Baby, It's Not Even A Little Bit Cold Outside
Title: Baby, It's Not Even A Little Bit Cold Outside
Author: mushroomgal
Words: 1093
Setting: Sometime in mid-B6
Rating: NC-17. Fluffy Spuffy PWP. Sweet enough to make your teeth hurt. No additional warnings.
Note: Part 1 of my final gift for Ladyoneill at btvs_santa! I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and you enjoy this little vignette!
“Spike?” Buffy stands just inside the doorway of Spike’s crypt, surprised at the warmth inside. It’s almost too warm. She quickly sheds her jacket, tossing it on his nearby armchair, and pushes up the sleeves of her pink cardigan.
“Spike?” she calls again. She hears footsteps down in the lower level, and then the vampire’s peroxided head and standard black tee shirt appear at the top of the ladder.
“Slayer. Come by for a cup o’ cheer, then?” Spike swings himself up to the floor and crosses to the stone sarcophagus that takes up a significant fraction of his modest living space. He leans back against it, sinuous as a cat, looking at her quizzically, the barest hint of a leer in his smile.
“Just needed to get out of the house. Willow and Tara have Dawn spazzing about Christmas.”
“And you’re not much in the holiday spirit. That about right, pet?”
“It’s just that Mom always did this stuff… and I…. and Dawnie… oh, I don’t want to talk about it. Especially with you.”
“So you’ve come round my crypt to not talk to me. You were hoping what, that Clem would be about? Buffy, you know I’m not a man to pass up pleasant company..”
“You’re not a man at all!”
“’snot what you said the other night. But I’m in the middle of finishing up a project. So when you’ve done with your snit, come on downstairs.” He grabs a handful of brown glass bottles from the fridge and heads back down the ladder.
“I’m not in a snit!” she shouts after him. God, he can be infuriating. And why can he always see through her like that? But the way he looked at her just now, leaning back against the stone, his blue eyes aflame, makes her lower belly tingle and grow warm. She starts down the ladder after him.
He knows she’ll follow him downstairs-he can smell it on her. He briefly considers of teasing her about it, but she’s in rare form tonight and he decides he doesn’t need another broken nose for his trouble. When her legs and ass appear on the ladder, sheathed in denim, he can feel his own jeans getting tighter. He opens a bottle and drinks deep.
Buffy is surprised and a little impressed at what she sees in Spike’s bedroom opposite the bed, near the sewer access. He’s built a sort of fireplace over there, complete with a hearth made of flat stones to keep the sparks from igniting his rugs. No wonder it’s so warm-the little blaze he’s got going is crackling merrily and putting off an impressive amount of heat despite the amount that is being drawn down the sewer with the smoke. “Kinda risky for someone as, um, flammable as you, don’tcha think?” Buffy asks, her voice skeptical. “It’s not like you have a body temperature.”
“It’s about the ambiance, not the heat. And the risk is what makes it fun, as you well know, love. Care for a drink?” He hands her a bottle-she twists the cap off and takes a cautious sip, expecting beer.
“Don’t call me that.” She takes a deeper swig from her bottle, looking at it in surprise. It’s sweet and tart and just a tiny bit fizzy. And just a tiny bit more delicious. “What is this?”
“Hard cider. Know a fella that makes it. Tis the season.” She sits down on the rug in front of the fire, setting her bottle down, shrugging off her cardigan and leaning back on her hands. He admires the way her back arches and her breasts strain against the thin white fabric of her camisole as he joins her. She’s barefoot, like him, having left her shoes upstairs.
It doesn’t take her long to finish the first bottle and start a second. She’s resting her pleasantly-buzzing head in his lap. He’s been playing with her hair, running it though his fingers, but now his hands have begun to wander. He runs his fingers over her breast, squeezing a little, and on down, down her side and over her waist and then they are slipping up under the hem of her top and she’s sitting up a little to help him ease it over her head.
She moves to straddle his lap, facing him, and she can feel him growing hard between them as she strips his tee shirt over his head. His lips are locked on hers, his tongue battling hers. He tastes like ash and sweet hard cider. His fingers are clever and it’s only a moment before her bra is on the floor too and he’s kissing his way along her jawbone to her ear and then down her neck. He pauses, inhaling, at her pulse point; continues trailing his tongue along her collarbone. She gasps, her head falling back, as his mouth closes on a nipple, his thumb teasing its mate to a hard nub.
He groans aloud as she pushes him onto his back, grinding against his hips. Her hands travel his chest and stomach while she’s kissing his neck, biting at his shoulder. He’s sucking in sharp, unneccessary breaths at her every touch. He shivers as she drags her nails down his ribcage and works his fly. No surprise that there’s nothing underneath.
He returns the favor, flipping them over so he’s on top as he does so. She’s wriggling out of her jeans, out of her panties, writhing under him, driving him mad. She gasps in a breath as he enters her, meets his every thrust with a buck of her hips. She’s squeezing him every time he withdraws, holding him inside, wrapping her legs around his waist, digging her fingers into his back. The wave between her legs is building, building, and she cries out as she shatters around him. He’s not far behind, something between a growl and a shout tearing from his throat as he finds his own release.
Minutes pass. They lie next to each other as the fire burns low.
“Stay here, in the dark, with me, Slayer,” Spike rumbles softly.
She knows she should leave, should be the responsible Slayer and parental figure, should go home. But he’s kissing her hip bone now, wet open-mouthed kisses, running his hand along her inner thigh, watching her face to absorb every nuance of her response, and Revello Drive is sounding less and less appealing.
