ADVENT STORIES FOR
DECEMBER 9

CLARK/LEX

Title: We Wish you a Merry Christmas
Author: Treacy PurpleSage
RATING: R
Pairing: Clark/Lex
Fandom, Smallville
Disclaimer. Appropriate Disclaimer (you know the drill).
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback Email address: treacysworld2000@yahoo.com 

WE WISH YOU A MERRY CHRISTMAS

“ ‘We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. We wish you a merry Christmas...’ ”

“Clark.”

“Yes, Lex?”

“Please stop singing.”

“No. ‘We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas…’ ”

“Clark!!”

“Yes, Lex?”

“Stop singing immediately!”

“Make me. ‘We wish you a merry Christmas, We wish you a merry Christmas, We wish you a merry Christmas, and a Happy New year. We wish you a merry Christmas…’ ”

*tackle, struggle, struggle*

*rip, claw, kiss*

*slurp, groan, moan*

“…”

*ecstasy*

“…”

“Clark?”

*muffled*
“Yes, Lex?”

“Didn’t I tell you I had work to do?”

“Yes, Lex.”

“Why did you disturb me?”

“I didn’t, I was just singing.”

“But you know I hate Christmas songs, you had to know it would disturb me.”

“Yes, Lex.”

“I’m going back to work, don’t disturb me again.”

*rustle of clothing*

“…”

“ ‘We wish you a merry Christmas…’ ”

“Clark!!”

“I love this holiday!”

END

HARRY/SNAPE

Title: Standards
Author: Kc
Rating: PG
Pairing: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Fandom: Harry Potter
Disclaimer: The characters herein do not belong to me, nor am I making any money off of them. They belong to J.K. Rowling, as well as people at the WB, I'm sure.
Summary: Severus is not in a good mood.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Feedback email address:  kcdove1013@aol.com

---

Severus Snape was not happy.

To the general population of Hogwarts and the surrounding areas, this may seem a bit of a redundant statement, as this is *Severus Snape* we're talking about, and he is not generally known to be a happy person.

However. (Yes, there is a however.) After the war ended and Tom Marvolo Riddle was finally dethroned from his seat on Darkest high, he had had an almost...cheerful air, which he showed every now and then. To those who knew him best. Sometimes.

But he was definitely not happy now.

You may ask why. (Or not, but since you're here for a story, I'll pretend you did)

Severus was a private person. A very private person. In fact, only two people knew anything about his life before Hogwarts or his past at all.

One was standing next to him, looking as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry or duck under a desk and wait 'till the show was over. Oh, his husband did look a bit apprehensive as well. The reason. Well, the reason lies with the other person.

Who was about to be incinerated under no spell but Severus' chief glare.

"Severus, if you'll just think a moment-"

"Headmaster, I assure you that thinking, just under breathing, is one of the things high upon my list of daily necessities. At the moment, I happen to be thinking of exactly how much trouble finding a new headmaster with your qualifications would be and if killing you would be worth the aggravation."

"Severus."

He sighed. "I apologize, headmaster."

"Accepted. Now, if you'll just-"

"One, I would rather have my eyes pecked out by a particularly savage avian. Two, I'm not a bachelor. Three, no."

Harry coughed suspiciously, but Severus continued on, "I will *not* be Mr. December in Witch Weekly's next 'Bachelors Throughout the Year' calendar!"

---
later
---

Harry snuggled closer to Severus contentedly. If anyone were watching, they might have expected him to be purring. Harry, however, knew the peace wouldn't last long and was...getting in his licks, so to speak, while he could. In this spirit, he nuzzled Severus' neck.

"What did Albus want to talk to you about, then?

And so it begins. "Ah..." Harry cast around for a reason, any reason, but couldn't find one. He sighed. Well, if all else fails, stall. "Well, you see...after you stormed out, Albus..." He sighed and tried again. "Witch Weekly really did need a Mr. December, and Albus was adamant..."

"You agreed to be in that infernal thing, didn't you?"

Harry buried his face in Severus' shoulder. "If I say yes, will you be terribly annoyed?"

"Hm...no, I don't believe so."

Harry looked up in surprise. "Huh?"

"I won't be angry, no. Of course," Severus angled his head down and murmured in Harry's ear. "I will have to prove to everyone to whom you belong."

Harry melted against his husbands chest. "Oh, Sev..." He decided to wait a bit before mentioning that he'd foisted the Mr. December calendar page off on Ron.

FIN

SPIKE/XANDER

Title: Claiming
Author: Kelandris the Mad
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Author's e-mail: kelandris@drakmail.net
Author's webpage: http://kelandris.iwarp.com/main.html  (at the moment, mostly Jay/Silent Bob archived there)
Disclaimer: Yes, practically everything I write involves characters originally created by other people. Those other people will hopefully feel flattered. In this case, those people are Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and anyone at WB. I’m not worth suing, really.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at:
http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Spoilers: Touches only; Spike has the chip, Spike has the crypt, that’s about it.
Summary: Xander’s urge to take drunken Spike home has unforeseen consequences.
Author's notes: Man, this got weird and big and bad. Had *no* friggin’ idea this would go where it did. Oh, and Kira? This is five. DAMN IT.
Warnings: Lot of yelling, lot of hard driving sex, references to heavy drinking and some Xander past abuse stuph. Not much. It’s already NC-17, what did you expect?

“Claiming”
by Kelandris the Mad

Waiting in a cemetery at midnight. Christmas Eve. He could hear the church bells of St. Michael’s ringing in the distance; the town had more agnostics than anything, but the Catholics there were in Sunnydale, were quite devoted. He could see them all there, the women in their black veils and the men in their holiday best, awestruck and fearful and bored in turns.

Those members of his family still able to move through intoxication would probably be there, he thought. One reason why he’d agreed to take vamp watch tonight with the Slayer.

Buffy, ahead of him, crunched her way through a patch of long-dead leaves, and he heard a familiar growl in the bushes. He walked up behind her, pulling the stake out of his back pocket and raised it, waiting for whatever was on the other side. Buffy raised hers, looked back at him, tossed him a tense nod…and reached into the bushes and tossed Spike out.

“*Spike*?” Xander said, shock in his voice. “When did *you* get back to town?”

“Like you bloody care,” he said, raising the bottle he held and taking a swig. “Like I have to justify *anythin’* to the Slayer and her little pet.”

“I am not her little--”

“No, not *you*, are you? Big strapping lummox of a man. Get out of my way.” He rose from his sprawl on the cemetery grass and staggered off between two crosses, wincing at their proximity.

Something…stirred, something he didn’t have a name for, and he shrugged his shoulders. Made him itch, whatever it was, move, like he wasn’t comfortable tonight in his own skin. He shook his head, turning to Buffy.

“Hey, think you’re on your own for the rest of the holiday--I gotta make sure Fangless gets back to the crypt in one piece.”

“I heard that, you bugger,” Spike said. He sounded angry, mournful, drunk, depressed--Xander was ready to deal with any of the above save for the drunk part. He got enough of that at home, frankly.

But Buffy just nodded, pocketing her stake.

“Hey. Just get him home in one piece. We still need to find out where those Initiative guys are.”

“Absolutely. I could pump him for information…?”

