DISCLAIMER: The characters are Joss’, of course.
PREVIOUSLY ON BUFFY: Joyce, Paul, and Giles are going to escape Maria’s stronghold, while Buffy and Spike are about to spend a quiet evening together, post-declaration…


Chapter 42: Oh, Dear Santa, Fill It Well

Holly was already stripped to her underpants by the time Buffy entered the bedroom, her back pale as she bent over the drawer that held her clothing. “Got it!” she announced triumphantly, and pulled out her nightgown with a broad smile.

“Awfully eager to go to bed, aren’t you?” Buffy said. She knelt to help the child get dressed, and pulled the hem down once the gown was over Holly’s head. “Have you been possessed by a sleep demon or something?”

The smile was gone by the time the small face reappeared, and her eyes were large and solemn. “I don’t like fighting,” she said.

Gently, Buffy pushed a stray strand of hair away from Holly’s cheek. “Spike and I aren’t fighting. There’s no reason for you to be worried about that.”

“But you were.”

“And now we’re not.” She was thrown off-balance for a moment when Holly lunged forward, tightening her tiny arms around Buffy’s neck. Instinctively, Buffy returned the hug, patting her back as soothingly as she could manage. “You shouldn’t have been spying on us through the curtains,” she said. “That was grown-up stuff.”


“And no more worrying. Spike and I are going to be fine.” Pulling back, Buffy smiled, and then a split second later, realized she’d uttered the same words she’d heard from her mother so often before the divorce. Her smile faltered, but Holly had already disengaged from the embrace, scrambling for the foot of the bed and crawling into place at its head, eyes glowing from the moonlight that streamed in through the window.

“I don’t need a story tonight,” she announced. There was another wide yawn that made the child’s jaw audibly crack, and then she was burrowing beneath the blankets, watching Buffy expectantly.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. G’night. Tell Spike g’night for me?”

“I will. Good night.”

She drew the curtains before leaving the room, but Buffy glanced back one more time as she hesitated in the doorway. Holly’s eyes were shut, and though Buffy had no doubts that the little girl was still wide awake, the memory of how many times she’d done nearly the same thing when she was younger, how she’d disappeared to her bedroom in hopes that privacy would be just what her mom and dad needed to sort out their differences, was enough to weigh down the good mood that had prevailed at the dinner table. With a small sigh, she closed the door.

The table had been cleared, the dishes stacked in the sink, but Spike was no longer seated. Instead, he stood at the fireplace, one hand on the mantle as he stared down into the flames, a bag of marshmallows dangling loosely from his other.

“Holly says good night,” Buffy said softly. She didn’t move from her vantage point. The black and white etching of his body against the orange made him seem more tangible all of a sudden, and her fingertips tingled with the memory of his skin beneath her touch. Though it had only been a few hours earlier, the certainty that it had been too long since she’d last luxuriated in the power of his embrace burned deep inside her.

“Pidge fusses too much,” he replied. He glanced back, holding up the bag in his hand. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not really the sharin’ sort, huh?”

She pretended to pout, folding her arms under her breasts as she leaned against the doorjamb. “What if I wanted some?”

The flames made his eyes glitter as they swept over her body, lingering on the curve of her hip before sliding back up. “Could let you fight me for ‘em,” Spike drawled.

“That would be a short fight. One swing from you and you’d drop the bag to grab your head.”

“Maybe I’m just lookin’ for an excuse to get you straddling me, pet.”

“You need an excuse now? And here I thought you were so gunfire sure of your manly appeal.”

He didn’t say anything to that, just dropped the marshmallows to the side of the hearth before crossing the room to stand in front of her. Buffy forced herself to stay nonchalant at his approach, though the prowl within his step was unmistakable, and even tore her eyes away from his lean hips when he stopped, tilting her head back so that she could look into his face.

“Was that supposed to impress me?” Buffy asked. She kept her tone light, every cadence playful. “Am I supposed to be quaking in my boots at the big, bad vampire stalking me as his next prey?”

Spike lifted a finger to trace the soft curve of her jaw. “Not your boots I’m interested in,” he said. The corner of his mouth canted when an involuntary shiver took over her muscles, and he brought his other hand to the button of her jeans. “Be a shame to waste our night nattering away. ‘Specially since Pidge went to such lengths to make sure we got some alone time.”

She grabbed his hand before it could steal down the front of her pants, but rather than get annoyed at the obstruction, Spike smirked and laced his fingers through hers, keeping them firmly between their torsos. “Maybe I’m not in the mood,” Buffy said. Her cheeks reddened when he cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “I could be! Not be! You know what I mean!”

“I know what your body’s tellin’ me.”

“My body’s been known to lie. I wouldn’t trust it if I were you.”

