By Mint Witch
RATING: NC-17, for very light smut, and some slight kinkiness. I didn’t want to scare the kiddies.
SPOILERS: Through S6
DISCLAIMER: Do I look like a paunchy guy with male pattern baldness? No. Okay. Let’s all move on.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is 2nd in the series that started with Coincidence, Happenstance… Enemy Action. I was calling it the “I Wish- verse”, then briefly the Goldfinger series, and right now it’s going by the name Kinky-Buffy-Smut. Anyone who can come up with something I like for this monster gets a cameo or a ficlet, depending upon what that Bitch (a.k.a. My Muse) forces me to write.
DISTRIBUTION: I’m not only easy, I’m free. Just ask. And fanfiction.net.
FEEDBACK: Give it to me baby, uh huh uh huh!
4. Kitchen Confidential
Buffy bucked violently upright, rolling the unconscious vampire onto the floor with a thud. “Crap!” The Slayer surged to her feet, hopped over Spike, and ran for the staircase.
Spike’s eyes opened, and he blinked blearily after the young woman for a second, muttering, “Thought you weren’t gonna do that this time, pet,” but Buffy was gone. Spike closed his eyes in resignation and waited for the other shoe.
Which dropped in the form of a half-naked Slayer screaming, “Coffee!” as she hurdled through the living room into the kitchen. A highly original assortment of bangs, crashes, and curses entertained him for a few moments, and then a mostly naked Slayer streaked back through the living room and up the stairs again.
Spike levered himself to his feet, pulling on his tee shirt as he rose, and started gathering up random items of abandoned Buffy-wear. He strolled barefoot into the kitchen and chucked the garments down into the basement. The sound of the shower turning on swooshed from above.: Spike stared at the ceiling and rubbed at his hair, wondering what the bloody fuck was going on.
Helping himself to a cup of coffee, