Speaker-to-Customers (speakr2customrs) wrote,

  • Mood:
  • Music:

Don't mention Billy-goats

I've been totally bogged down on "It's Got to be Perfect" recently, and a few people have advised me to take a break and write something else for a while to get over the block. So I've done a new fic, a one-off of 5,600 words. A new departure for me; graphic sex. Fluffy, schmoopy stuff. Not Spuffy, but I don't want to give away the pairing in advance. I will reveal that it's pretty unconventional. Possibly unique.

It's a "what-if?" and the assumption is that Olaf the Troll took a different route through Sunnydale after leaving the Magic Box in "Triangle". Rating at least R for sex, maybe NC-17.

It's called

Merry Sport

“Flee before my wrath, puny dog!” Olaf roared, brandishing his hammer. The Labrador cowered, tail between its legs, and ran back into its garden. Olaf sighed. There was nothing here worthy of his prowess. No warriors came forth to challenge him. The puny townsfolk fled. He had seen some maidens, fair enough to be worthy of ravishing, but they had screamed and run away before he could draw close. Their men-folk had fled along with them rather than standing to offer battle. He was growing bored.

Somehow he had a nagging feeling that he had taken a wrong turning. This whole town was strange to him, and surely it mattered not where he wandered, and yet still the feeling persisted. He shook it off and prowled onwards. There must be some champion who would oppose him, some housecarl or shield-maiden who was charged with protecting these stone dwellings with their windows of valuable glass, but none came forth. Perhaps he should have stayed in the building in which he had first found himself. The maidens there had been young and fair. One had reminded him of Aud. He should have taken her there and then, and the other one too; although the red-haired one had had the air of a sorceress and he had unpleasant memories of the power of witch-women. Leaving that dwelling had indeed been the wisest course; but was wisdom the proper pursuit for one who had been a Viking and then a Troll? No, he should have stayed.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a woman. Not a young maiden but a woman of mature years. She wore a scarf about her head and it hid most of her hair. A striped garment of wool clung to her body and her legs were concealed by tight trews. Unattractive clothing; and yet she was not unpleasing to the eye. He raised his hammer, and strode forward, but then lowered it again. She was no opponent to be fought. If she was a wife she would have food. Perhaps ale. Her husband could be fought and subdued later if necessary.

* * *

Joyce stood in the garden and enjoyed the feel of the late afternoon sunshine on her skin. She had missed out on much of the summer because of her illness. Now she felt better than she had done in months and she was content just to relax for a while. Dawn would be going to a friend’s house after school and would not be home until the evening, Buffy was at College, and for once she had some time for herself with nothing to do but enjoy the moment. All alone in the garden.

“Woman of the house, bring me food,” a voice interrupted her thoughts. Not alone any more.

Joyce looked up. A huge figure was walking into the garden. At least seven feet tall, broad in proportion, green of skin and with horns protruding from his head. “Uh, hello,” she replied nervously. “Are you looking for Buffy?”

“You do not flee,” the massive creature rumbled approvingly. “You are brave, townswoman. What is ‘Buffy’? I desire ale, pork and cheese.”

Joyce relaxed. This might be a demon of some kind but it didn’t seem excessively threatening. Ale, pork, and cheese were nice normal things, probably completely unconnected with any plan to destroy the world. “I have sausages,” she offered, “and pork ribs. There is some cheese, too. I might have a couple of bottles of beer, I think.”

“Lead on, then, townswoman,” Olaf ordered. “Take me to the pork.”

“My name is Joyce, not ‘townswoman’,” Joyce told him, leading the way to the door. It was broad daylight so this creature obviously wasn’t a vampire. Spike managed to get around quite well by day, with the aid of a blanket, but he could never have walked so openly in the sunlight. The mystical rules prohibiting a vampire from entering a human house without an invitation probably wouldn’t work; but it was worth a try.

“I am Olaf. Once a housecarl in the service of Eric Edmundsson Weather-hat, King of Uppsala. I was protector of the town of Sjornjost,” he informed her, following her into the house without any resistance from intangible barriers, “until a treacherous woman turned me into a Troll. You have much glass, Joyce. You must be of great wealth.”

