This is it for me. 4:30am and is ded.
Rating : NC-17
Disclaimer: Joss owns them. I have no right to play, but I do anyway.
Summary: Torn between three pests, Buffy is offered a lending hand from the Brother’s Grimm, and is more than surprised with the answer.
A/N: A really silly, fluffy fairytale piece. Enjoy!
Thankyou’s to holly and schez. YOu guys get me through.
Lovely banner by hollydb
Angel, Riley and Spike, all squished into one tiny room. It might have been funny if she hadn’t been the hidden element. The one thing they all fought over like she was their personal bone to chew and maul however they liked. And ewwww, so didn’t want the visual that that image flashed in her brain.
Usually seeing Angel gave her butterflies and made her feel warm and in love. This time, it just made her sick. Up beside two other men—and one of those a being that she totally loathed—Angel so did not come out in a good light. Any shade of light at all would be a complete surprise right now. She felt furious and it was all she could do not to let Spike dust Angel, Riley to dust Spike, and then having the pleasure herself of knocking Riley off his feet with a vicious right hook. She was so tempted. Yet, it wouldn’t be fair. Angel had a soul, and Spike couldn’t defend himself. That, and he had been kind of useful lately.
And Riley…well, she had no excuse for Riley. Even being human did not excuse his complete lameness as he tried to stir and gain points. Which was absolutely the stupidist thing Buffy had ever seen him attempt. As if he could out think the wit of a couple of master vampires with more than three hundred years between them. The more she tentatively saw of him on their non-dates, the more she wondered how she ended up dating him in the first place.
Turned out all she’d had to do was turn and walk away to get them to shut up. With her gone, they’d sort of stumbled out of the closet-sized room and mumbled their different paths to be trodden, and took off in three different directions. She knew because she’d had to duck behind a tree to hide from Spike as he’d smoked his way past her. She gave him ten minutes to make his way to wherever, and then she headed home. She had stupid homework to do, for stupid psychology about stupid fairytales—as if she hadn’t left childhood behind at least ten years ago.
By the time she went to bed, she was no wiser. Pouring through every book of fairytales big and small—kept in the basement by her scary over-clingy mother—did little about helping her understand life more. As if she didn’t have enough trouble grasping the realities of her horror movie nights but now she had to delve into the magical mysteries of bears and trolls—and hey, so been there—and Princesses with mystery illnesses and horrid relatives.
She’d read from Cinderella to Rumplestiltskin, Hansel and Gretel to Sleeping Beauty and she still had no freaking clue what her professor expected her to learn about life from them. Don’t tell lies or you’ll be stuck spinning straw till the end of time? Don’t use your first born to ever pay your debts? Don’t eat apples because they only keep the doctor away by killing you really dead? Really, they were fairytales, and therein lay the intelligence of the thing. Fairies were NOT real, despite all the weird species of demons on the Hellmouth, and they were tales. Not truth, not autobiography—or even biography. They were fictional tales to entertain, and they were really falling short on the value of that right now.
Struggling against a jaw-breaking yawn, Buffy dragged her weary body to bed in relief. In her fairytale, she was the not half bad looking princess who had revolting taste in men. She kissed princes and made them frogs. She attracted the monsters, and she turned the real prince away. Nope, no application of fairytales to her life, that’s for sure. Not unless they were totally inverted.
She was so tired and having that much trouble keeping her eyes open that she almost was ready to believe the evil witch—read NOT Willow, but some other witch much more evil—had somehow snuck her a sleeping formula and she wouldn’t wake for a hundred years. Pshyeah…fanciful much? Despite her sudden exhaustion, Buffy mentally scanned the gist of every fairytale she knew, searching for that one point that would unlock their mysteries on the metaphors of life and let her get some much needed rejuvenating rest. She’d need to be all alert and peppy tomorrow if Angel had stuck around town. Because that was so something he would do—just to wreak havoc on her boring practically non-existent life.
The sight of three annoyances squabbling over her was the last thing to play behind her closed lids before Buffy finally surrendered to sleep, and left herself open to the mysterious ways of the Powers That Be.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
She remembered this. It was so familiar she almost believed it was her real life, except for the weird shift she was wearing with pockets and collar. If she ever was put in a dress like this she would slay her own mother. And these ringlets—so not her. Not any part of her. And although she never admitted to it, when she was a kid she was unashamedly a brunette. And skipping through the forest? Even as a kid she’d had more sense than that.
