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Spike: I’ll Be Home for Christmas


He opens the door and walks into Christmas, with tree and garlands and presents, stockings and soft music, and candles, candles everywhere.

And her.

Dressed in velvet – dark green, of course, to complement her eyes, and sleeveless because, well, California, and besides, such arms should never be covered.

She turns slowly to face him, the candles and tree lights reflected in her eyes like tiny stars, and she smiles and holds out her hand to him. His emerald and pearls on her finger, glimmering.

Soft, she is so soft and warm, soft warm green velvet and soft warm loving eyes and soft warm buttery skin, all for him…

She draws him down to kneel beside her, smiling sweet assurance into his eyes, whispering poetry against his lips Love you, Spike… want you…

And he does not hesitate.

Gathers her gently into his arms and turns her to rest against his legs, murmuring lovers’ nonsense into her hair. The plush nap of the velvet tingles against his skin as he strokes down her back, down more curves and down to the hem he clutches to steady himself before venturing beneath. Her throat vibrates beneath his lips, minute trill of sirensong as he strokes a silk-covered thigh, relentlessly patient while she trembles and gasps. His questing fingers meet the soft friction of lace, and he echoes her moan. Above, flesh smooth as satin caresses his palm, warms his hand.

Torrid and slick she is, and the scent of her blooms upon the air, tangy perfume of nectar seeping pooling in his palm, his fingers press and circle, thumb flutters as she bucks and warbles and their clothes melt away, gone.

Hard and strong he slides inside, all the way in and she feels so good pulsing clenching around him, looks so beautiful with her flushed cheeks and dewy smile, and it’s perfect, absolutely utterly perfect

((almost))

and of course she knows it, the core of his desire. Even through the dizzy heat of friction connection and oh-yes-right-there she knows and his heart swells fit to burst when she tilts her head for him.

Ivory slides into cream to the throbbing red below, he pulls pulls hard and long on the mainline ecstasy as he moves faster to ignition, exquisite combustion, she laughsobwailing and he growling, vibration down to her center for another implosion and then another.

Again love, come for me again, sweet girl – and she does, clenching spasming hard around him, setting off a whiteout of pleasure so sweeping and powerful he can only hang on, anchored deep within her above and below, her blood a river of rapture, her name a repeating song in his mind. Buffy… Buffy… Buffy…

Finally he raises his head, licks his lips and smiles into her eyes -

Wide, staring eyes, unblinking –

He whispers her name, stretches a quivering finger to brush eyelashes that don’t move even then, soft fringe framing dull eyes, the lovely green fire gone, extinguished forever.

By him.

nonononoNOOOO Desperate, echoing shout, ringing over and over through his ears -

“Aw, dreaming of me again?”

He starts and opens his eyes – well, eye, as one is swollen shut – to her face bright and hard with mockery. So like, and yet not. Ultimate torment. She tilts her head and stoops to study the front of his filthy jeans, and her wicked smile widens.

“Yes, I see you are.” Straightens and steps closer, eyes narrowing, smile in place. Horrible beauty. “Keep dreaming, lover. That’s all you’ll ever have.” She turns to leave, tosses over her shoulder, “Oh and, by the way - Merry Christmas, Spike!” Her laughter echoes off the cave walls.

He sags, softly weeping, alone in his chains.

**





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