banging as Spike worked his way through the rest of Xander's storage space, and then silence, blessed, sweet silence. Xander began to think he might actually be able to sleep before he had to get up, shower, and prepare to greet the world at his day job. What was his day job again? Oh yeah, stockboy. Cool stripey uniform and all the discounted Shredded Wheat you can carry home. Can't remember occupation -- need sleep. Mmm... sleep...

But then the silence, and the still-functioning brain --dammit -- began to prey on him. It might be bedtime for an exhausted Xander, but it was about noon for Spike. What was he up to that was so...damn...quiet? Xander began to listen, really listen. Finally, from the silence, came "slide...scrape... slurp...crunch crunch crunch..."

He turned over in his bed, pillow still over his eyes. Crunch? What did he find that could possibly...crunch...oh god, no...

Unable to shake the terrifying suspicion forming in his burned-out brain, Xander crawled out of bed and stumbled over to the card table he'd set up in his laughable little kitchenette. Blinking, he finally focused on Spike, who was seated at the table next to the tell-tale brown box, cheerfully shoveling in a huge spoonful of blood and...

"Count Chocula ???" Xander shrieked, horrified beyond all imagining.

Spike looked up innocently at him with a mouthful of bloody chocolate cereal. Not in game face. That made it even creepier. "Wha'?" he mumbled defensively. Chew. Swallow. "You said to find something else. I did."

"B...but...the Count...that's just completely disgusting!" Xander sputtered, still aghast.

"Dunno why. Stays crunchy in blood, like y'said. Endorsed by a cartoon vampire, so it's gotta be good. Even has these cute little marshmallow ghosts in it," Spike teased. "Besides, blood n' chocolate...it's like vampire Viagra." He waggled one dark eyebrow in a way that would have been distubingly sexy if he hadn't still had traces of chocolatey blood around his lips.

OK, it's still disturbingly sexy, but also disgusting, if that's possible. Welcome to the Hellmouth. "TMI..." Xander muttered.

"Eh?"

"Too Much Information."

"It's the iron content, or somethin'," Spike went on, grinning.

Dammit, he's doing this on purpose! "It's my childhood, Spike," Xander tried to explain.

"Eh?" again.

"You've just poured blood over my childhood and now you're crunching it to pieces with your big vampire teeth." He reached for the box, and Spike blocked his way with his non-spoon-holding hand.

"How poetic. Too bad. S'good. I like it. Nummy." The vampire grinned again.

Xander looked back down at the bowl of chocolate crunchies and marshmallows, swimming in blood. Shuddered. "Spike, I will do anything -- anything -- not to ever have to see you eat Count Chocula and blood again." He reached for the box again, and this time Spike let him have it. The vampire put his spoon down slowly, and stood up.

"Anything, Harris?" He did the eyebrow thing again.

Xander backed up against the refrigerator, box of Count Chocula clutched against his bare chest. "Umm...within reason, of course..."

Spike walked around the table toward him.

"I'll switch to Shredded Wheat, or maybe Cocoa Puffs, tomorrow. But it's only fair that you give the Count a chance. How can you say this gourmet delight is disgusting when you haven't even tasted it?" The demonic grin was still in place.

Xander glanced over at the bowl still half full of Count Bloodula. Taste *that*? He looked up at Spike and shook his head resolutely. Nope. Not me. I'll die before I'll...

Spike cocked his head as he followed Xander's eyes to the bowl and back. If anything, the blinding grin got wider. Spike slowly shook his own head, and then, in a move that was faster than anything Xander had ever seen, Spike was right in front of him...two inches away... leaning in toward his face, and... kissing him?

The vampire's lips weren't cold at all. Warm with microwaved blood, they pressed against Xander's own, and, involuntarily, he opened his to meet them. Blood and chocolate. Lips...tongue...blood and chocolate. Sweet and warm, strong as the cold hands that gripped his shoulders, as the body that pressed him up against the half-height fridge. Blood and chocolate. Need something...what? Oh, yeah...blood and chocolate...no - air! Need air!

Spike finally pulled away, and the grin had become a smirk. "That's right, you have to breathe, don't you. Inconvenient, innit." He let go of Xander and stomped back to the table. "So, what's the verdict? Do I get to keep my chocolate crunchies?" He sat down in front of his bowl, spoon poised over it.

Xander peeled the crushed box of cereal from his chest. Shakily, he walked over and put it back on the table.

"Umm, yeah. All yours. Just...don't forget to wash the bowl out afterwards." He walked unsteadily back to his bed, and dived under the covers. He could hear Spike chuckling even with the pillow pulled over his head.

---

Spike/Xander, A Long Time [which was written in summer 2000; the house in question was foilery Season 5 spec. Also, narrated from the POV of a 70+ year old Xander, a fact which in no way mitigates how girly overeducated his voice is in this story. It's Xander-as-swallowed-by-Louis!]

So I was heading home alone, and Spike mockingly volunteered to walk me back, to protect me from all the oogedy-boogedies out there on the Sunnydale streets at night. Something that had become a habit since Anya'd left, that walk with Spike. From Giles' place, or the magic shop, or wherever we'd been pounding on the oogedies, to the house that those of us who weren't living in a rent-controlled condo had scraped up enough money to share. I'd let the college girls who didn't have to work the next day wander home in their own sweet time, protected by Slayer super-strength, and pretend not to enjoy the juggling of insults, the picking at my fighting technique, the weird but not *bad* unease that accompanied every moment alone with the Bleached One.

This walk was quiet. Spike was...almost nice. We joked about turning twenty on the Hellmouth, party hats and why he was never going to wear them on pain of staking...little stuff.

We reached the door, I unlocked it, and turned to go inside. He was still standing there, this strange expression on his face, neither smug nor pissed, which were really the only two I knew how to identify on him.