Pity all this was playing out as adult Buffy and making her cringe every single second. Until she saw the house—then the repulsive outfit and the startling gold locks faded into the background. She felt so curious as she watched the plumes of smoke drift from the chimney. It was cliché, it was cringe worthy, but she really really wanted to see what was on the inside of this cottage.
The door creaked as it fell open. She didn’t shove it hard—not really. And believe it or not the bruise flowering on her shoulder was from being pummelled by a really nasty demon the previous night on patrol. Hey, Denial Girl here, get out of the way!
Buffy crept into the house, somehow knowing that she had to be careful that no one was around to catch her sneaky trespassing act. Complete silence made her brave and she stepped briskly to the centre of the first room. It was quite obvious from the beginning that everything was set out in threes. Three chairs and three equal urges to check out their delights.
The first chair she tried was so Spartan, just a hard wooden frame that was obviously designed to make the sitter suffer. Beside it was a small table with a book of literature. It was more than obvious that this chair was not for her. Oh no, not with the pretentious brainy reading and the make you weep sitting experience. She couldn’t move on fast enough.
The second chair was made for someone who had serious relaxation issues. A tall, straight back might be good for the posture, but if she was going to the trouble of sitting down, she wanted to enjoy it. It reminded her of the straight and narrow of Riley, Soldier Inc. and that stake up the butt response he had to those in command. There was no entertainment to go along with the back-breaking experience, and that just made her feel really sorry for the owner of this chair as they obviously had little to no need to occupy their brain—even with meaningless fluff. Who ever just sat without purpose? Personality transplant needed much?
Before she sat down in the third chair, Buffy knew she’d met her match. Battered and worn, the armchair may have looked like it was hauled in from the dump, but it was obviously well loved. On the arm was a remote and Buffy heaved a huge sigh of relief that at least someone in this el weirdo shack had some redeemable traits. One click and she was staring at a pre-recorded episode of Dawson’s Creek and she felt herself falling majorly in like with whoever usually flopped around in this chair. At least now she knew the best place to recline and relax after she’d finished exploring the rest of the cabin.
That she next found herself in the bathroom really came as no surprise, being that it was the natural affinity of being a woman in need of a mirror. It was her first sight of the golden locks that corkscrewed all over her head, and it left her gasping. She really didn’t go for the Shirley Temple look. Buffy stared in shock at the hairstyle, its complicated structure tugging at that sense of the familiar she’d felt earlier. No way was she walking back into civilization looking like a poodle dropped dead on her head. So, hair products so of the good. What bathroom didn’t have products to tame the wildest hair?
Buffy stretched and looked into the first cabinet, strangely devoid of a mirror, and idly wondered at the contents. It was jammed to bursting with one brand of gel—and it looked way too familiar. Anyway, gel so wasn’t her thing. Icky sticky stuff that did nothing to make her look soft and inviting, just slick, wet and disgusting. Ugh, Angel could so keep his boxes of this stuff. It was no good for her.
The middle cabinet was one with a mirror, yet it was so high up on the wall that Buffy could barely see into it. It was in line with the hair gel one, but she really didn’t want to have to climb onto something just to see her hair. Besides, the inside of it held nothing but a comb. Ugh, who used combs these days? She’d lose the thing in the wild mess of her hair anyway. So no good for her. Crap.
That left one, and she was relieved to see it was the original one that had highlighted her hair issues in the first place. Being that giants obviously used the other two bathroom cabinets, Buffy felt her relief that this one hadn’t suddenly shot up the wall so that she could still see into the mirror. Curious, because some tickle of familiarity was telling her that whoever used it did it out of habit and a refusal to admit they were less with the humanity than being a soulless demon should be. But really, not her problem. If whoever owned it wanted to fool themselves, then good luck to them. And maybe she should just look at it from the point of view that he was thoughtful and had something there for her when she came by to stick her crooked nose in. Now to open and see if there held any hope for her hair.
Ahhhh, a goldmine of the best kind. A brush—obviously new, and every hair care product she used right down to the brand. It was marvellous; it was a relief—and so completely the best kind of miracle. Whoever owned this little treasure trove was obviously the love of her life. Who else could know her so well? Who would want to know her so well?
It took her a long while, but eventually she got the artificial kinks out of her hair and breathed in relief. A little more exploring and she could finally get back to that uber comfy armchair and relax to the dramas of Dawson. If she could stay awake, of course. Because straightening out a girl’s hair took all kinds of effort and now she was really kinda sleepy. And now that she really thought about it, the forest was rather chilly and she was starting to get goosebumps on her goosebumps. It was lucky for Buffy that she stumbled upon a coatrack on her way to the bedroom. Even if she snuggled up in one of the chairs for a quick nap, she’d really need something to keep her warm during her impromptu soap viewing.
As she’d found so far in this mysterious place, everything came in threes. Buffy lifted the first jacket and suddenly felt like the lights had gone out and she along with them. She swam in this black leather jacket, and something that might have been hip length on the owner was half down her thighs, and the sleeves flopped almost a foot past her hands. Okay, so she was going a bit with the exaggeration, but it wasn’t comfortable. It was monstrously big, baggy, and did nothing to make her warm. So as much as the smooth shiny leather drew her in and whispered seductive things in her impressionable ear, it so wasn’t the right coat for her. Not anymore. Maybe once when she was young and didn’t think she could find any others, but there were two more coats here to choose from and something inside Buffy’s head told her with determination that she would find her match with one of them.
Right, so the next one up was just as big and just to make it even worse, it was khaki. She could never understand why anyone would choose such a colour—even if they were in the armed forces it wasn’t the colour of ‘off-duty’, despite some people’s predilection for wearing it. Well, at least it wasn’t camouflaged. That would have been beyond tragic.
Her last choice had that leather look going for it like the first, but it was longer, worn in and buzzed with a story that mesmerised her. Once the material lay flat against her back, the fact that it was again too large—though not nearly as dwarfing as the first—was largely forgotten as the spirit of it engulfed her in power. It reminded her of something, of someone, and a spasm of irritation flitted along her nerves and yet a softness also battled to be acknowledged.
The flash of recognition was gone in a…well, a flash actually, but Buffy was way too tired to flesh out other possible adjectives at a time like this. She felt overwhelmed with the need to lie upon sheets, to feel her bare flesh against something soothing that would finally put to an end this restless search for something.
The first bed she came upon wasn’t soft at all. It was hard and it made her feel frightened and very much like she was making a big mistake just by being near it, let alone trying to climb into it. It was engulfed in broodiness and a confusion of what it was supposed to be. Hard, ruthless and disturbing as opposed to enigmatic, elusive and mysterious. Buffy felt unaccustomed wisdom force her feet past it, despite her interest in the coverings of the bed, as she knew that what was on the inside was not something she really needed to get closer to.
The next one looked appealing, seemed completely normal and everything she’d ever wanted in a bed, but one jump showed her that she did not bounce, instead she spilled off the side to the floor and wondered if she’d just broken her back. Feeling rather crippled, Buffy clawed her way up the side of the back-breaker and peered over the side. Thank god no one was there to witness her complete lack of grace. Well, she’d learned that lesson hard enough: appearances were so deceiving. See if she ever climbed into a nice, apparently comfy bed ever again without proper investigation. Nah, why take the risk?
The next and last looked like a slab of concrete and Buffy felt that prickle at the back of her neck that before this dream she’d known meant danger. Here it meant that she was on familiar turf, getting closer to the truth. She was so tired now, though it was mixed up with another sensation. Suddenly Buffy felt that if this bed wasn’t right then her whole trip would be wasted—finding the chair, discovering someone was thoughtful enough to have their bathroom decked out for her and letting her have access to their coat was the most wonderful sign of affection she’d yet to experience. Buffy just knew that whoever owned this bed, as revolting as it appeared, had to be a nice guy.
Her hand reached out to touch the slab—only to see how cold it would be. By now she was so weary that she didn’t care if it was painfully hard to sleep on. It had a pillow and at least she knew ahead of time that it wasn’t going to be pretty. Unlike the normal bed with a mattress of rock underneath the deceptively pretty coverings.
As soon as her fingers trailed over the cool cement, it suddenly turned to silk and Buffy got an eyeful of black satin and felt the hardness turn soft and giving. Oh, she gasped, totally enthralled at how something so ugly and cruel could turn beautiful and soft in the blink of an eye. Suddenly she felt the need to feel that sensual fabric against her flesh, and Buffy didn’t even think before shedding her clothes and slipping between the covers. Cool, slippery and erotic—she felt totally fantastic in this bed. It was uncomplicated yet alive, despite first appearing bold, unbearably set in its evil form. Stone gave way to something much softer and Buffy felt like she was now writhing in the most unbearable arousal she’d ever felt.
Rolling amongst the luxury, it wasn’t until numerous moans had placed her into a highly physically aware state that Buffy could feel the intrusion. She ignored the irony that she was the interloper, instead wondering at her lack of surprise as Angel, Riley and Spike entered the bedroom and started a competition that only one of them could win.
One watched in awe, one reached for his taser, and the last bellowed in hurt.
“Why aren’t you in MY bed, Buffy? Aren’t I your one true love?”
She looked and matched him to the bed that had scared her and made her want to run before she fell in too deep. This was not her one true love, despite having immersed herself in fairytale fashion to believe it for far too long.
“I’m sorry, Angel. But I tried your chair and it made me feel guilt—and I didn’t do anything wrong! You’re reading material went way over my head. Pretentious much? I tried your gel and it so didn’t work with my hair. Your coat was too huge and your bed…oh my God, total split personality. And I really hate to say it, but I have no idea how you satisfied Darla for all those years. So, true love you are not. I’ll pass, thank you so much.”
Angel stared at his Buffy in shock, his bottom lip wobbling now that he could see they were completely over. It came as no surprise—he was born for pain and he knew that she was not for him. Not yet anyway, and his soul was far from letting him feel free and happy to be with her. His shoulders slumped, his head dipped in defeat and he pivoted and left without another word.
Riley stomped to the bed’s edge, his eyes furious as he stared down the woman he wanted but didn’t love enough to let go.
“What the hell are you doing in that filth’s bed? Are you naked? You told me you loved me, that you just needed some time to save your sister and care for your mother. I gave up everything for you.” He seemed to reconsider, his hand dropping the taser and then reaching for a stake. “I should just do what I’ve always wanted to do. Put the walking undead out of our misery.”
Buffy panicked at that. Spike couldn’t defend himself against Riley, and for the first time she wished he’d been smarter about self-preservation and never gotten caught in the first place. A good Riley bashing was just what she was in the mood for, though killing wouldn’t be okay. Oh no, she might be frustrated—in every possible manifestation of the word—but she was still the slayer. Still, that stake was getting really close to Spike’s chest. Spike’s yummy muscular chest.
When she met his eyes she could see that he wasn’t worried, that his ever-present smirk still lit up his face.
“It’s your dream, pet. You want me to clobber ‘im and do it painlessly, you’ve only to think it. Then we can see what else you haven’t tried that might fit like a glove.”
“But I’ve tried everything,” she pouted while giving Spike dream-quality unchipped powers and gave a satisfied snicker when he punched Riley sideways and knocked him out cold.
“Ah, but there’s one thing you’ve let those gits try out on you, and I’m yet to taste.” He stalked closer, his head tilted in that sexy way that made her drool while his hand smoothed down the front of his abs to settle on his belt loop.
“Oh.” And she couldn’t hold the blush as traitorous eyes lingered on the finger that was so slowly caressing his uncontrollable bulge through his pants. And if that wasn’t the hottest thing she’d ever seen, she wasn’t the Slayer. She blinked, relishing the swell she witnessed at her coquettish behaviour. “You think there’s something else I should try out before I make my decision? Because that’s got to be why the Power’s put this dream in my head. And you’re the only one standing—and the only one who had this place prepared for me.”
Spike contemplated her in the bed, sitting up with his black satin sheet held over her breasts tightly despite her deep heaving breaths. “Can’t knock it till you’ve tried it, luv. I’m willing to bet I can fill you all up and make you feel ‘just right.’” He winked and Buffy almost passed out from the lack of oxygen that suddenly was deprived from her lungs. That husky suggestiveness did it to her every time, even if she didn’t admit it to anyone. Angel and Riley never had an effect like that with just their voice—let alone anything else.
“Okay, say I allow it. What happens if I find out you’re the perfect match for me, Spike?”
He didn’t say anything, just peeled his tee from his body and let the zipper of his jeans slide slowly down as he kicked off his boots. Buffy forgot her question and she focused hungrily on the thickness of him as he peeped out the top of his jeans, and then felt her heart thud painfully as the last garment was shrugged from his hips and tossed away. He stood at the end of the bed, one pale hand fisting a handful of black silk and tugged it away from the girl in his bed, getting noticeably harder the more of her that was revealed.
Buffy felt her body flush in the cooler air as her nudity was discovered. No longer could she ignore the thrill it gave her to be so near to Spike, and now, naked, he consumed her senses till she felt ready to spontaneously combust. Subtly parting her thighs, she moaned as he licked his lips and crawled up the bed, settling between her legs, a curled fist resting on the inside of each knee. He didn’t ask for permission, and Buffy might have found it difficult to give it if he had, so the relief when he ducked his head and let his tongue roll up her slit was tremendous.
