Rating: Anything upto and including R/teen.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. No harm, no foul, no money made.
Warnings/Squicks: Seasonal schmoop ahoy!
tsugath asked for: Here's a few- crackle of a fire, the reflected changing lights from a Christmas tree, the taste and scent of mulled cider, the feel of a warm blanket. I like giving 5, one for each sense.
Somewhere Private, 166 words
Christmas Eve ticks quietly over into Christmas Day, the couple on the couch too self-involved to really notice.
A thick, fleece blanket covers both men from nose to toe, tucked beneath knees and hips and elbows, pinned down by heels.
Occasionally a hand wanders out and creeps carefully across the littered carpet, searching out the mugs of mulled cider poured an hour or so ago.
Forethought - Spike had planned for wild monkey sex - has added bendy straws to each mug so spare them from having to sit up, so each relished horizontal sip comes free of choking clove and injury to eye by sharpened cinnamon stick. It smells of happiness, contentment.
The neat log fire in the grate crackles happily, flames consuming oak and yew and apple and some chestnut skins.
The lights on the tree - tiny bulbs in crystal snowflakes - cycle slowly through their programmed colours - red, green, gold and white - bouncing rainbow shards off the cut-glass chandelier, unseen.
sunnyd_lite asked for: Gingerbread, cake, cookies, houses whatever!
The Cookie Crew, 213 words
"Xander! Spike! Oh, thank the goddess you're here! I'm running out of time to get the cookies done!"
Without even waiting for the boys to say hello, Willow grabbed them both by the wrist and started towing, dragging them through the house and into the kitchen where she pushed them into seats at opposite end of the cookie-covered table. With a satisfied nod, as though they'd actually agreed, she pressed icing pens into their unresisting hands.
"Smiley faces, buttons down their bellies, nothing fancy. We don't have time, I… Oh! The next batch is done already! Quickly now, I have to get them done before this evening. And then I need to box them up and take them to the… Say, Xander, if I let you steal a couple of extra cookies, would you mind delivering a dozen or so boxes?"
Xander opened his mouth but didn't get to speak.
"Spike! What are you doing? These cookies are for children! Wipe that - that thing - off and start again, and remember, this is G-rated gingerbread, Mister."
Spike sighed and wiped away the 'stray' icing with his thumb, fellating it obscenely as Xander watched and whimpered.
"Hey! Back to work, now, or neither of you gets to take any of my gingerbread home!"
burningchaos asked for: the perils of volunteer work during Christmas
This carries on from the above drabble, as it fits so well. :D
Tour Of Duty, 218 words
After the third house Spike refused to deliver the cookies alone. He insisted Xander accompany him to the door at every stop. It didn't take much to figure out why.
Eggnog seemed to be the tipple of the day. It was as though the Sunnydale housewives' union had organised a nog-fest. More often than not, the door would be thrown open by a tipsy woman, children peering out from behind her legs and pulling faces. The box of cookies would then be handed over in short order, and the men would try to make a hasty exit.
Apparently, eggnog imbued the women with extra strength, enough to tow a full-grown man, and full-grown vampire, into the house, with breath enough to coo "Come in, come in! It's Christmas, you're both growing boys, let me feed you up." And then the nog and cookies or the fruitcake would come out. There was no escape.
By the time the last of two dozen boxes had been handed off, Xander couldn't even find the car. Spike had swiped the keys after Xander's second glass, and Xander hadn't even thought to argue. The nog was strong.
He sat, pliant; wobbling as Spike drove them home, erupting in small bursts of high-pitched giggles at the slightest thing.
Spike plotted his revenge on Willow.
entrenous88 asked for: A song-playing Christmas card that will. not. stop. (and may possibly be demonic?) =P
Singalong, 238 words
The card came addressed to them both, with no return address, and by the time they'd got it open to see who'd sent it it was much too late. It wouldn't shut up, even when they closed it and it wouldn't tear.
By the time Giles and Buffy had stopped laughing long enough to try to help them out, Spike and Xander were on their seventeenth carol and they couldn't stop.
It didn't seem to matter whether or not they knew the lyrics, if the musical card from hell played the tune they were forced to sing, or la-la-la or simply make words up. Spike was good at that. His x-rated version of 'O Tannenbaum' had Giles blushing furiously while Buffy wondered why.
Xander made a mental note to ask for the translation, and maybe a lesson or two in how to sing it in the Latin. You never know when opportunity might come a-knocking and he'd love to cause that look on someone else.
Three hours and forty-seven carols later Giles found the 'cure'. He broke the spell with cinnamon and nutmeg and an Irish chant. Spike's eyes turned yellow in an instant.
"I'll dust the git! That bog-trotting bastard of a grandsire… Oh, I know what'll show him I mean business. Ripper, do you happen to have a copy of the Gurlasch Lines? Let's see how he feels when he wakes up with no hair, yeah?"
uniquewonders asked for: Fir trees (scent). North. Silence. Serene. Darkness.
Not This Year, 203 words
A week at a hotel in Fairbanks, Alaska, was Xander's Christmas present to Spike in their seventh year. A week with days that didn't get four full hours of sunlight, staying at a hotel built above hot mineral springs.
On their second night there, they stood outside and watched the Northern Lights paint the skies in blues and reds, greens and yellows. Huge splashes of colour, with modernistic swirls and streaks - artwork that could never be repeated on a smaller scale. It was awe-inspiring.
On the fourth day they rented a car and drove out into nowhere, the rear of the vehicle packed to the roof with survival gear, 'just in case'. Xander had finally learned to take precautions.
They walked for a while, well bundled up, letting the serenity and the silence of the vast white skyline ease the tension from their bones. The sharp scent of fir trees, hidden by the piled up snow, lent an added edge to the crystalline air that seemed to shred their lungs with every breath.
The pain, the burn, the unrelenting ache of it all, helped them to decide that this year wouldn't be The One. Xander still had so much life to live.
piratepurple asked for: One of those advent calendars with the goodies inside, homemade chocolate cake, a foot and a half of snow. :)
Pout #12, 267 words
Christmas Eve in London was like Dante's Inferno, only with a foot and a half of snow to make thing interesting. Every time you fought your way through one unholy level of consumer hell, you hit another, each worse than the next. It was interminable.
But, eventually, the last minute shopping was done, and the taxi to take them home was barely half an hour late. Life was looking up.
Spike was busy putting the finishing touches to the chocolate cake he'd baked - not a word, luv, or you're not getting a crumb! - when Xander stomped, indignant, into the kitchen on Santa-socked feet.
"Spike, this Cadbury's Advent calendar's faulty, we should send it back. They haven't put a door for Christmas Day so there's no chocolate!"
The expression on Spike's face said he didn't know whether to laugh or cry. He loved his boy, he really did, but sometimes he was just too daft.
"They don't need a door for Christmas day, luv, it's Christmas Day. You'll have more soddin' chocolate than you can eat, even if you're you. The first twenty-four are just a teaser for the main event, to get your chocolate-eating muscles into top gear."
Xander turned on pout #12, the one with extra tremble.
"But, Spike, it's Cadbury's! They led me on and made me think I was getting the good stuff, and now here I am, stuck in…"
"London, luv, remember? A city that's full of Cadbury's and Bourneville and Green and Black and… Dammit, Xander, turn the bloody pout off, please? There's Cadbury's in the cake, you soppy git!"
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