“So, if I do this…” Never breaking gazes with her, Spike leaned forward and brushed his lips across hers, the tip of his tongue a feather accompaniment that made her thighs tense in anticipation. “…you want me to believe it doesn’t affect you in the slightest.”

Her throat was dry so when she spoke it came out as a croak. “Nope.”

“And if I do this…”

Coiling the fingers of his free hand in the thick tresses that hung down her back, Spike used the grip to tilt her head, exposing her neck, and nibbled downward, over the hammering pulse point, into the hollow at the base, before suckling at the curve of her shoulder. Buffy gasped, her body arching instinctively toward his, but Spike pulled away at the first hint of her response, gazing down at her with eyes that had been swallowed in ebony.

“…you feel nothin’?” he asked.

She shook her head, though they both were more than aware that she was lying.

“Guess that means I should try a bit harder, then.” Before she could stop him, Spike was tugging her back toward the fireplace, and though every inch raised her body temperature another degree, Buffy knew it wasn’t because of the fire.

“Sit,” Spike ordered.

She’d obeyed before the thought not to even entered her head, and then silently scolded herself for yielding so quickly. She was rather enjoying playing the hard-to-get role; after acquiescing so readily to their desires the past few nights, the cat and mouse game had turned surprisingly enjoyable. But when Spike grabbed the marshmallows and sat down opposite her, pulling her closer so that their pelvises were parallel, her calves resting across the top of his thighs, Buffy realized there was still plenty of room to enjoy the seduction he was so doggedly pursuing.

“We never did finish our conversation on the porch,” Spike said as he ripped open the bag. His tone was overly casual, as if they were discussing the grocery list and not emotional vows, and he seemed to be deliberately keeping his eyes from hers.

Was this still part of the game? Buffy wondered. Or was it something else entirely?

“Someone told me to shut up,” she replied playfully. “And then proceeded to make sure my mouth was too busy to argue with him.”

“What? Like this?”

The soft brush of a marshmallow suddenly tickled her lips, and Buffy’s mouth opened automatically to take it between her teeth. Spike’s gaze was locked on the sight, his nostrils flaring as she slowly bit into the fluff, and his free hand dropped to her ankle, strong fingers sliding up the bottom of her jeans to start stroking her calf.

“You’re doin’ that on purpose,” he accused, his voice husky with desire.

She smiled as she chewed at the sweet, swallowing it down before saying, “Doing what?”

“Did you mean it?” The question was abrupt, shot-sharp as he blurted it out. “Tell me I’m not fuckin’ dreaming all of this. That someone hasn’t magicked me into Dickens with the ghosts and our own version of Tiny Tim tucked away in your bed.”

Her voice was soft when she answered. “There was a time when you would’ve thought that was a nightmare, Spike.”

“You’re not answering my question, Buffy.”

“I thought…” It was hard to think straight with the slow massage happening on her leg. “…you said you didn’t say how you felt expecting to hear anything in return.”

“That was then. Changed my mind.” He popped the remainder of the marshmallow into his mouth, reaching automatically for the bag for another.


“I need a reason?”

“It helps.”

Her mouth was open and ready for the second treat to slip onto her tongue, and Buffy sucked hard, taking him by surprise when she stretched to include his finger in her devouring.

“You make me think anything is possible,” Spike said as she sucked. She could feel his hand trembling from the restraint he was exerting over his limbs. “You make me want it all. All of you. Not just that sweet little quim of yours, though I taste you and I think that I could give up blood if I could just dine on you all day. But…all of it, luv. Your body, your heart. You.”

His hand withdrew, and Buffy’s mouth felt empty from the loss. “More,” she said.

But Spike misunderstood and reached for the marshmallow bag again, extracting a third but then purposefully withholding it.

“Does hearin’ about your mum change things between us?” he asked. There was a veil already falling behind his eyes, and it made her ache to think her coy behavior was backfiring on her.

“Nothing’s changed,” Buffy insisted. She scooted her bottom forward, closing the gap between them until their thighs were touching, the hard line of his erection only just touching the cleft between her legs. “Why would you think it’s changed?”

He shrugged. “Just seems…the last thing you want to do is admit to what happened on the porch, is all. Can’t blame a bloke for doubting.” His hand left her calf, came up to cup her cheek. “Forget it. Didn’t mean to kill the mood.”

The kiss was swift, his mouth hungry, and Buffy’s arms rose to cling to Spike’s shoulders. Around her, the heat from the fire was making the room spin---or it could’ve been Spike; it was eerie how kissing him could have that kind of effect on her---and she was hardly aware of the extra degrees when her blouse fluttered open to reveal her breasts to his touch.

Her nails dug into his nape as she fought to deepen the caress, tasting the sultry tang of sugar and smoke with every sweep of his tongue, and then whimpered when his mouth disappeared.