“Wealth? Oh, no, glass is not valuable these days,” Joyce contradicted him. She looked at the hammer and rethought. “Although it is expensive enough that I would rather you didn’t break any.”

“Fear not, woman – Joyce,” Olaf assured her. “I will break no glass unless battle comes.” He looked around. “I see no husband. Is he farming your fields or away a-Viking?”

“He left,” Joyce said with a sudden flash of bitterness. “He lives with a younger woman now.”

Olaf looked her over appraisingly. “Then he is a fool,” he declared. “Men are weak, I know, but he should have tumbled the younger woman and returned to you. You have the hips of a woman who would be good to bed, and you are brave and know your duty to a lost stranger.”

Joyce felt herself blush. “I’ll put some pork ribs on to cook,” she said hastily, and made for the kitchen. She switched on the range, and raided the refrigerator for all the meat she could find. Her unexpected guest was huge and no doubt would have an appetite to match. She thought of potatoes, but remembered that they would be unknown to a Viking and decided she wouldn’t risk it. What crops had the Vikings grown? She had little idea, other than that they wouldn’t have had potatoes or rice. Some cabbage to accompany the meat, perhaps? It might be a good idea to find him some beer first to keep him content while she prepared the meal. She found some bottles in the refrigerator and took them back into the living room.

Olaf was examining the furniture. “A strangely shaped bed,” he remarked, testing the resilience of the sofa with one mighty hand. “It would serve well enough for a tumble, but would be uncomfortable for a night’s sleep.”

“Oh, it’s not for sleeping,” Joyce told him. “The beds are upstairs. It’s just for sitting on.”

“Ah. A chair.” Olaf sat down, sinking into the couch, and smiled. “It is indeed comfortable. It lacks only a warm woman.”

“Here’s some beer,” Joyce said hastily, passing him a glassful.

Olaf drained it in one swallow. “Good,” he said, “but a mere mouthful for one of my size and appetites.” Joyce hurried to pour him another, and he drained that one just as quickly. “Are you preparing me food, woman? I see no cooking fire.”

“We can cook without fire these days,” she replied. “I’m roasting you some pork. It won’t be very long. I could get you some cheese while you are waiting.”

“You are a jewel among women,” he told her with a smile. “Even with your unattractive clothing. I say again, your husband is a fool. Tell me where he lives and I shall avenge your honor with my hammer.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” Joyce assured him. “He lives many miles away now.”

“So, he went a-Viking and stayed with his captive woman,” Olaf deduced. “Such things happen often. Have no other warriors sought your hand, or the company of your warm and desirable body?”

“Not recently,” Joyce admitted. “I – I’ll get the cheese.” She hurried back to the kitchen. The telephone caught her eye. Should she phone Buffy? A battle inside the house would wreck the furniture, the windows, probably the walls. The huge man, or monster, didn’t seem terribly threatening. Better leave well enough alone for now. She took out a large slab of cheese, decided that he would know about bread and added that, and then opened a bottle of wine. The Vikings had named America ‘Vinland’, she knew, so they must have known about wine.

He accepted the bread, cheese, and wine with alacrity, and began to devour the food. Joyce returned to the kitchen. Nothing needed immediate attention. A thought struck her. ‘Unattractive clothing’? She supposed she was dressed rather drably, although when she’d donned those clothes in the morning she’d regarded it as a big step up from the bathrobe she’d been wearing since her operation. Well, that could be rectified. “I’m just going upstairs for a moment,” she called, not wishing the Troll, or Viking, or whatever to think that she was trying to escape. “Your meal will be only a few more minutes.”

His reply was unintelligible, uttered with a mouth full of bread and cheese, but didn’t seem to be alarmed or threatening, so she went upstairs. She took off the sweater and pants; and then removed her serviceable but plain bra and panties too. Nothing was going to happen, of course; but he was extremely masculine, and rather attractive in a hulking way if you overlooked the green skin and the horns and the wild hairstyle, and she could always pretend later. There would be ample scope for naughty fantasies to keep her amused on nights to come. She donned her laciest bra and panties, put on a dress with a low-cut front, and arranged her hair as best she could allowing for the shorn patch from the operation and the headscarf.

She picked up the upstairs phone extension and dialed Janice’s mother’s number. Better arrange for Dawn to stay; it wouldn’t be a good idea for her to come home when a huge Troll had taken up residence in the house. Perhaps she should try and keep Buffy away, too. She didn’t want to risk the house being a battleground, and gentle persuasion seemed to be working so far. Olaf would leave when there was no food left, she was sure, and that would be a lot cheaper than having the furniture destroyed by a great big hammer and a Slayer.

* * *

Olaf finished the bread and cheese and began to examine the room again. He saw a painting upon a shelf; a work of marvelous skill, worthy to be in the court of the Emperor in Miklagard. The woman of the house with two maidens. One was too young to be ravished, but the other was of marriageable age and pretty, with something of the look of a warrior. A shield-maiden. If she came to the house he could make merry sport with her. Alas, he guessed, she would be married and in the household of some Jarl.

A strange box caught his eye. It had a front of glass, yet there was no way to see inside, and he could find no way to open it. He picked up his hammer and considered breaking it open. No, that would be churlish when the woman was cooking for him. He could persuade her to open it later, after he had eaten. Hmm. He could smell roasting flesh now. His mouth began to water. Pork was good. It was traditional to eat babies, but he had never really adapted to that particular Trollish custom, unless it was necessary to retain prestige among the born Trolls. There was little good meat on a baby, and far too much mess, also it upset women and they cried until their noses were red and they were damp and unattractive.

Unlike the woman who was now coming down the stairs. The ugly clothes were gone, and she wore a gown of rich material, fine linen or perhaps even silk, black with a pattern of flowers. It was cut to reveal the cleft between her breasts and emphasized the swell of her hips. They put those of a Baltic woman to shame. Olaf felt his cock beginning to swell. She would be a fine tumble. “You are a fine woman, Joyce,” he told her. “You are the loveliest sight that has met my eyes in a thousand years.” Most of which he had spent magically trapped in a crystal, of course, so he could speak with total sincerity.

“Thank you,” she smiled, a flush coming to her cheeks. “I’d better see to the meat,” she added, and went quickly to the kitchen.

* * *

Forks were an unfamiliar concept to Olaf. He seized the ribs, and sausages, and some chicken wings Joyce had also cooked, in his hands and tore at them with his teeth. He looked dubiously at the cabbage, but decided to give it a try, and he could see the sense in using the fork at that point. The cabbage went surprisingly well with the meat, and he devoured everything on his plate, washing it down with wine and beer. Joyce dished herself up a small portion and ate it with more refinement, sitting opposite the Troll. His eyes dwelt appreciatively on her cleavage.

“You should have wine too, Joyce,” he urged her.

“I can’t,” she informed him. She tried to phrase an explanation of her illness in terms he could understand. “I had a sickness of the brain, and our healers cut open my head and removed the bad part. The wound must heal, and the healers have warned me I should not drink wine or beer for a while.”

“So that is why you hide your locks,” he deduced. “You are a sensible woman to take the advice of the healers, but you have nothing to fear. I am the chosen of the Trolls, held to be among the gods, and have powers of healing as well as of war; greater even than those of the wise healing women of the Vikings. I have charms to treat the wounds of warriors, including those smitten upon the head by bright swords, save only those hurt to the death. Even the soup sickness responds to the charms. I shall speed your healing so that you can drink this wine.”

He rose from the table and made his way to Joyce’s side. With surprising gentleness he removed the headscarf and gazed at the area of the operation. “Eir, goddess of healing,” he chanted, “Olaf, chief among the Trolls, wielder of the hammer of Brok, deemed among the gods of the Vanir, calls upon you of the Asynjor. Heal this woman, that she may drink and besport herself in a manner befitting a woman with such breasts and hips. I make to you an offering of wine.” He took the wine bottle and tipped it up over the middle of the table. Joyce raised a hand and began to protest but fell silent as she saw the stream of wine vanish into thin air before it reached the tablecloth. “The goddess smiles on us,” Olaf beamed. “Eir, heal this woman.”

Joyce felt a tingling sensation spreading across her scalp. There was one brief flash of almost intolerable pain, and she cried out, but then it was gone and she felt only a sense of well-being. Gingerly she touched the site of the operation. It had been tender to the touch but now felt normal. As if the operation had never happened. Only the patch of short hair where her head had been shaved remained.

Olaf gave a deep chuckle. “I know of no charm to grow hair, Joyce. I cannot make hair out of gold as the dwarfs did for Sif when Loki stole her locks. It will grow back in the fullness of time, I assure you, and it does not mar your beauty too much. Replace your headscarf and drink of this wine.”

Joyce poured what remained of the wine into her glass and obeyed.

* * *

“It grows dark,” Olaf observed, between mouthfuls of strawberry cheesecake. “I see no lamps, no fat to burn. Is it the custom in this land to go to bed at the setting of the sun?”

Joyce giggled. She had opened a bottle of brandy once the wine was finished. It had had little effect upon the huge troll, but she was feeling decidedly tipsy. “We light our houses with electricity,” she explained. Olaf looked blank. “The lightning. It’s a kind of magic.” She rose and switched on the light.

Olaf recoiled in alarm. “By the hand of Tyr!” he exclaimed. “This is sorcery indeed.”

Joyce reconsidered her plan to put on the television. That might be a bit much for the Troll to cope with as yet. Instead she went round and pulled shut the curtains. She switched on a table lamp in the living room rather than the main lights. The more subdued lighting would probably be better for keeping her guest at his ease.

“I must go to the bathroom,” she informed Olaf.

He frowned. “You have no need to bathe, Joyce. You are clean, you smell fragrant and enticing. As for me, I must relieve myself. Where should I go?”

“These days the place where we relieve ourselves is known as the bathroom,” Joyce explained. “That’s where I’m going. I’ll show you after I’ve been.”

Explaining modern toilet facilities to a ninth-Century Viking was something of a struggle but Joyce managed eventually and left him to it. She returned downstairs and stood in the centre of the living room pondering her next move. She was fairly sure she knew what Olaf’s next move would be. How could she deflect his advances without angering the huge warrior? She decided to have another drink while she thought about it.

She switched on the television, making sure that the sound was low. It might distract Olaf. Better make sure that it wasn’t showing anything that would alarm or enrage him. The news? No, too much chance of violence. A Monster Truck rally? No, it would drive her insane. MTV? That seemed harmless enough. Music hath charms to sooth the savage breast, and all that.

“Odin’s beard!” Olaf exclaimed from behind her. “The box is magic! Visions like those of the spae-wife Grua.”

“It is for entertainment,” she told him. “Pictures and sound for our amusement. It’s completely harmless.”

“Your people have great power,” the Troll mused. “Such magic, and it can be spared for mere jest.” He drew closer, and his brow furrowed. “A Skald. A pretty tune, but I understand not of what he sings.”

Joyce smiled. She could see his point; she too had problems following Shaggy’s “It Wasn’t Me”, although the verses sung by RikRok were clear enough. She considered changing the channel; but before she could act Olaf had stepped forward and taken hold of her around the waist.

“Sit with me upon this soft chair,” he commanded, and lifted her effortlessly into the air. He swept her onto the couch and deposited her gently, and then took his place beside her. His brawny arm went around her shoulder and pulled her against his chest. “The food is done. Now is the time for song, and for merry sport.”

“I really shouldn’t,” she began, but was cut off as Olaf pressed his lips to hers. She tried to push him away, futile against his overwhelming strength, but then his tongue sought out hers and her resolve weakened. The kiss was gentler than she had expected, but insistent and passionate. He held her tightly with one arm and the other hand went to her leg. He caressed her thigh, working his way slowly upwards, and she felt a rush of sensation. Her resistance crumbled and she returned his kiss with fervor.

After a while Olaf broke off the kiss and drew back slightly. “Your kiss is as sweet as mead,” he praised. “You are truly a warm and passionate woman. I am glad the Web of Wyrd drew me to this house. I shall taste of the sweetness between your legs, and take my pleasure there.”