“Pump anything you want.”

They both blanched, and looked away. Buffy recovered first.

“I mean, I mean, hey, yeah, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Xander said, still twitching. “Tomorrow.”

Turning, he ran a bit, jumping over a couple of low, black marble headstones, making his way to Spike’s side. He’d paused, sitting at the feet of a mournful angel, drinking and looking up at the stars.

“So, what’s all the hubbub, bub?”

“I’ve always hated that expression,” Spike said softly. He dropped the bottle to the step just above where he sat. The liquid gurgled, the glass clinked, and then Xander was moving the bottle to sit down. Not quite beside Spike, but in the general vicinity. He watched the angles of his face under the moonlight, twitching. He scratched the back of his neck. Shit. What *was* it?

“Xander…”

Xander jerked, pulling back from his examination of Spike’s face. He blinked, realizing that only the vampire’s attention had turned to him. His face was still turned upwards, counting stars.

“Yeah?”

“Do you even like me?”

“What?”

Spike shook his head. “Nothing. Should have known better. Should have my head bloody examined. Maybe cut off. Get rid of the problem once and for all, eh? Defanged by the government. Guess it’s better than a curse…” He rose and reached for the bottle and stopped, blinking, as Xander wrapped his hand around it.

“Nuh-uh, Bleachboy, you’ve had plenty.”

“And you’d know this precisely how?”

“Well, this was full when you got it, right?”

Spike blinked.

“And how many other drinks did you have on your way to buy this?”

“Give it.”

“No.”

“Give it! Please--”

And the human grew cold, colder than even midnight in December tended to allow. Had he ever, *ever* heard Spike say please? He couldn’t be sure.

“Need it to push the memories away! I can’t have them and me in the same head, pet, I just can’t, and I don’t expect you to understand, but I *do* expect you to hand over the damn bottle, all right? Now just--”

“No,” Xander said. His voice was low, almost a growl, and he’d had dreams like this, but never anything in daylight. Guess it was a good thing it was night.

“Better idea.”

“What?”

“Come with me.”

Spike arched an eyebrow, but said nothing as the human stood and walked quietly through the stone markers, making for the back row and the crypts. He slowed, counting them off: MICHAELS, BLOOMBERG, GARCIA, and here was Spike’s. He poked a thumb towards the door, and Spike sneered a little, but went inside.

“Whatever you say, pet, as long as I get me bottle--well, hell, it’s not like I care, right? I have more bottles here.”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to touch them.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because drunk isn’t the answer.”

“Why not?”

“Because drunk is never the answer. Believe me, I know.”

“What, from being drunk?”

“I really doubt you’d ever catch me drunk,” Xander said, and was that really his voice? That low, dark tone, spun out like a guidewire from a far shore? He couldn’t remember. He didn’t care. He still itched, but now, out from under moonlight, away from Buffy’s eyes, he could begin to calm the itching, soothe the body. And watch Spike.

Spike, who was now pacing back and forth, cursing his name.

“Bloody interferin’ whelp, s’not like I need *your* help now, is it? I can be a big boy all by myself, but no, you have to ride in on your white horse and say, no, alcohol is bad for you, alcohol kills…Well, you know what, pet? I’m already dead. It doesn’t get much worse than right here, right now. And right now I need the bottle. So you can just piss off with your sanctimonious--”

“Talk to me.”

“What?”

“Talk to me. Just talk. If it doesn’t help, then…okay, I’ll give you the bottle back.”

Xander sat down, putting the bottle on a low shelf behind him, and Spike stepped close, kneeling on his haunches, staring up at him.

“I could take it from you, you know. I could. I bet I still could.”

“You could,” he said, watching Spike’s face. Had his voice trembled? Had Spike’s? Someone’s had. Was it important to know which it had been?

“You could,” he repeated, “but I’d fight. I’d fight, and you’d have to hurt me. And that would make the chip hurt you. Pretty bad, I’m thinking.”

“Yeah. But…I could.”

“Yeah. So why don’t you?”

Spike stood, stepping back, duster flying like a black cloak around his legs. He shrugged it off and tossed it to over the ratty green chair he’d pulled into the crypt from God-knew-what condemned zone.

“You think I won’t? Think I don’t have the stones to fight you, crippling head pain or not? Don’t *push* me, Harris--”

Those eyes, those burning blue eyes, flew to Xander’s face, and Xander really doubted that Spike knew a third of what he was telling the human, right there, in that look, in this moment. Not even a third of it.

And just like that, Xander relaxed. He knew what had caused the twitching, he knew what and he knew when and he knew why. None of it helped him. It stopped the jerking, but inside, his mind flailed for another answer.

**Can’t,** he thought, over and over. **Can’t do this. Don’t want to do this. Want to go home, call Anya, have her meet me for stocking stuffers and cuddling and maybe some dismal re-run of ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’…Don’t want this. Complications, annoyance, distance--don’t want it. Don’t want any of it.**

Except--he did. He wanted it. He wanted all of it, *badly*. He wanted Spike and he didn’t know what he’d have to do to get him and he didn’t know if it was a good idea or if this was his conscience’s way of finally letting him go, letting him run to the dark side. Either way, he didn’t care. Everything slipped away in that moment, leaving only the harsh reality of his need and his want and his care for this stupid peroxide addict, this blood-junkie on a leash, this crippled, undead, *thing*…

And even thinking through it in those terms didn’t stop him craving. Craving Spike. Craving Spike’s touch.

“Come here,” he said softly.

“What?”

“Come here. Sit beside me. Sit and--” He looked at the puzzled, nearly angry look in Spike’s eyes as he leaned forward, still sitting on his haunches.

“Fuck it,” he whispered. He reached out, pulling Spike forward, and kissed him.

The lips under his were cool and twitching, and there was a long moment when Xander had some *severe* pangs of doubt. Spike wasn’t moving, wasn’t leaning forward any more, wasn’t doing anything other than just…just…*let* Xander kiss him. And what did that mean? Wasn’t the first time Xander wondered how deeply wrong he’d gotten something. Maybe he’d misread this, too.

Then Spike raised his arms, wrapping them around the human, pulling him out of the chair and onto his lap and kissing him back, kissing him, licking at his skin and lips ardently. Each little lick felt like a dab of Tiger Balm on his skin, first seeming to burn and then grow increasingly cold, the more time that passed. Xander arched against him, wanting to feel more, moaning under his breath, and Spike broke off the kisses.

Spike didn’t let him go, but he looked as if he wanted to. He opened his mouth, the lips working without sound, and then he looked up, meeting Xander’s eyes.

“You…want this?” he whispered.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want me?”

“Boredom?” He felt Spike tense, eyes flashing gold briefly.

**Wrong answer, wrong answer.**

“No, no, I didn’t mean it, Spike, bad joke, bad naughty joke, we’ll have to spank it later.”

Spike stared at him. His breathing started, low, rough breaths that made Xander want to weep.

“No, Spike. No. With you ‘cause I want to be. With you ‘cause I don’t want to be anywhere else. With you ‘cause…maybe I need to be here.”

“Don’t,” Spike said.

“Don’t what?”

The vampire leaned forward, touching their foreheads together, and Xander relaxed further. Why did this feel so good? Why would this ever? Why did it?

“Don’t tell the girls,” he whispered.

Xander thought about that. Don’t tell…”Who?” he asked.

“You know. Your Red might cry, ‘specially after what I did the first night out post-chip. And Buffy…Buffy may never date you, pet, but somethin’ in her loves you desperate-like, and she’d be on her way in two shakes to come stake my unlife away. And Anya…She strikes me she’s the jealous one in this equation. Best to keep them all far away and uninvolved, yeah?’

“Yeah. Maybe. But--”

“No buts,” he said, pushing his lips against Xander’s neck. He felt the vampire tremble against him, and wondered why.

“No buts, no nothing, all we have is here, all right? Next time you see me, throw things at me.”

“What?”

“No, I mean it. Be mean, be cuttin’, be…terrible, Xander. Be what they expect you to be. Date the girl, share your daylight hours with the Slayer and her mates, get up and drag yourself through the demon-slaying biz intact. And hate me when you see me. Okay? For your sake. Hate me when you see me.”

“Spike…”

He sniffed loudly, and Xander knew he was crying.

“Oh, Spike…” He tilted that magnificently planed face up, trapping the cool chin between warm fingers. He wiped the tears away with his other hand, staring into blue eyes that threatened to consume him, now that he knew. Now he wasn’t trying to hide who he was. And here Spike was, asking him to hide. Asking? *Begging*

“I won’t hate you. I’ll never hate you,” he said softly. Spike shook his head and Xander stilled the movement, staring into his eyes. Into whatever passed for a soul that he had. Maybe into the heart of the demon inside him. At that moment, he really could have cared less.

“Okay, okay. I won’t hate you, but I’ll insult you. I’ll do what you want, preserve the illusion, and if you push me far enough--if *you* push me far enough, Spike--I might even start to believe some of what I’m saying. But I’ll never hate you. Okay? I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because…I *do* like you, Spike. I don’t know why, but I do. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more. I…don’t know yet.”

And then he had to turn away, look down, drop his hands from Spike’s velvet skin, and think about that. He didn’t know. That had been the truth. And he did like the guy. Like? Maybe…love? Maybe…love a *lot*?

“Like me…” Spike said reflectively.

“Boy, this is *so* not the way I thought I’d be spending Christmas Eve…”

Spike reached in, gently pulling his head up.

“I can’t guarantee much, pet, but…you want to go downstairs?”

“Um…Sure,” he said, wondering how his statement connected with Spike’s. They went over to a large hole in the ground, descended a sturdy wooden ladder, and then Xander inhaled, shaking his head.

Upstairs…upstairs was dim, and dark, and cold, and everything he’d come to expect of the lairs vampires usually lived in. He figured, what Buffy’d told him about the Factory, well, that had been crazy Drusilla doing the decorating.

This, though…This was…

“Special,” he whispered aloud, and that earned a slight smile from the vampire in front of him.

“You like?”

“I…I do, actually.”

Candles on every surface, strings and strings of little faery lights wound around all the sculptures, all the sepulchers moved…somewhere else, wherever one could find to put misplaced sepulchers, he supposed. The empty holes where they’d been were filled with records and books and folded clothes, hair-styling products and pieces of interesting art and wine bottles, racks and racks of them. No wonder he said he hadn’t needed the nearly empty bottle upstairs.

And behind the purposeful clutter, tucked into the back corner behind a folded-back velvet curtain was…a bed. An actual bed. Xander smiled, shrugging.

“What?”

“I dunno, I guess I always thought you slept upstairs, you know, wrapped in plastic or something.”

“Funny.” He strolled over to the bed, sitting down lightly on it, and looked back at him.

“Sit?” he asked plaintively. Xander walked over and sat.

For a moment Spike said nothing else, just leaned down, unlacing his boots and toeing them off. He set them aside, stuffed his socks inside them, and then turned to Xander, staring at him. He brushed a strand of dark hair back from Xander’s brow, and it made him shiver.

Xander shivered too.

“Shoes?” Spike asked.

“Yeah. Right.” He kicked off one, and then the other, pulling off his socks as he went. He licked his lips, thinking. How far was this gonna go? How far did he want it to go? How—

Enough thinking. Shrugging his shoulders, he dropped the red overshirt down his arms, flinging it onto the floor, and then reached down, pulling his t-shirt out of the waistband of his pants. He heard Spike inhale, and a moment later, cool fingers touched his belly, and he yelped.

“Too soon?”

“God, no--but you’re so…cold.”

“I am,” the vampire said, and for the first time in over an hour sounded mournful again. “I’m cold all over. Never get warm. Never *be* warm. Not again.”

“Cold…*all* over?" Xander said, and that tone was back, that dark, measuring tone that sent chills down both their spines. He leaned forward, giving Spike enough time to back away, to change his mind, giving *himself* enough lead-in to bolt if he needed to. Neither of them seized the opportunity before Xander captured the vampire’s mouth, tonguing it open with long, leisurely strokes over his lips, into his mouth, across his teeth.

Spike moaned into his mouth, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him closer.

“Got to get closer,” he said, when Xander pulled back from kissing him. “Want to get you closer…” Nimble fingers were on the zipper of his jeans before he knew, and he heard the snap pop open, one hand stealing inside, inching down, while the other unzipped.

“Cold,” Xander gasped, when his fingers made contact. But God, he was hard. He was harder than he’d ever been, and his head fell back.

“Yes, pet, just like that--”

One hand slid around Xander’s waist, bearing him to the bed to lie flat. The other hand uncurled from around him, pulling down his pants, dropping them to the floor, pulling down the black boxer shorts with the golden jingle-bells on them.

“Oh, my,” Spike said.

“Say anything about those and you *will* get staked.”

“Tell anyone how I saw them and I’ll be staked anyway, love. Thought we covered that.”

“We did. I meant--”

Whatever he had meant flew out of his head when Spike lowered his mouth to Xander’s belly. Those cool, cool lips, tracing patterns on his heated skin…They almost burned, the sensation was so intense. Little nips and bites and licks and Xander was ready to come right then, just from Spike’s breath on his skin. God. Dear God.

Then Spike leaned down, rubbing the side of his face against the human’s twitching cock. Xander yelped again, and Spike soothed him, stroking chill palms down his thighs, across his hips. He relaxed, a little, and then Spike sucked in the head of his cock, tongue licking over every inch, probing into the slit at the tip, curling around him and *tugging*, and Xander screamed, arching off the bed, summoning every mental image he’d ever used in the past that would take the sharp edge of his arousal away.

“Stubborn,” Spike breathed.

“Just so *good*,” moaned Xander.

Spike swallowed him whole, and Xander came, shooting helplessly down the vampire’s throat. Something else he hadn’t expected--for Spike to swallow.

Well. He’d never expected Spike to *want* to. To want to do *anything* with him. In fact--

“A hundred and forty-three years,” he heard himself say aloud, “you could have anyone you want. Why are you here with me?”

“Because you came with me.”

And it made sense, didn’t it, a kind of twisted and cold sense, but there was a rationality to it that Xander couldn’t help but appreciate. ‘Why’d you hit that guy?’ the officer asks. ‘Well, he was in the crosswalk, and he got confused on which side of the street he should be on, so I hit him.’ ‘Oh, okay then.’