Her fingers found his hair silky, despite the patches of hard gel that had slicked it down. He’d been running his hands through it, probably in nerves while he waited to see how she’d react to him, and now it was all prepared and ready for her to grip his head and hold him against her throbbing lips. His tongue dived in, swirled against her walls while he traversed every plain but the one leading to the needy peak.
Buffy moaned as he avoided, wondering how he’d prove he fit if he didn’t even get this part over with. She’d never felt this anticipation, this thorough engulfment of pleasure. At least, not since evil spirits had her locked in a bed with Riley. It had taken vengeful ghosts to get her to that height of passion with the TA. Somehow she was beginning to understand that sex wasn’t meant to be relaxing—not with how just the subtle moves of Spike’s tongue was turning her inside out.
His hands stroked her thighs, her flesh singing in some kind of ode to finally getting what it had wanted all along. Ready to explode from pure frustration, Buffy wanted to reef his head to her clit just as his mouth sucked her inside and almost pressurised her out of her brain.
She’d never really understood that term ‘meltdown’.
He tongued her, let the evil tip tease her mercilessly till she wanted to scream and then he dived in again, drinking her down, rolling and rubbing her clit against his tongue as his fingers found her happy pleasure places and she melted into slayer-shaped goo.
“Gahhhhh,” she screamed on the edge of consciousness, her body tingling and zinging even as Spike moved up and probed her entrance with his bulging head. That slow sensual separation teased her as he parted her swollen lips, pushing his turgid cock just far enough to emit a screech of need. “Oh god, oh god, Spike, it’s..it’s…oh god, MORE DAMMIT.”
He ignored her, relishing the feeling of her slick walls engulfing him inch by inch as he tortured her for all the times she’d made him hot, made him hard, made him cry. Her eyes held him captive, had him glued to her body as he gently rocked back and forth, sliding a little further into her heated channel each time until the desire to punish turned into the need to love.
The last half of his cock didn’t like the pace Spike had set, and with a mind of its own, slid as far as it could go. Spike could feel the shock as his tip bounced against Buffy’s cervix and he was filled with wonder that she’d let him do this with her.
“Buffy? Baby, have I told you how bloody much I love your dreams?” His lids were droopy with lust, her skin beckoning his lips and he sunk into tasting her like a vamp deprived of human contact.
Buffy was incoherent, her body shuddering at the pleasure that had been deprived to her with her other two boyfriends. How could it be? How could she have missed this—been dumb enough to discard it after Willow’s spell? And the biggest question—would it be as hot, as good as this when she was awake?
Buffy felt the sweat from overwhelming sensation settle on her skin and allow Spike to slide against her with enlightening abandon. Her body stretched around him, her arousal allowing him to slip in and out to a beautiful rhythm. And then she spied his lips and wondered why she’d ever tried to ignore him. Every single part of him was gorgeous, and his lips were a gift. Feeling the swirling emotions shift her perception, Buffy gave in and pulled his head to hers, moaning as his lips finally covered hers. It was like an age had passed since the last time she’d had this—this happy ever after fairytale kind of kiss. And finally in this dream she’d been forced away from the Egyptian river and into a blazing reality.
There was no other way to see it. As he took her to places she’d never been, as she felt the hard chords of his cock engrave his desire inside her, she had to admit that it was all so right. What he did for her no other had, and she was no longer able to deny the potential.
He scratched her inside, slid inside and back out to the beat of her heart and it was the most romantic thing she’d ever known. Hardly knowing what she was doing, Buffy bit his lip and enjoyed the taste of his essence on her tongue. She wasn’t quite prepared for the answering growl or the eruption of his fangs that nicked her own lip and his roar of approval as he sucked her blood into his mouth.
She’d never imagined—never knew that the elementals of vampirism could be so acceptable to her. Her breath caught in her throat as her body reached that final step before jumping off the ledge, poised to take the leap as Spike began thrusting harder. The final step lengthened, drawing out the pleasure until Buffy was moaning helplessly in shock that it could be suspended for so long. She strained toward the end, almost clawing her way to the relief of falling and nearly dying as her over sensitised nipples began to emphasise the exquisite pulse that came with the constant brushing against Spike’s chest. It pooled in her belly, this sensation that made her feel like she could rip through the stone slab that had betrayed her to Spike’s nature. And then he was curling her legs around his waist, thrusting in time to her ragged breaths.