“Love you,” he started murmuring against her cheek, against her jaw, against all of her. “Didn’t know…but now…now, can’t bloody forget, can I? Shouldn’t be possible…but you convince me it can, that anything can…”

At some point, he must’ve dropped the marshmallow because Buffy could feel both of his hands on her now, one holding her firm by the base of her neck, allowing his mouth access to the smooth expanse of her throat, the other fluttering over the hardened buds of her nipples, each scrape of the lacy bra against the tender flesh sending shock waves straight to her clit. All thoughts of playing the tease vanished, and Buffy lifted her legs to wrap them around his waist, grinding their pelvises together until she thought the dampness of her pussy would soak through both sets of denim.

The contact made Spike growl. When she felt his body shift to lower her to the floor, she turned the action against him, using his momentum and the power of her legs to twist until it was his back that pressed into the wood.

“Why do you always talk so much?” she asked, pinning his hands over his head. Her gaze was momentarily captured by the flex of his biceps beneath his tee, and she spontaneously leaned forward to nip at the sinew. She held him down when Spike bucked beneath her, murmuring, “See what other nice things you can do with your mouth?”

“Luv…Buffy…” His jaw was lax, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and a wicked gleam came into his eyes when her head lifted. “What happened to not bein’ in the mood?”

“Changed my mind,” she replied with a grin. “Isn’t that the song for the night?”

“If you care to remember, I dropped my issues.”

She ground her pelvis into his, the moan simultaneously escaping both of them. “Are you saying you want me to stop?” Buffy panted.

“Never. But…” His gaze darted upward, indicating the hold she still had on him. “Considering we’re both still wearing pants, you’re goin’ to have to let me go if you want this to go any further. And if you let me go…” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. The implied threat---or vow, depending upon how she looked at it---was more than obvious.

For a moment, she just watched him, drowning in the amusement that animated his features. “I want to be on top,” she said softly. Her clit was tingling at the idea of the rough contact from riding him so, and her thighs unconsciously squeezed around him.

It made Spike hiss, his eyelids fluttering shut while he struggled to stay in control. “Make you a deal,” he said, and his voice was thick, coated in rich promise of bliss-filled hours and rapture galore. His eyes opened, the blue stormy as they fixed on her face. “Tell me this isn’t a bloody dream, and I’ll let you do whatever the hell you want.”

He wanted her to say it out loud. His muscles were screaming for the confirmation, his fingers twitching as he battled the urge to demand it from her in blood. And he was asking for it by bartering with the thing he held so prized, the reins to the respect she’d given him since agreeing to this new relationship.

Just as she’d given herself over to him last night, granting him the avowal of her trust by allowing him to taste her, Spike was offering the same, in the only way he knew how.

It made her heart clench.

Slowly, Buffy stretched out atop Spike, her blouse floating down to the sides as her breasts pressed into the soft cotton of his tee. Though she kept her hands on his wrists, her grip loosened, her thumbs tracing over the raised veins they found. “Why were you arguing with Holly at dinner?” she asked softly.

The question seemed like the last thing he expected, and the expectation that had been lurking beneath Spike’s features hardened as he struggled to shift with her. “What does that have to do with anything, pet?”

“She thinks of us as family. You, me, her.” She paused. “Is that how you think of us?”

Slow understanding. “Little one’s had a rough time,” Spike said. “Just…don’t want her to think she’s alone in it, is all.”

“I said, how do you think of us.”

“This has all been about us, pet.” Pause. “What about you? Do you see her as family? See…us as family?”

Her mouth descended, resting on his almost chastely. When she pulled away, the wonder in Spike’s aspect spurred her to say, “Nobody’s dreaming here. I may not have said it when you did, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.” Another kiss across his lips, and she slid her hands down his arms, away from his wrists so that he was free to move if he wished. “I love you, Spike. Don’t ask me how it happened, because I’m not nearly as good at figuring this stuff out as it looks like you are, but I do. I love you.”

His smile was brilliant. “Now, was that so hard?” he said lightly. His hands came up to push her top off her shoulders, guiding her upward so that he could free the sleeves and then tossing it carelessly to the side. “I’m all yours, Buffy. Have your wicked Slayer way with me.”

Her chest felt suddenly lighter, her skin aflame. “Get out of these,” she ordered, slapping at his denim-clad hip. Hopping to her feet, Buffy made short work of her remaining clothes, throwing them to the couch. As she watched, Spike pulled off his tee, followed quickly by a shimmy of his hips to get his jeans off as well. Her mouth watered when she saw his erection spring free, and before he was able to disentangle his legs from the denim, she was crouching at his side, his cock in her hand, her thumb swiping at the wetness that was already dripping from its head. With a graceful dive, her lips circled the tip, her tongue darting out to probe at the slit, and then she was sliding down its rigid length.

“Fuck, Buffy,” Spike said. Forgetting about his jeans, he laid back onto the floor, his hand settling around the back of her head to guide her as she began sucking up and down. Though she could feel the trembling already starting in his thighs, he still managed to surprise her when he lunged for her hips.

“Come here,” he growled.

She was thrown off-balance when he pulled her leg across his chest. Pulling off his cock, Buffy twisted to ask him what the hell he was doing when she felt his tongue run along her soaking slit, lapping at her juices with audible pleasure. She gasped, frozen in place.

“You said you wanted to be on top,” she heard him murmur from between her thighs. Another lick in the reverse direction, ending with a quick bite at her clit, made her settle into the position over his face. “Never said I couldn’t have a spot of fun as well.”

It was hard to concentrate on his cock with that amazing tongue distracting her with every lick, suck, and probe. Buffy began focusing her attention on her breathing, anything but the sensations in her pelvis, savoring the feel of his arousal as she let it slide over her tongue, past her lips, back down again to the opening of her throat.

In and out, she reminded herself. Hot and cold. Soft and steel. Buffy and Spike.

All of it.

Any of it.

All of it again.

And when he began fucking her with his fingers, his mouth suddenly hungry for the nibbles of her clit, she rocked against the movement, encouraging him deeper while she took even more of him into her mouth. She began mirroring what she could of his actions, letting her hand slip to stroke the velvet soft skin beneath his balls, feeling him jerk at the soft intrusion and try to force himself even further inside.

It was empowering beyond anything she had ever felt.

Then, she came.

She hadn’t expected to. Her breathing was getting shallower, and try as she might, she was having more and more difficulty evening the rhythm as she sucked Spike’s cock. He was inside her, she knew, but how many and, for seconds there, even the question of whether it was his fingers or not, kept the mystery of it just high enough to flame her flesh even more.

But then there was the faintest of touches down the crack of her ass.

The softest of probes.

And the spasms rocked her upwards, her weight bearing on her knees as her back arched, her hands clutching at his muscled stomach. Her body tensed and failed her when she begged it to support her. It couldn’t. It was too busy electrocuting itself with pleasure.

Buffy’s fingers dug into Spike’s abdomen as she rode out the waves. Even before they began to ebb, though, she was up, off, around.

Facing him.

Straddling him.

Forcing his cock inside her with a wrenching lunge that made them both shudder.

Spike’s hands came up to her hips, not guiding but simply holding on. His eyes were on her face, watching and devouring every gasp of pleasure, every frisson of emotion that she was no longer afraid of showing him, and when she began speeding up, sliding up and down so that every stroke had his balls slapping against her ass, her clit rasping against his coarse hair, he began speaking, so low that if she hadn’t seen his lips moving, she wouldn’t have been sure it was him.

“That’s it,” he coaxed. “Let it go. Just let it all out, pet. Give it to me. Gonna make you feel so good, Buffy. All you have to do is let me. Let me. Let me in. Fuck…you and me…nothin’ you can’t do, just do it, I want it, I know you want it…want it…fuck…love you so bloody much…”

The sudden slam of his hips to meet hers announced his orgasm, and it only took feeling the first sensations of his pulsating cock shooting inside her to set off Buffy’s second. Her pussy clamped down around him, and the look of bliss that passed over Spike’s features was enough to send her forward, her weight dropping to his chest as she slammed her lips to his.

The kiss lasted longer than either of them coming, and when they finally broke apart, Buffy’s lungs were fighting for air. “Love you,” she heard Spike whisper into her hair, but the only thing she was aware of was her own need to speak.

“Wow,” she whispered. “Just…wow.”

Spike chuckled, a rumble that made her sweaty skin slide across his chest. “Something tells me this might become a very familiar position for us.”

She squeezed her inner muscles around him, eliciting a groan. “It’s a good thing Holly wanted us to have some alone time,” she said. “I just hope she doesn’t start asking about all the weird noises.”

“I don’t have a problem tellin’ her if it bothers you.”

Buffy slapped at his shoulder. “Somehow, I think that might be worse.” She yelped when he suddenly flipped her over, and then smiled when he merely hovered to gaze down at her.

“You know you’re not alone in it, too…don’t you?”

It was the earnestness in his voice that made her smile soften, and Buffy reached up to stroke the hard line of his cheek. “I think what’s more important is that you know that,” she murmured. “Because you’re not. Not any more.”

He kissed her at that, not the hard demand of wanting more, but the grateful tenor of a starving man. And when he pulled her to curl into his chest, his hands stroking her hair, she rested her cheek against his smooth skin with her own smile of gratitude.

To a little girl who just wanted to see her family happy.


To be continued in Chapter 43: Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away