Except it didn’t make sense, and it wasn’t logical, it was painful, and cold, and he didn’t want Spike to be cold ever again--

“And that logic is so inescapable why?” he asked, not even knowing he would.

Spike stared at him. Long, painful, almost *hot* moment where Xander waited for those blue eyes to turn gold, or the crypt to fall down around them, or *something* cataclysmic to happen. Nothing did.

“What, you were just waiting for someone to walk by you could talk to, drag home for a quick blowjob and more wine? I don’t think so. You were waiting for me. You were…” It struck him, suddenly, and he sat up, unaware of his own nudity, staring in shock at the vampire not two feet from him.

“You were *watching* me,” he whispered.

“Yeah?” Traces of attitude filled Spike’s face, but Xander saw through the mask to the cold fear behind it. “What if I was?”

Xander didn’t think. He leaned over and pushed Spike back on the bed, straddling him.

“Oh, *fine*, go ahead, slap me around a bit, that’s *why* I been hangin’ with the crowd I can *hit* these days--”

The human leaned down and kissed him, kissed the vampire, thoroughly, only stopping when *he* had to inhale. Because Spike didn’t have to, did he? He wasn’t alive. He never needed to fill lungs desperately starved for oxygen.

The thought made Xander’s cock twitch again, filling with blood, tapping impatiently on Spike’s t-shirt-clad belly.

“Someone’s awake,” Spike said lazily, looking down.

“Yeah. Me,” Xander replied, and kissed him again, kissed him until he was dizzy and spinning and nearly drunk himself from oxygen deprivation, gratified to hear Spike taking huge, unnecessary, panting breaths to try and calm down. It wouldn’t work. All he had to say was--

“Get undressed.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

And suddenly, Spike was smiling. Smiling, leaning forward, pecking his cheek, licking his earlobes, kissing the tip of his nose, in between flinging items of clothing with abandon until he was as naked as Xander. All that perfect alabaster skin revealed for the first time…

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you, love.”

“For what?”

“Best Christmas present I’ve had…” Spike looked away, swallowing hard. “Ever,” he finished, whispering.

“Oh, then, you haven’t hit the best one yet,” Xander said, and reached behind the vampire for a knife that sat on a little table, next to an empty plastic bag, dried rust-brown flakes caked in one corner. Where would be perfect--arm or neck? Neck, sure, but Buffy would notice. Arm, though…He brought the knife down on the inside of his left arm, high up near the elbow.

Spike dove for the blade. “Are you *insane*, pet, you think I want to--”

The smell of warm, fresh blood filled the air.

“Oh, bloody hell…”

“Yeah, Spike. I think you want to. I think you’re *going* to.” He offered his arm to Spike and the vampire seized it, shuddering, staring at Xander with eyes gone gold and forehead gone bumpy.

“I won’t…I won’t take too much, pet, I---oh. *Oh*.” And he dropped his head, drinking from the wound, fangs sinking in to widen the slice. And yeah, it hurts, when has getting cut *not* hurt, when has bleeding *not* hurt?

But there’s something dark and dangerous, even knowing Spike couldn’t feed without Xander’s help, something that thrilled through him, *changed* him. Something…inexplicably, undeniably, *erotic* about this act, about feeling Spike’s tongue moving over the slice, about hearing Spike moan against his severed skin. God. Yes. *This* was what had been missing. *This* was what he’d been wanting.

And *this* was making him dizzy.

“Spike, stop,” he said softly, nudging the head. “Spike. Spike. Please, Spike.”

Slowly, the vampire surfaced, looking drugged, looking *open* on some strange fundamental level, and then he was reaching for Xander, and Xander was going willingly into those cold arms. Warmer now, slightly, warmed by his blood, and Xander was pressed against him, thrusting against him, wanting more.

“Spike, you have any…um…”

An eyebrow quirked. “Lube, darling boy? Never thought I’d need any, now did I? But yeah--over there, beneath the Fear tapes.”

Xander looked, Xander saw, and rose, grabbing the tube and squirting some out. Didn’t think he needed to worry about a condom, and didn’t think he’d bother to ask Spike about it anyway. His hands and cock slick with the stuff, he leaned back down, pressing a finger into the vampire, pressing hard until it popped inside and Spike arched up.

“Oh--bloody--been so *long*, love, so *long* since--oh, don’t, don’t stop--”

“Not much chance of that.” A little self-pity went a long way, and if Spike didn’t catch on that it was rue over his *own* actions, and not Spike’s…well. Let him wonder. Let him--

**No. Let me.**

One finger, two fingers, three, four--he felt like he’d been fucking Spike for hours, just playing him on the tips of his fingers. Finding out where the sighing spots were, where the spots were that made him yell and thrash, finding out where he’d fit the best. Where he’d fit forever. It felt like it had taken hours, and he was afraid once he got inside, once he was inside *Spike*…well, that it would be all over in the space of time it had taken to think this.

And then it was time, it was time and the vampire was screaming at him to stop fucking around already, and Xander just smiled, just smiled. He rose on his knees and grabbed Spike’s legs, looping a calf over each hand, and pointed himself, rock-hard, towards shelter.

He popped in like he’d been cast to fit, and angled the first thrust to touch the best places in Spike. Spike arched against him so much when he did that he was sheathed in a single second, both of them panting, nearly sobbing with the tight, hot feel of the human in the vampire.

“Oh--oh--so *good*, Xan, so *good*--harder, oh, harder--”

“Tight, so tight, Spike, *God* you’re tight--”

It wasn’t going to take long, it wasn’t going to take long at all, it was going to take seconds, *moments*, before he came--and he looked down and saw Spike, straining towards him, straining to kiss him--

He didn’t think it through, he didn’t think at *all*, he just scorched across Spike’s lips with his, diving inside his mouth, tasting his own blood and the warm and slightly bitter taste of his semen and Spike’s own blend of whiskey and cigarettes--

And like that he was off, hearing Spike whimper, hearing Spike beg, and kissing down the sharp line of his jaw, feeling the pleasure building; kissing down the tendon in his throat, feeling the pressure crest--reaching the junction where neck met shoulder and just above that point, *just* above, feeling Spike moan and gasp beneath him--

He bit. Xander bit. *Xander* bit a *vampire*, breaking the skin, scoring a ragged gash with his blunt teeth, and some of Spike’s blood hit the tip of his tongue and he swallowed--

And Spike nearly bucked him off, screaming, thrashing, hands held tight to his hips and Spike’s legs wide, nearly thrown over his shoulder, *bucking* against him, fucking *him* with cold and pressure and tight clenched muscle around his cock--

Xander came, screaming Spike’s name, pounding into him, panting like a bellows. He pushed off Spike just enough to gain a little distance, hanging his head, mouth hanging open, and it was a long, long moment before he could meet Spike’s eyes.

Spike looked just as shocked as he felt, blue eyes like Delft saucers, breath slowing, breath stopping. Xander thought he had maybe three seconds before he completely collapsed. Probably *on* Spike.

“What…” Xander panted. “Is it always like that?”

“Don’t know, pet. Never been Claimed before.”

“Never been…what?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t. That was all…instinct. Or something. Just…wanting you. I didn’t…What did I do?”