“Well, maybe just a half a drink more,” she concedes, reaching for the bottle and rolling toward him.
Fin
Author: mushroomgal
Words: 1093
Setting: Sometime in mid-B6
Rating: NC-17. Fluffy Spuffy PWP. Sweet enough to make your teeth hurt. No additional warnings.
Note: Part 1 of my final gift for Ladyoneill at btvs_santa! I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and you enjoy this little vignette!
“Spike?” Buffy stands just inside the doorway of Spike’s crypt, surprised at the warmth inside. It’s almost too warm. She quickly sheds her jacket, tossing it on his nearby armchair, and pushes up the sleeves of her pink cardigan.
“Spike?” she calls again. She hears footsteps down in the lower level, and then the vampire’s peroxided head and standard black tee shirt appear at the top of the ladder.
“Slayer. Come by for a cup o’ cheer, then?” Spike swings himself up to the floor and crosses to the stone sarcophagus that takes up a significant fraction of his modest living space. He leans back against it, sinuous as a cat, looking at her quizzically, the barest hint of a leer in his smile.
“Just needed to get out of the house. Willow and Tara have Dawn spazzing about Christmas.”
“And you’re not much in the holiday spirit. That about right, pet?”
“It’s just that Mom always did this stuff… and I…. and Dawnie… oh, I don’t want to talk about it. Especially with you.”
“So you’ve come round my crypt to not talk to me. You were hoping what, that Clem would be about? Buffy, you know I’m not a man to pass up pleasant company..”
“You’re not a man at all!”
“’snot what you said the other night. But I’m in the middle of finishing up a project. So when you’ve done with your snit, come on downstairs.” He grabs a handful of brown glass bottles from the fridge and heads back down the ladder.
“I’m not in a snit!” she shouts after him. God, he can be infuriating. And why can he always see through her like that? But the way he looked at her just now, leaning back against the stone, his blue eyes aflame, makes her lower belly tingle and grow warm. She starts down the ladder after him.
He knows she’ll follow him downstairs-he can smell it on her. He briefly considers of teasing her about it, but she’s in rare form tonight and he decides he doesn’t need another broken nose for his trouble. When her legs and ass appear on the ladder, sheathed in denim, he can feel his own jeans getting tighter. He opens a bottle and drinks deep.
Buffy is surprised and a little impressed at what she sees in Spike’s bedroom opposite the bed, near the sewer access. He’s built a sort of fireplace over there, complete with a hearth made of flat stones to keep the sparks from igniting his rugs. No wonder it’s so warm-the little blaze he’s got going is crackling merrily and putting off an impressive amount of heat despite the amount that is being drawn down the sewer with the smoke. “Kinda risky for someone as, um, flammable as you, don’tcha think?” Buffy asks, her voice skeptical. “It’s not like you have a body temperature.”
“It’s about the ambiance, not the heat. And the risk is what makes it fun, as you well know, love. Care for a drink?” He hands her a bottle-she twists the cap off and takes a cautious sip, expecting beer.
“Don’t call me that.” She takes a deeper swig from her bottle, looking at it in surprise. It’s sweet and tart and just a tiny bit fizzy. And just a tiny bit more delicious. “What is this?”
“Hard cider. Know a fella that makes it. Tis the season.” She sits down on the rug in front of the fire, setting her bottle down, shrugging off her cardigan and leaning back on her hands. He admires the way her back arches and her breasts strain against the thin white fabric of her camisole as he joins her. She’s barefoot, like him, having left her shoes upstairs.
It doesn’t take her long to finish the first bottle and start a second. She’s resting her pleasantly-buzzing head in his lap. He’s been playing with her hair, running it though his fingers, but now his hands have begun to wander. He runs his fingers over her breast, squeezing a little, and on down, down her side and over her waist and then they are slipping up under the hem of her top and she’s sitting up a little to help him ease it over her head.
She moves to straddle his lap, facing him, and she can feel him growing hard between them as she strips his tee shirt over his head. His lips are locked on hers, his tongue battling hers. He tastes like ash and sweet hard cider. His fingers are clever and it’s only a moment before her bra is on the floor too and he’s kissing his way along her jawbone to her ear and then down her neck. He pauses, inhaling, at her pulse point; continues trailing his tongue along her collarbone. She gasps, her head falling back, as his mouth closes on a nipple, his thumb teasing its mate to a hard nub.
He groans aloud as she pushes him onto his back, grinding against his hips. Her hands travel his chest and stomach while she’s kissing his neck, biting at his shoulder. He’s sucking in sharp, unneccessary breaths at her every touch. He shivers as she drags her nails down his ribcage and works his fly. No surprise that there’s nothing underneath.
He returns the favor, flipping them over so he’s on top as he does so. She’s wriggling out of her jeans, out of her panties, writhing under him, driving him mad. She gasps in a breath as he enters her, meets his every thrust with a buck of her hips. She’s squeezing him every time he withdraws, holding him inside, wrapping her legs around his waist, digging her fingers into his back. The wave between her legs is building, building, and she cries out as she shatters around him. He’s not far behind, something between a growl and a shout tearing from his throat as he finds his own release.
Minutes pass. They lie next to each other as the fire burns low.
“Stay here, in the dark, with me, Slayer,” Spike rumbles softly.
She knows she should leave, should be the responsible Slayer and parental figure, should go home. But he’s kissing her hip bone now, wet open-mouthed kisses, running his hand along her inner thigh, watching her face to absorb every nuance of her response, and Revello Drive is sounding less and less appealing.
“Well, maybe just a half a drink more,” she concedes, reaching for the bottle and rolling toward him.
Fin