Phantasms
Title: Phantasms
Timeline: Show Time
Rating: R
Disclaimer: still not mine, alas
Author's note: I'm way behind on posts. I'll have to cheat again: this one covers Christmas Elf, Snowmen, Christmas Tree, Christmas Party, and Mistletoe. Oh, and there's an angst warning.
It was Christmas tonight, he decided.
Never mind that it was January in the world outside. This underworld had no seasons: like Hades there were only shades and torment. He wasn't even sure it was night. But every time he woke, he chose a different season. Some place to live that wasn't here.
He was battling evil elves with Buffy. He supposed, between kills, that they must be demons. Surely Father Christmas' elves had no such pointed teeth. But they were little, and many, and it was Christmas, so he shouted and kicked with abandon. Ten feet away Buffy wielded the troll hammer, squashing an elf with every blow. Spike caught a face full of bloody spray. He crowed with joy. Buffy threw him an exasperated look: less play, more slay. He couldn't help himself. He was at the Slayer's side, and they were killing evil things, and it was glorious.
A knife sliced into his gut. He looked for the elf that had bit him, but this was a far greater demon, the elder of demons. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
He was having a snowball fight with Dawn. They'd driven to Mt. Baldy so Dawn and Buffy could ski. He'd nearly died of boredom, stuck in the motel room while the sun turned the slopes to deadly diamonds. But now it was night, and his girls were bundled in so many layers they looked like sausages. Dawn took cover behind the snowman he'd built, throwing like a girl. He slowed his reflexes enough to let a few missiles land. Their laughter was his music.
A beast snarled: he whirled to locate the mountain wolf. But it was only his head that spun. Hands, feet and waist were bound and the beast uncaged, pacing the cave before him, eager for the command to devour.
They did their best to make a Christmas party; bedrolls tucked behind the couch and the tree taking up more floor space than they could afford. Buffy brought the Summers' ornaments from the basement. Plastic snowflakes dangled near Dawn's kindergarten creations of macaroni and glitter. Spike argued for the real candles of his youth but was voted down: Californians took their fire hazards seriously. The nervous Potentials traded carols from many nations. Everyone longed for their familiar lives.
His familiar life brought him back to the present with blows and fangs and wounds re-opened.
The household asleep, he had Buffy to himself at last. A candle burned atop the clothes dryer. Her skin glowed in its light. A sprig of mistletoe hung overhead from a thread tied to the water pipe.
Buffy's eyes were closed, head tipped back in pleasure as she rose and fell above him. Somewhere, someone was chanting. He wished they would stop. He wanted to hear nothing but her heartbeat.
His eyes stroked where his hands could not follow. Her hair brushed her shoulders; breasts bobbed as she moved. He thrust, slow and sure. Her breaths took on that up-rising tone that said she was very near the edge. His hands itched to circle her hips, pull her down on him, but they were bound and all he had to urge her with was words.
"Come for me, Buffy. Beautiful love, Slayer, baby, come for me, come for me."
"What was that?"
"come for me, she will come for me, she will come for me, she will--"
The First smirked at him, perfectly blonde, perfectly cruel.
"No, I won't."
Timeline: Show Time
Rating: R
Disclaimer: still not mine, alas
Author's note: I'm way behind on posts. I'll have to cheat again: this one covers Christmas Elf, Snowmen, Christmas Tree, Christmas Party, and Mistletoe. Oh, and there's an angst warning.
It was Christmas tonight, he decided.
Never mind that it was January in the world outside. This underworld had no seasons: like Hades there were only shades and torment. He wasn't even sure it was night. But every time he woke, he chose a different season. Some place to live that wasn't here.
He was battling evil elves with Buffy. He supposed, between kills, that they must be demons. Surely Father Christmas' elves had no such pointed teeth. But they were little, and many, and it was Christmas, so he shouted and kicked with abandon. Ten feet away Buffy wielded the troll hammer, squashing an elf with every blow. Spike caught a face full of bloody spray. He crowed with joy. Buffy threw him an exasperated look: less play, more slay. He couldn't help himself. He was at the Slayer's side, and they were killing evil things, and it was glorious.
A knife sliced into his gut. He looked for the elf that had bit him, but this was a far greater demon, the elder of demons. He shuddered and closed his eyes.
He was having a snowball fight with Dawn. They'd driven to Mt. Baldy so Dawn and Buffy could ski. He'd nearly died of boredom, stuck in the motel room while the sun turned the slopes to deadly diamonds. But now it was night, and his girls were bundled in so many layers they looked like sausages. Dawn took cover behind the snowman he'd built, throwing like a girl. He slowed his reflexes enough to let a few missiles land. Their laughter was his music.
A beast snarled: he whirled to locate the mountain wolf. But it was only his head that spun. Hands, feet and waist were bound and the beast uncaged, pacing the cave before him, eager for the command to devour.
They did their best to make a Christmas party; bedrolls tucked behind the couch and the tree taking up more floor space than they could afford. Buffy brought the Summers' ornaments from the basement. Plastic snowflakes dangled near Dawn's kindergarten creations of macaroni and glitter. Spike argued for the real candles of his youth but was voted down: Californians took their fire hazards seriously. The nervous Potentials traded carols from many nations. Everyone longed for their familiar lives.
His familiar life brought him back to the present with blows and fangs and wounds re-opened.
The household asleep, he had Buffy to himself at last. A candle burned atop the clothes dryer. Her skin glowed in its light. A sprig of mistletoe hung overhead from a thread tied to the water pipe.
Buffy's eyes were closed, head tipped back in pleasure as she rose and fell above him. Somewhere, someone was chanting. He wished they would stop. He wanted to hear nothing but her heartbeat.
His eyes stroked where his hands could not follow. Her hair brushed her shoulders; breasts bobbed as she moved. He thrust, slow and sure. Her breaths took on that up-rising tone that said she was very near the edge. His hands itched to circle her hips, pull her down on him, but they were bound and all he had to urge her with was words.
"Come for me, Buffy. Beautiful love, Slayer, baby, come for me, come for me."
"What was that?"
"come for me, she will come for me, she will come for me, she will--"
The First smirked at him, perfectly blonde, perfectly cruel.
"No, I won't."