“Oh, Christ. Now we’re in for it.”

“Tell you what. Explain to me when I’ve put a few hours of unconsciousness under my belt, and maybe I’ll understand what you mean.” He slumped down, resting his head on Spike’s shoulder, and right before he passed out, he felt Spike gently stroking his hair.

“As if I could deny you anything, my Consort. Happy Christmas, love.”

“Mrgl,” was all Xander said, and then he was gone.


END
*************
Kelandris the Mad
“I was surprised. Were you surprised? I was very surprised.” --Eddie Izzard

KIRK/SPOCK

Title: Jingle Balls
Author: Acidqueen <a.q@gmx.de>
RATING: NC-17 (D/s, kinky anal play)
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Fandom: Star Trek
Disclaimer: Paramount/Viacom own Star Trek, I own my brain. No infringement intended, no money being made.
Note: Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
Author's note: Special thanks to my beta Hypathia! All remaining errors are mine.

JINGLE BALLS

"That's wonderful," Kirk exclaimed when he finally set eyes on the Christmas tree Spock had decorated in his absence. The tree dominated the main room of the small cabin he and Spock had rented for their shoreleave in the mountains.

The Vulcan had denied any romantic involvement in this holiday; the tree clearly told a different story. A large brass star was affixed to the highest branch, and the boughs below held golden angels and red and silver stars and real white wax candles and glittering glass ornaments. And beneath it all, there was a small creche with familiar wooden figures.

"These are just like the ones we had at home," Kirk gasped as he took them in his hand – the tiny animals, Maria, Josef... "They even feel like them."

"They *are* the ones you had at home," Spock admitted. "When I called your mother for advice as to where I could purchase a creche set, she sent me this one. She said that she didn't need it any more."

Kirk blinked away a sudden wetness. Spock had never been Winona's favorite, as she had never quite gotten over the fact that her "Jimmy-Boy" had married a Vulcan male. He knew what it had cost the Vulcan to call his mother. What a gift...

"Let me guess – you also got gingerbread men and pumpkin pie?" He eyed Spock, who was blushing an even deeper green.

"I wanted to make it perfect for you," his lover admitted.

Kirk pulled him close. "You know – it *is* perfect, just because you're here." Their lips met hungrily, and their hands roamed over each other's chests, tugging on each other's nipples through the rough cotton fabric of their casual wear. Kirk's hands started to open the buttoned front of his lover's shirt, but suddenly Spock withdrew.

"We have yet to take care of your Christmas gifts," he said.

Kirk brushed suggestively his forefinger over the tight jeans of the Vulcan. "I'm quite satisfied with what I've got right here," he said in a hushed tone. Leaning over he once more captured the hot lips with his cooler ones, pressing his tongue into the readily opening mouth. He felt the Vulcan melting under his assault, and when Kirk gently pulled him down on the floor next to the tree, Spock gave in.

"Jim -" he panted in a last attempt to avoid the inevitable, but his determined lover had already pulled out his green, slightly curve penis and licked his way down this treasure. The tight material of the trousers put additional friction on the base of Spock's shaft, and so the Vulcan surrendered. Small moans escaped him as his experienced lover sucked him off, and after only two minutes he came in a breath-taking climax, which left him drained of all energy.

"Now, what about the gifts," Kirk purred as he stretched out beside Spock afterwards, fully knowing that his mate wasn't able to formulate complete sentences now. He loved and enjoyed that mindless state in which a simple orgasm could put the usually so brainy Vulcan. Wallowing in his victory, he massaged Spock's chest and groin and put kisses on his half-covered shoulder, prolonging the aftermath as long as possible.

Spock sighed, half content, half frustrated from this once more so easy victory by his human mate over his control. "The gifts..." he muttered, having a hard time concentrating on the words. "They are lying there."

Kirk looked around and found two small parcels between the tree and the couch. Stretching out he grabbed them and pulled them to him. "Both for me, Spock?" he said and felt slightly guilty for not having wrapped his own gift like this. It was even still hidden deep down in his luggage, beneath the clothes and books he had taken with him.

"Of course, Jim," Spock said and sat up, gathering his clothes together to restore his decent appearance.

"Nobody will see you here," Kirk teased and pulled the shirt out of Spock's trousers again. "I love it when you look a bit untidy." The Vulcan's wounded look made him laugh. "A bit, Spock. Just a bit imperfect."

Spock hastily stood up and moved out of Kirk's range, tucking the now closed shirt neatly into his trousers. "Open it," he said standing over his human lover, giving Kirk a nice view on his better parts which still – or once again? – stretched the tight trousers.

Very slowly Kirk opened the first parcel. Inside was a string of anal beads in medium size. He swallowed, momentarily torn between arousal and doubt - they looked a bit big compared to a penis. "That's interesting," he finally said, and blushed when he met the Vulcan's gaze. "Ok, it's *very* interesting." The oversized bulge between his legs told his mate that anyway.

He rolled on his stomach to get a hold on the second parcel. "A small golden bell," Kirk said when he had opened the gift, and blushed even deeper. He had some very kinky ideas about what to do with that ensemble, but he wondered if Spock had the same thoughts. His breathing became harder when he found that Spock was standing over him with his legs on either side of him, making escape impossible. He cautiously turned around to lie on his back, and met his lover's gaze.

Most of the time he was the active one, but once in a while the dominant Vulcan male took over in Spock, and those were moments he cherished, even though it always took some effort on his part to let the fears go. He knew that Spock would never really hurt him or do anything to make him feel bad, but the slight tightening of his chest added interestingly to his arousal.

"Open your shirt," Spock ordered roughly, and Kirk complied. Slowly he unfastened the cotton shirt, one button after the other, till he finally met the waistline. He pulled the shirt open wide, showing off his shaved, smooth chest. He didn't miss the increasing bulge between Spock's legs.

"Now open your trousers," the Vulcan said, and once again the human complied. His hands traveled down his chest ever so slowly, visibly brushing over the skin till they were on the waistline again, where they opened the leather belt and finally found the zipper. Inch for inch they pulled down to release the naked flesh underneath. Kirk just loved to wear jeans without underwear... what good was underwear here anyway.... He listed to his own breathing, and Spock's, both increasingly labored already, knowing this was only the beginning.

The Vulcan effortlessly pulled his mate onto his feet and efficiently stripped off his clothes.

"Get down on all fours," Spock said and placed a thick quilt on the floor to relieve the human's knees. Cautiously Kirk went to his knees and took care not to place his hands and knees over any creases in the fabric, or they would only hurt later. His groin already pounded achingly under the impact of the blood that flooded it in anticipation. Soon he would be filled with the anal beads, each of them surely two inches in diameter. Would they even fit inside of him? And how many would Spock insert into his anus, which had been trained only for fucking up to now?

"Relax," the Vulcan said.

"I'm nervous," Kirk admitted and then almost jumped from the light touch on his inner thighs.

"Part them a bit more," Spock ordered coolly, and the distance in his voice made Kirk shiver. Today he would have to take what his mate wanted him to take, with no room for his usual begging...

Nevertheless he moved his legs a bit farther apart, and then he felt the lubricant distributed over his opening. A single finger found its way into the ring muscle, and he pressed against it, willing to make the passage as smooth as possible. It entered and lubricated its way inside, only to be withdrawn again.