She could feel everything, his mouth that had found its way to her neck, his hands that were curled into her hair and his cock that throbbed inside her. Buffy felt like she was hyperventilating, wanting it to go on and on but knowing she couldn’t take not reaching release any longer. In an act of pure inspiration—and completely ignoring the voice that told her Giles would so kick her ass when he found out—Buffy dug her nails hard into Spike’s rump, squeezed his cock tight with her powerful muscles and screamed as his desired fangs sliced deep into her throat.
She remembered this—recalled the pain of Angel and how he didn’t stop until she was almost dead. How she hadn’t even wanted to feel anything but satisfaction that he wasn’t dust as he almost drained her dry. But with Spike, god, erotic so didn’t cover it. It was like life—he gave it out as he supped from her blood. It didn’t take long, just one hungry pull and Buffy felt everything in and around her explode, stars shattering through a suddenly absent ceiling. Her pussy contracted around him, driving him deep inside as she vibrated against his pulsing release. She felt the spill, felt it cold against the inferno he’d built of her and marvelled at the intensity of it all as her body jerked beneath him.
“See,” he whispered, even as she could barely make sense of the language he spoke. “I told you, Buffy. You and me, we can make magic, and not the buggered up kind Red dabbles with.”
Buffy giggled, recognising his truth as she panted and tried to deal with her lack of breath and the redness of her complexion. She’d lost it, felt passion so extremely that all other experiences were thoroughly wiped from her memory. All she could do was smile—the Slayer smile at a soulless vampire, and feel the happiness of after infuse her veins.
“Who ever thought I’d find my Prince Charming in a bear’s cottage?”
Spike’s alarm had him almost jumping from her body, until she tightened her hold and brought him back down to her. “A bear? You didn’t make a bloody bear again, did you? Jesus, Buffy. A bloke can only take so much.”
And she kissed him quiet, kissed him till the smile on her face dissolved into the love she’d never guessed she felt.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~
The Slayer groaned as she slowly was teased into wakefulness, really not ready to surrender the dream that made her feel like there could be a happily ever after for her. But something was buzzing in her head, like a warning that she’d always been snappy at listening to. Buffy jerked awake and held her covers up protectively, her eyes forced into the darkened corners of her bedroom.
And she rolled her eyes. “Every time you do this you risk all your parts. You know this, right?”
Spike looked dutifully chastened as he stepping into the light, his black duster settling around his legs as Buffy tried not to drool at the figure of fantasy he cut just standing in the moonlight. His head was bowed, his hands deep in his jeans pockets and Buffy suddenly felt the build-up of tension of knowing all that she did.
“Wanted to apologise,” he said, cutting into her lusty haze with a shocking snap.
“Huh?” she answered intelligibly. “What for?” She watched as his eyes sparkled and he leered at her hidden figure behind the sheet.
“You naked under there?”
Buffy nearly giggled at the hopeful expression, and then decided to put him out of his misery. A little wiggling and she’d managed to rid her body of panties and she tossed them at him. His shock dulled normally agile reflexes and the scrap of pink silk landed on the book on her dresser. He snatched them up like he’d lose sight of them if he didn’t and then picked up the book they’d landed on.
“Aren’t you a bit old for fairytales, Slayer?”
Buffy did giggle then, relieved herself of the rest of her night wear and lowered her sheet to show off the dusky hardness of her nipples.
“You know the one about Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Spike?”
He didn’t say a thing, just dropped the book and the panties as naked slayer ended up in his arms.
“I don’t do bears, pet,” he mumbled around the smooth silkiness of her lips.
Buffy pulled away, letting her legs slide from Spike’s waist. Denim really wasn’t kind to bare naked areas.
“I was reading about Happily Ever Afters,” she hinted, dragging him backwards as she began to lift cloth and snap open fastenings.
“Yeah?” he asked, beyond befuddled and approaching ecstatic as she stripped him as naked as she stood.
“Yeah. You wanna be mine?”
Spike jerked out of her arms, stood with one hand held out and just looked at the naked gorgeous nymph who was making his own dreams come true.
Just to be sure.
“Be your what, Buffy?”
One step, two, arms around his neck as his outstretched hand found itself full of aching breast. “Be my Happily Ever After, Spike? No one fits me like you do. No one else feels ‘just right.’”
Need and love shone from his eyes as he nodded desperately, and Buffy wrapped herself around his body, loving the feel of her skin against his.
“Then kiss me, Spike. A kiss is where it all begins.”
And he did and they fought on the Hellmouth against evil nasties until ever after became forever.
Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/101108.html