Improv 3: Bride of Improv
by Te
August 2000

Disclaimers: If they were mine, I'd keep them properly supervised.

Spoilers: Assorted 4th season stuff.

Summary: More improvised snippets.

Ratings Note: From PG-13 to NC-17.

Acknowledgments: To my wonderful brain, who keeps me working.


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

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

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

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.


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

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

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 --


"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

"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

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

"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

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."


"Uh-huh, anything you say."

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


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

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


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

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.


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

And I think I'll get my wish.


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