Now he felt a bigger object pressing against the entry, and he tried to open up as before, pushing against it. Maddeningly slowly it stretched its way into him, and when finally the maximum diameter of the bead had passed the ring muscle, it was sucked into his anus so that the next bead pushed against the opening. He gasped in fright and exhaustion and arousal all at once, overwhelmed by the unusual feeling of being filled with such an exotic toy.

"Spock..." he moaned, clenching his hands into the quilt for a moment.

"All is well," Spock said and lightly touched the human's forehead, taking some of the tension away. "It worked very well – I expect you to take three of the four."

"Three?" Kirk muttered in defensive disbelief, briefly closing his eyes and raising his back like a cat.

"Yes, three," Spock replied unmoved. "Prepare yourself for the next one."

Kirk took a deep breath and when the next object wanted to pass his entry he pressed again. Just as slowly as the first one it moved through the channel and was finally sucked into the darkness where it met the other bead. The human let out a sharp breath, wincing at the fullness of his bowels. The bittersweet taste of surrender filled his senses, surrender with a tinge of humiliation that was hard to admit even to oneself. He was glad nobody besides his mate was here to see that his penis was nevertheless hard, showing his arousal off like a lighthouse.

"Only one more," his pitiless seducer said and then the third bead already followed the other two into the anus, pulling the fourth, final one against the muscle like a seal. Kirk weakly leaned his head down on his lower arms and fought to steady his breathing. Pain and arousal fought an equal fight inside of him for a moment, until a hot hand began to caress his hard member. Soon the pain was forgotten, and only the enhanced pressure on his prostrate and the feeling of the stretched bowels made it to his mind on the wings of the pulsing fire in his groin.

But just when he felt near his release, the hand left. He groaned disappointed into the triangle of his bent arms. "Spock, oh please, don't stop."

Strong fingers massaged and caressed his buttocks and the inner and outer thighs, and the human once more moaned in frustration. He was so ready to explode...

"Not yet," the Vulcan said in a voice void of emotion, which told Kirk as clear as a shout that Spock was having a very hard time controlling himself.

A small sound made it to Kirk's ears, and in disbelief he looked down his chest to his thighs. The small bell was fastened to the end of the string, and there it swung back and forth with every little movement he made.

"Let it ring," Spock ordered.

"Please, Spock," Kirk whispered, feeling the normally not completely unwelcome humiliation crushing down on him in an unusual quantity. Right now he would vanish into the floor if he could.

"Let it ring," his master's voice ordered and he gave in, feeling that his face was already red with shame. Slowly he bucked his hips and heard the answering ring. Instantly he ceased his movements, hoping to get away with that small effort, but the Vulcan wanted more. The lean body stood up and towered over him.

"Move around on all fours." The stern voice made it clear that the order was not to be disobeyed, and so Kirk swallowed his pride and inner impulse towards resistance down and began to move forward, away from the quilt and onto the cold wooden floor. Between his legs, on the string that hung out of his anus, the bell swung and rang regularly with every shift of his body center. He felt the flush of shame wander over his whole body now as he moved around the room in circles, one, two, three times, each time passing the small wooden creche and the Christmas tree... 'this is ridiculous', a part of him thought, but another part of him, mainly between his legs, was shouting quite a different message to his brain, and so he was helplessly torn between embarrassment and arousal.

"Stop," the Vulcan stated at just the right moment to end the routine on the quilt again. "Spread your legs wider again," he said and knelt down between them, rummaging around for a moment. Kirk looked to the back in curiosity, but he was instantly ordered to close his eyes. Giving into whatever would come he placed his forehead on his lower arms again, relaxing as much as possible in this position.

He yelped at first when warm fingers once again touched his pulsing, rocking-hard penis, but then he gave in to the stimulation, moaning and bucking into the hand that played on him, that knew every spot that caused him maximum pleasure. Finally he felt his arms and legs tremble in exhaustion and just when he thought he would have to beg for mercy the hand pushed him over the edge and he came in violent spasms. Suddenly the beads were pulled out of his tight channel, each one adding to the spasmodic release by its passage. Small cries escaped his lips, astonishment more the cause than pain, and then it was over.

Strong arms captured him when his shaking body threatened to crumble uncontrolled to the floor, and he found himself being carefully laid down on the quilt. Unable to open his eyes for the moment, he gasped for air and tried to steady his racing heartbeat.

"That was incredible," he finally murmured, blindly reaching out for Spock to pull him down into his arms. Hot lips met his own in a satiated kiss, comforting and assuring that this was no dream, that this was really his mate, his Vulcan lover, who had pushed him to the edge of all lust.

"Merry Christmas, Jim," Spock said softly, switching from his role as distanced master over to the caring lover again. "May all your dreams come true."

"They already have come true, Spock," Kirk replied. When he opened his eyes, his gaze fell on the tiny wooden figures. He chuckled as he found himself wondering if, in his youth, he had ever dreamed of kinky sex under a Christmas tree.

"By the way, Spock, I've got something for you, too," he said and met his mate's curious gaze. "You will love it..."

*****
END

JIM/BLAIR

Title: "Once Upon A Yuletide"
Author: MadByrd
Category: Holiday ficlet.
Fandom: The Sentinel
Pairings: Jim/Blair
Feedback: Makes the season merry and bright :-) mreddy@nf.sympatico.ca 
Rating: PG-13 (yep, still in shock here.)
Summary: Can the Wolf save his Panther from the wrath of a sorceress scorned?
Spoilers: I'd say Sentinel Too, only it's a completely different universe we're talking so... no spoilers.
Note: Written for the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent 
Disclaimers: Not mine. Not yours either, they belong to each other. Got a problem with that? Take it up with the Panther. Go on, I dare you!

Once Upon a Yuletide

It was the first day of Yule and a time for celebration, but the House of Ellis, from whom many a King, Queen and Protector had come, was in mourning. The firstborn and heir of Archduke William lay cold and still upon what every healer in the whole kingdom swore would be his deathbed. One and all, they were powerless against such illness as that which had befallen him, upon his twenty- first birthday.

The day he had refused the hand of the fair Alexis, for he would marry none but his heart's true mate, whomsoever that might be, no matter what the consequences. He had seen enough loveless unions made for the sake of this or that fortune or political or military alliance to know that such was not for him. If his father wanted a treaty with the Spotted Jaguar Tribe that badly, then let *him* go marry their war chief's daughter. Or perhaps Stephen or Carolyn -- or even both -- might like the honor. After all, his brother and sister had been hopelessly smitten ever since they'd laid eyes on the proud Nordic beauty. So what if there rumors that she practiced witchcraft? There had been similar tales concerning their own mother, who had once actually been seen to take the shape of a great black panther. Not only that but the old village gossips would have a field day if it were known that James of Ellis had inherited her other-worldly gifts. For the Lady Grace had been touched by the goddess Bast, making her a Protector. Or in the High Elvish tongue, a Sentinel.

And there were precious few of either Elves or Sentinels left, in the years following her mysterious disappearance from the Kingdom of Cascade.

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

Bright and early on the morning before his tenth naming day feast, the boy called Blair by his mother -- and half- breed bastard by those less kind -- presented himself to Incacha. The shaman of the Wolf Clan took one look at him, then reached for his pot of red ochre. "You are not *a* wolf, son of Naomi. You are *the* Wolf, keeper of the Old Ways," he declared, painting the sacred earth symbols upon the youth's face. "Come, walk with me awhile."

And so he did, and the Wise One taught him of many things, the likes of which not even the royal wizards in King Simon's own court had seen -- or perhaps ever heard of. In time, Blair became much sought after, not only for his wisdom but his great beauty and his gentle, loving heart. Yet to the great disappointment of many, he turned all suitors away, explaining that his affections were already given.

"How so?" they -- and Naomi, who'd hoped by now for grandchildren -- asked. "You have no lover that we can see? Are you perhaps wedded to one of the spirits that dwell in the Great Forest?"

"I do not know that he is a spirit, but yes, I have seen him in the Great Forest. Once as a man in warrior's garb and once as a cat, a black panther. My heart and my magic have told me that he is the one."

"And if he wants you not?" they argued.

"I will still have no other. We are destined to be together. If not now, then in the spirit world."

But his mother was not pleased. She hated warriors with a fierce passion (it was rumored, and never denied, that this was because one of them had once spurned her) and wanted Blair to have nothing to do with them, rejoicing when he had been taken as Incacha's apprentice instead. She did all in her power to make him change his mind, but the young shaman would not be swayed. At last she threatened to disown him if he would not take a wife, or even a husband, more to her liking. "No son of mine will mate with a warrior," she sneered the word in distaste, adding, "Or any other foul beast."

Her words cut deeply, as well she knew they would. Yet he put the pain aside, he would not lash out in anger as she had just done."You forget that I have taken Incacha for a father, since you chose to deny me my own. He is a warrior as well as our shaman, does that also make *him* foul beast? Or yourself, since he who begat me was surely no human." She looked away, unable to meet his eyes. He continued, and there was much sorrow in his voice, "I thought as much. Do as you will with your name and property, but know this: I belong heart and soul to Enquiri. And I will go to him, when my Sentinel calls."

Three days later, in the dead of night, they had heard a panther scream. In a land where there were no panthers, of flesh and blood anyway. The next morning, Blair was gone from the village.

None but Incacha would ever see him again.

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

William of Ellis was a stern man and a proud one, yet now he was on his knees, begging all the gods of his ancestors -- deities long denied, after all, had they not taken his beloved wife away from him? -- to spare his son's life. For despite their differences, which were many, he loved James no less than Stephen or Carolyn, although he didn't often show it. He prayed, pleaded, for one more chance to mend his ways, to heal the rift that now lay between them. It was his own fault, the boy -- so like his mother it was uncanny -- had told him time and again that he would not be used as a pawn. Instead, William had turned a deaf ear, all for the sake of a trade agreement he didn't even need, and brought that...that she-demon into their home. Well, she was gone now and she wouldn't be coming back, he'd seen to that. Her execution was swift and merciful, unlike the living death to which she had consigned his son. The most skilled of healers, of mages and alchemists combined, had not been able to identify, let alone counteract, the potion she had substituted for wine in his cup at the birthday feast. She'd claimed it was harmless, a simple herbal draught used by her people for centuries to awaken sexual desire when a lover proved flagging or otherwise reluctant. Yet the harm had been done and could not now be undone, save for a miracle.

And William had lost all faith in miracles. Or thought he had, right now he wasn't really sure. Which was why he had come here tonight instead of keeping watch, as the others all were, at the side of his dying son. He was seeking not solace, nor to understand the mysteries of the universe, not even forgiveness for his sins. All he wanted was an answer: was there a way, *any* way at all, to save this one cherished life? He would give any offering, make any sacrifice, if only Heaven would send him a sign.

And then he remembered Sally, his children's former nursemaid. She had taken ill with a wasting sickness and the healers had given up on her. Then she had gone to the temple at Rainier and the wizards, too, had given up, all but the youngest, and it was he who had found the cure. What was his name again? Something outlandish. He snapped his fingers, trying to think. Ah, yes, Blair, that was it. The one they called the Elf Mage. Send for him, and all would be well.

The Archduke summoned his fastest riders. James, the last healer had told them, had but hours left to live.

**********

Blair awoke with a start. Had he been dreaming or... no, there it was again. The unearthly howl of a timberwolf, one whose mate was wounded unto death. *His* wolf, whom he had last seen in the spirit world stalking a rather shy panther. So he had found him, then, and there was danger nearby. Fatal danger, else why that mournful keen? Yet there was time, there *must* be time, to find and protect his Sentinel. Hurriedly, he dressed and gathered his herbs, medicines and spellbooks, carefully concealing in a sleeve of his robe the weapon his father, Incacha, had given him. After all, he was a foreigner here. Who could say for certain what menaces lurked in the darkness and whether or not they were immune to magic?

It was then that he heard the hoofbeats on the cobblestone street below.

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

Daybreak. The man upon the bed stirred, for the first time in weeks. That sound, what was it? A drum? No, not loud enough and besides, drums weren't at all soothing like this. He concentrated. A heartbeat. Not anyone's that he recognized and yet, it made him feel ...safe. Like his mother's used to do, though not quite the same way. His nostrils twitched at an enticing new scent, all warm and musky and male, close by. Close enough to touch, and he did. Mmm, soft. He wanted more, wanted to taste and lick and nibble and...

But it might be a good idea if he opened his eyes first. So he did. And he smiled. Oh yes, it was a *very* good idea.

There, cuddled into his side, was the most beautiful creature any mortal had ever seen. Small and slender, perfectly formed, with rich auburn curls framing a delicate -- but by no means feminine -- face. Big blue eyes and an upturned, kittenish nose. Slightly arched eyebrows and pointed ears the unmistakable signs of Elvish parentage, yet not wholly fey. Full pouty lips -- women would kill for those lips -- just begging to be kissed. Lips that were moving unerringly towards his own. Surely he was hallucinating; he must be, what would such loveliness find desirable in him? Well he knew, indeed had always known, that he was a plain, if not actually ugly, specimen of manhood.

Then that sweet mouth was upon his and...he was dead and oh, this was Paradise and here was his very own Angel of Delight, come to claim his soul.

"And to give you my own," said a rich, laughter-filled voice in his mind. "I am Blair, son of Incacha, shaman of the Wolf Clan. Wilt thou, Enquiri, Sentinel of the Great City, be my beloved, my one true heart mate?"

"Now, and for all of eternity," pledged James of Ellis.

#

Somewhere in the spirit world, the black panther was purring. The little grey timberwolf had turned the tables and pounced on him, licking him all over from whiskers to tail tip. The shaman smiled, watching their youthful love play. Blair had done well. Sentinel and Guide were one at last, as they were meant to be.

As they always would be.