"What?" I asked, turning back to face him.

"Just..." he answered, standing outside the barrier of a doorway he'd never been invited through, and leaning towards me, pulling me to him under the porchlight, and kissing me. Long, soft, so very different from Cordy, from Anya, and it goes without saying, from Faith. Though there was something of her wild hunger in it. When he let me go, he straightened my jacket, smiled a bit oddly, said "Happy Birthday, Xander," and turned to leave.

"Spike..." I said, not knowing what I was saying, but knowing it was right.

"Hmm?"

"Come in."

---

Wes/Doyle -- Skelping

Wesley woke with a twitch. He was back? A few times, the best times, the ghost had stayed until morning, but he'd never gone, then come back the same night. Wesley wondered if something was wrong, if he should be leaping out of bed and dressing for battle stations. Wondered, until he felt a tingle along his jawline, as if a phantom finger was tracing the shape of his face.

Touching. He was being touched. The strange electric feeling followed a path down his chin, to his throat, his naked chest. At the same time, his face felt like it was on fire, as little--kisses---they were kisses--were seared into his skin. Then his lips... He could feel. Feel, for a moment, as his lips touched invisible others, his lover solid in his arms. Unseen, but solid. Warm.

That sensation faded in and out, accompanied by touches, sometimes solid, sometimes electric, everywhere. Simply everywhere.

"You're here!" he shouted, feeling utterly silly as he did so -- but an answering touch softly ruffled his hair, sending static sparks through it. The touches continued. Sometimes it felt as if the invisible fingers, legs, arms, were reaching inside him, touching places he didn't know could be touched. Sometimes there was just sensation on his skin, tickling, tingling, solid for a moment, then not.

He reached out, trying to touch as well, and found his arms full of nothing. Nothing...nothing... and then... a man. Smaller than him, not heavy at all. Soft hair, well-built back. Wearing a cotton shirt, what felt like jeans-- and what a firm behind beneath that denim. Short legs, but strong, as they twisted around Wesley's own.

"Oh, thank God..." he breathed quietly, ridiculously, not wanting to know why his lover had waited so long, only caring that he was here now.

---

Angel/Wes -- Vampire Brownies [Chapter. Um. 14? Of CG.]

He pointed to the two figures, pressed close together, locked in something desperate and sweet and terrifying that he remembered all too well. Wanted. Feared. "They're in love, but neither one of them's going to say it out loud, because they each think the other isn't. And they sure as hell wouldn't believe it if you told them. Ergo, morons."

Wesley stood in silence next to him for a moment, and then breathed in slowly.

"I'm not a moron."

Angel glanced away from Xander and Spike, back to the man who stood just a bare inch away. As if them not touching would make a damn bit of difference when his brain was full of the scent of Wesley's after-shave, Wesley's shampoo, Wesley's conditioner, Wesley's skin and sweat and fear and hope and loyalty and everything that made him stay when he could get on that bike and ride away any time.

"No. You're not." Angel looked him straight in the eyes. "Neither am I. " After a second of silence, he laughed a bit at himself. "Well, okay, if you ask Spike, you might get another opinion. He thinks all my problems can be solved by... eating something. I should walk into the world or crawl out of it. Something like that."

"I'm not concerned about Spike's opinion," Wesley said with a bit of a sniff. "I wouldn't disagree with him on the food issue, though. You could eat something, you know. It won't kill you." Translation: you really should take better care of yourself, Angel.

Something was pressed into Angel's hands. One or the other of the pans of brownies. He sniffed at them. The human-safe ones. Unleaded. Blood-free. "No, I guess it won't kill me." Angel broke off a piece and lifted it to his nose. This was Spike's cooking, after all. Then he took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Took another. Tasted. Chocolate. Something he could always take or leave-- this was Spike's passion, not his. But... It really wasn't all that bad. Wesley watched him, smiling a very small smile.

At last, Angel put down the pan and turned to him. Put a hand on his shoulder. Touching Wesley, something he did so seldom unless he was patching a wound or helping him up from a fall.

"What are you doing?" Wesley asked, uncertainty in his eyes.

"I think I'm walking into the world." And he leaned forward, brushing his lips against Wesley's.


Faith/Buffy -- Sealed With A Kiss

That's why they both turned to fight. Together. Nothing to do with that hot rush down her spine when they moved in the same direction, when Buffy threw her a stake -- Jesus, how many did she keep down there? -- and Faith threw it back with a grin, pulling one out of her boot. When Faith grabbed one of the vamps by the throat, and Buffy hit it hard through the heart, the wood just barely pressed Faith's shirt against her skin, but Buffy looked, touched her arm, just to be sure. Like she gave a damn. Then they were moving again, and then there was dust in the air, and then they were breathing hard and staring at each other. Alone.

Buffy looked down first. Maybe that means Faith won something, but she doesn't let herself count it, not now. Not after Buffy said, "It could've been like that all the time, Faith." With that tiny little baby girl bit of hope in her voice like she didn't mean 'could've been' at all. Like she meant there was a chance for Faith to change her mind, still. Like she meant there was a chance for Faith, at all.

"Could've been like this," Faith said, and drew a heart in her breath that only she could see, as she pressed Buffy against the wall. One hand on bare hot shoulder skin, one splayed on scratchy brick, and Faith's lips bruise-hard against peppermint-ice lipgloss, sparkly umbrella hanging over her head. Buffy opening up like a valentine envelope in Gina Iaconetti's hands that never was. Hot and sweet, and goddamn if her tongue didn't taste like peppermint too, or maybe Faith was just too lost, too stupid, too far gone to tell the difference, her own heart pounding in her mouth.


---



I went back and looked at my firstfanficever for this, because it does contain a first kiss.

*boils eyes*

*in bleach*

That would be a no.
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