“You will,” Joyce agreed, the last vestiges of her resistance gone, and pulled him towards her again. This time she reciprocated his exploration of her body, her hands running over his mighty shoulders and down to his groin. The size of the bulge she discovered there made her break off the kiss and draw in her breath sharply.

Olaf laughed. “Yes, I have a mighty weapon,” he boasted. “The time has come for you to see it, and for me to see your fine breasts and your cleft. Remove your clothes, Joyce, that I may enjoy you.”

She stood up. “Shall we go upstairs?” she invited.

Olaf’s brow wrinkled. The phrase had no significance to one from a culture in which houses had only one floor. “I have no need to bathe, or to relieve myself. Later, perhaps, when our bodies glisten with sweat from our lustful exertions.” He pulled off his tunic, revealing a vast expanse of muscular green chest covered with a mat of red hair. “Remove your gown, Joyce, for I see not how it is fastened.” He sat down again and began to remove his big goatskin boots.

Joyce unfastened her dress and slipped it off. She was nervous at standing there in bra and panties, but her nervousness evaporated as she saw the way Olaf’s eyes lit up and he snatched frantically at his boots.

“By Freya, woman, you are beautiful,” he boomed. “Your undergarments are strange yet most attractive. I must hasten to remove my trews, for I am about to burst through them.” He stood and removed his pants, revealing his erect penis.

Joyce gasped and her hand went to her mouth. It was immense. Half as big again as Rupert’s, at least twice as big as Hank’s. The shaft was green, and rose majestically out of a mass of red hair, but the head was the purplish colour normal for a human male. It was oddly beautiful. She felt drawn to it; possibly by sheer gravitational pull rather than by lust.

She extended her hand to it tentatively. It twitched as she touched it, and Olaf groaned. He pulled her close and buried his face in her neck, kissing her urgently, moving up and nibbling her earlobe. His cock pressed hard against her belly, and she squirmed with pleasure. She took hold of his cock, trying to encircle it with her fingers, but they came nowhere near meeting. “I’ll never manage to get all that inside me!” she breathed, awestruck.

“Fear not, Joyce. I shall make you hot and wet, you shall be well ready for me when I take you,” Olaf promised. He moved a hand to her breasts, maneuvered one free from the bra cup, and dipped his mouth to the nipple.

“If I get any wetter I’ll be leaving puddles,” Joyce gasped. Olaf’s other hand had worked its way inside her panties and his fingers were beginning to probe into her pussy. His thumb slid over her clit. “Oh! Oh! Olaf!” she panted.

Olaf tugged her panties over her hips and down her thighs until they fell free. He kissed his way downwards from her breasts towards her belly, dropping to his knees as he worked lower, and nuzzled between her legs. He moved her backwards until she was against the couch, and then pushed her down to sit on it. She kicked her panties free, and he settled himself between her legs, tongue probing into her. “You are delicious,” he announced, his voice muffled. He nibbled gently at her clit with his teeth and pushed a finger inside her, followed it with another finger, and worked them in and out.

Joyce cried out again. “Yes! Oh, Olaf!” She clutched at his head and felt his horns against her hands. She seized them and held on tightly, holding him against her as his fingers and tongue moved busily for several minutes. “Fuck me!” she ordered at last, relaxing her grip on his horns. “Olaf, fuck me. Fuck me now!”

Olaf raised his head. “You are ready for my mighty weapon,” he gloated, and began to move up her body.

Joyce giggled at the corny line, so appropriate in this case, and shuddered ecstatically as he made a trail of kisses up her belly and to her breasts again. Then his mouth found hers, and she tasted her own juices on his tongue. Simultaneously she felt the head of his cock against her pussy. His hand was there, guiding the cock, holding her open for him. The head slipped inside and he took his hand away. Gradually the huge shaft began to enter her. Gently but remorselessly it moved further and further inside, stretching her, pleasuring her. “You’re in me. Oh, yes, you’re fucking me.”