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

The End

MISCELLANEOUS (DORIAN/CLAUS)

Title: A Thief By Any Other Name
Author: Karen Colohan (kcolohan@sidsplace.win-uk.net)
Fandom - Eroica
Pairing - Dorian/Klaus
Rating - R
DISCLAIMER - From Eroica With Love and its characters is the copyright of Yasuko Aoike and Princess Comics and no infringement is intended. The story, such as it is, is copyright Karen Colohan, December 2002.
Author's notes - With thanks as always to Barbara for betaing. Feedback is welcomed and always appreciated.
Part of the Slash Advent Calendar Challenge situated at: http://www.kardasi.com/Advent
SYNOPSIS - 'Twas the night before Christmas... and something stirs in Schloss Eberbach.

A THIEF BY ANY OTHER NAME by Karen Colohan

Silence reigned in Schloss Eberbach, the darkness thick and heavy in the very earliest hours of the morning. The slow sweep of the hands of clocks throughout the castle announced that Christmas Day had arrived and, for once, it had not been heralded by a new mission for Klaus von dem Eberbach and his team.

Consequently, Klaus had been asleep in his own bed until a small sound had disturbed him, coming from the vicinity of his bedroom window.

Klaus lay very still, feigning sleep as another tiny noise reached his ears. Peering into the darkness, senses on alert, he saw the curtain move slightly, allowing a hint of moonlight into the room. Then, not unexpectedly, the shadow of a familiar form slipped through, leaving the heavy drapes parted just a little in its wake.

Eroica... or Dorian, the Earl of Gloria, dependent upon circumstances, but whatever name he chose to use the facts were the same: acquisitive collector of all things beautiful, sometime NATO contractor and, for the past few years, Klaus' lover.

Remaining utterly still, Klaus waited to see what the black clad thief would do next. He slitted his eyes so that just a sliver of emerald glittered through the fringe of dark lashes and watched intently. Klaus wondered if Dorian honestly believed he would sleep through anyone's unannounced intrusion in his bedroom, but he was prepared to play along for now, curious as to Dorian's intentions.

Dorian stepped a little further into the room and Klaus knew then that the thief was perfectly aware he was being watched. Nothing else would account for the very precise positioning as Dorian stopped squarely in the narrow patch of moonlight slanting through the now part opened curtains.

The effect was not lost on Klaus; it was, after all, consciously devastating. This was a display that was meant to be seen and appreciated by the thief's specially chosen audience. Nevertheless, Klaus was equally sure that Dorian expected him to maintain the fiction of being asleep. His lover liked to play such foolish games, and Klaus was willing to indulge him - for now.

Keeping his breathing slow and even while his eyes remained cracked open, Klaus waited to see what Dorian would do now. Knowing the thief, whatever he did would be both aesthetic and erotic, calculated to arouse Klaus.

A faint, wolfish smile curled the major's lips as he awaited whatever his lover might unleash, a thread of anticipation coiling through his body.

The first thing Dorian did was to release his hair from the dark, restrictive cap he had been wearing when he arrived. He tossed his head, letting the curls tumble around his shoulders where the cool wash of moonlight silvered their usual extravagant gold.

Next Dorian went to work on the black catsuit he was dressed in, unsealing the concealed fastening that ran from neck to crotch. A bit of sensual wriggling allowed Dorian to peel it from his torso, the fabric bunching around his waist. Then he turned and gracefully bent down, presenting Klaus with a perfect view of the long, pale sweep of his back and just a hint of the curve of his buttocks.

>From this position Dorian removed his boots, before standing and once more facing Klaus. With a positively erotic shimmy, Dorian slid the catsuit over his hips and let it fall around his ankles. A careful step, and he was free of it.

It took all of Klaus' famed discipline to remain silent and still then, as the move left Dorian quite naked. He posed in his natural spotlight, all silver gilt hair and moonlight pale skin. The effect was utterly and devastatingly beautiful and Klaus was well aware that Dorian knew it.

After a few moments, Dorian leaned down again, this time picking up a large bag which had been slung across his shoulder when he first entered and quickly discarded. He opened it now and a faint scent escaped into the room, teasing Klaus' senses.

Opening his eyes a little wider, Klaus watched to see what the thief had concealed in the depths of the bag. Klaus had to stifle a snort of amusement when, with a particularly flamboyant flourish, Dorian began to pull out a succession of long stemmed roses, scattering them around him on the floor. Apparently the thorns had been removed from them as Dorian blithely trod on the fallen blooms, showing no sign of discomfort as he slowly continued with his task.

Still watching avidly, Klaus couldn't help but wonder where on earth the thief had managed to procure the perfect roses in the middle of winter. Whatever he'd had to do to get them, it was a typically extravagant gesture on Dorian's part.

After a somewhat roundabout circuit of the floor, covering it with a floral carpet, Dorian drew close to Klaus' bed. The silvery light shining into the room only served to highlight the fact that Dorian was becoming aroused, his erection curving out from the pale curls at his groin. And now that he had drawn so near, Klaus could smell Dorian's own scent beneath the roses' heavy perfume.

It was the final straw.

Never overly tolerant of Dorian's teasing ways, Klaus' patience finally ran out. Giving up all pretence of being asleep, Klaus surged up, pushing the covers aside impatiently. One strong hand reached out and caught hold of Dorian's arm, yanking him down onto the bed with no ceremony whatsoever.

Dorian gave an indignant squawk as his remaining roses went flying, scattering across the mattress. His protests quickly died on his lips, though, as Klaus rolled over on top of him, pinning him down effortlessly. Without further hesitation, Klaus took possession of Dorian's mouth and proceeded to kiss him breathless.

When Klaus finally let him up for air, Dorian lay back amidst a flurry of crushed rose petals. His eyes glittered as he stared up at his masterful lover. It was rare for Klaus to let his iron control slip and Dorian was prepared to endure a little rough handling for the unexpected pleasure of it.

"Infernal tease!" Klaus muttered gruffly, glaring down at Dorian out of stormy eyes.

Dorian let a slow smile curve his lips as he reached up with one hand to primp his tumbled curls. "Why, darling, you do say the nicest things," he purred.

Klaus gave a wordless growl, his long black hair swinging forward as he bent low over Dorian again.

Reaching up, Dorian buried his fingers in the silky strands, tugging Klaus the rest of the way down so that he could claim his lips for another long, searching kiss. As they kissed, Dorian took advantage of Klaus' distraction to roll them over so that, when he eventually released Klaus' mouth again, he was comfortably perched on top of the major's well honed body.

Klaus blinked, surprised by the sudden reversal.

With a sunny smile, Dorian picked up one of the roses still scattered on the bed. He drew the delicate bloom slowly down Klaus' smooth chest, admiring the contrast of the dark petals against his silver limned skin.

All at once, Klaus' hand closed over Dorian's, stilling the soft touch. "Enough," he demanded, his voice a rough whisper. "No more teasing, Dorian."

Nodding, Dorian let the rose fall back onto the sheet. "This is your present, Klaus, so whatever you want."

Dark brows raised in question as Klaus asked, "My present?"

"Always," Dorian replied, his smile widening. "Merry Christmas, darling, and I'm sorry you didn't get to unwrap me personally."

Klaus gave a low chuckle. "Perhaps you should make it up to me then."

"What exactly did you have in mind?" Dorian enquired, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

A predatory expression spread across Klaus' face as he tumbled Dorian amidst the remaining roses.

"Oh, darling..." Dorian gasped as Klaus then proceeded to demonstrate exactly what his lover could give him for Christmas.

The End