“Your cleft is tight and wet,” he grunted. “I will fill you with my cock. Ride you until you scream with pleasure and then fill you with my seed.” He thrust deeper into her by another inch.

Seed?’ Joyce thought briefly. ‘I could get pregnant!’ Olaf pushed deeper into her, withdrew half-way, and thrust into her once more, this time penetrating her by several inches, and the practical thought was driven from her head by the flood of sensation and lust. Her protest died unvoiced and was replaced by another urgent entreaty. “Fuck me. So good. Fuck me. Come in me.”

In. Out. In. Out. Each time a little deeper, a little harder. His hands fondled her buttocks, her stomach, her breasts. His lips moved from her mouth to her breasts, sucking her nipples into his mouth, and then to her neck and back to her lips. She jerked her hips upwards to meet his thrusts, ran her hands over his back, and met his kisses with passionate kisses of her own. Their breath became pants and gasps.

“Ohhhh, ohhhh. I’m coming,” Joyce moaned. “Ooohhh!”

“Aaaah, aaah, I fill you with my aaahh, aaah, seed - aahh!” Olaf bellowed ecstatically.

Joyce came loudly, explosively, and her pussy contracted powerfully around Olaf’s cock. He came in hot spurts, so powerfully that she could feel them hitting her insides, and she spasmed again, feeling as if she was falling apart, sinking her teeth into his shoulder in the intensity of the sensation.

Olaf slumped over her, spent, crushing her with his weight for a second, but quickly raised himself with his arms. “You are indeed a woman who it is good to bed, Joyce,” he panted. “Never have I had a tumble such as that.”

Joyce was incapable of coherent speech for a full minute. She lay limp, feeling his cock growing soft inside her, basking in the afterglow. “Yuhh – yes,” she panted at last. “It’s never been that good.”

Olaf ran a finger over her nipple, making her squirm. “Next time it will be even better,” he promised.

Joyce could feel him beginning to grow hard again, swelling inside her. “Next time? I need a rest. I couldn’t do it again, not for a little while.” She was tempted, very tempted, but just too sensitive to take up where they had left off just yet.

Olaf pulled out of her. “I have a thousand years of lust crying out for relief, but I can wait a little time.” His cock didn’t seem willing to wait; it was rapidly returning to full erection. Joyce reached out and touched it once more, and it jerked and grew back to its full gigantic size. She stroked it, circled it with her fingers and worked them up and down. He groaned in ecstasy; his hands went once more to her breasts, which had spilled out of the bra cups entirely as they fucked, and he pushed them together. “Pleasure me with your breasts,” he requested, rising to his feet.

Joyce sat up, held her breasts together, and licked her lips teasingly. He pushed his cock into her cleavage and began to thrust. She dipped her head and opened her mouth; he pulled back from her cleavage and took advantage of her invitation. She sucked him for a while, running her tongue over the sensitive underside of his cock head to his great pleasure, and then released him from her mouth and guided him back between her breasts. She smiled and urged him on, cupping his balls in her hand and fondling them as he fucked away, until at last he cried out and spurted out a stream of semen, splattering her chin and breasts and pooling in the cleavage.

“Your husband must be the greatest fool in the world,” Olaf proclaimed once he had regained his breath. “He should be in the palace at Miklagard, cavorting in cap and bells for the entertainment of the Emperor. To have a woman such as you and to leave her is folly beyond imagining.”

“Am I really that good?” Joyce asked.

“Woman, you give pleasure almost beyond bearing,” he assured her. “I must drink now, and then I shall pleasure you again. I claim you as my own, Joyce, and I will fight any man who tries to take you from me.”

Ominous words, perhaps. There might be trouble ahead. But for now Joyce could not care less about the practicalities of being claimed as the woman of a thousand-year-old Viking Troll in twenty-first century California. Sex like that was too good to let go.

* * *

They went upstairs and fucked on her bed. Joyce knelt, ass in the air, and Olaf fucked her from behind until she had come three times and he had filled her with his sperm. They paused to shower, Olaf being amazed by hot water flowing from a pipe as if from a geyser and reveling in the unaccustomed luxury, and then returned to bed.

Joyce was straddling her Troll, bouncing up and down impaled on his mighty penis, and his hands were raised to fondle her breasts, when the front door of 1630 Revello Drive opened and Buffy walked in.

“Mom,” Buffy began, and then noticed the clothes scattered on the floor, saw the hammer propped against the wall, and heard the sound of protesting bedsprings from upstairs. “Mom!” she cried, terrified for her mother, and raced to the rescue. The Slayer flung open the bedroom door, poised for battle, and saw her mother naked and riding her lover.

Joyce’s head was flung back and her eyes were closed. “Olaf, I love you!” she cried out in pleasure. “Fill me up!”

Buffy’s eyes grew enormous. She raised her hand in front of her incredulously gaping mouth and stumbled backwards. “Meep!” she squealed, and fled back downstairs.

* * *

“But Mom,” Buffy wailed. “He’s Anya’s ex. And a Troll.” They were sitting around the table, Joyce and Olaf dressed now, and Joyce had introduced her Troll lover to the new taste sensation of hot chocolate with little marshmallows.

“I don’t care about any of that,” Joyce told her daughter. “He’s a good man anyway.” She grinned wickedly. “And a truly magnificent lover.”

“Mom!” Buffy squealed, clapping her hands over her ears. “Mentally scarred for life already. So not wanting to hear that.”

“You shouldn’t have burst into my bedroom without knocking,” her mother admonished her. “Serves you right. Now apologize to Olaf. After all, he is to all intents and purposes going to be your new stepfather.”

“Mom! You can’t be serious,” Buffy protested.

“Can you think of a better ally against Glory?” Joyce pointed out shrewdly.

“Uh, the US Marine Corps?” Buffy suggested.

“Buffy, honey, I’m hardly going to bed all of them,” Joyce teased.

“Mom! Seriously wigging me out here,” Buffy complained, but then a smile crept across her face. “Point, Mom. Okay, if Olaf isn’t going to be doing the killing people thing, and stops with the smiting of the mailboxes, I can deal. Sorry I barged in on you, Olaf.”

“Your wish to protect your mother was commendable,” Olaf acknowledged. “I forgive you. You are the Slayer, the shield-maiden who destroys the Draugr? I am proud to take you as my daughter. We shall be family and battle-friends.”

“Deal,” Buffy agreed, extending her hand. Olaf grasped it and they shook, the custom of shaking hands to seal an agreement being one common to both cultures.

“This has been a totally weird day,” Buffy told her mother. “I go to meet Willow and Tara, ‘cause you said for me to stay over at the dorm tonight, and I find that Willow and Anya are chasing all over Sunnydale looking for a Troll. Then I call in at the Bronze and I find Xander and Spike bonding like best buddies. Playing pool and sharing peanuts and even laughing together, and making arrangements to meet up tomorrow night for more of the same. Spike actually volunteered to help me search for the Troll, no payment or anything, just to be helpful, and Xander told me off when I was suspicious.”

“He’s a good boy,” Joyce said fondly. “He can’t help being a vampire – what did you call it, Olaf, a Draugr? You’d better make sure you tell him that Olaf is with me now and on our side.”

“Right, Mom, I’ll do that,” Buffy promised. “And then I come home,” she continued, “and I burst in on the most traumatic experience of my life. And now I’ve gotten a new step-dad. What’s Dawn going to think?”

“My guess is that she will think Olaf is ‘cool’,” Joyce predicted.

Buffy grinned. “Guess you’re right, Mom. But you have to watch out for her seeing any PDAs between you two. Don’t want her scarred for life too. Or her yelling ‘Ewww! Get out get out get out!’ and scarring all our ears for life.” The grin spread wider, and turned into a chuckle. “One thing, Mom, I totally have to be there when you take Olaf to Dawn’s school for Parent Teacher Night.”

The End

The characters in this story do not belong to me, but are being used for amusement only and all rights remain with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, the writers of the original episodes, and the TV and production companies responsible for the original television shows. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER ©2002 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation. All Rights Reserved. The Buffy the Vampire Slayer trademark is used without express permission from Fox.

Tags: fic, merry_sport
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.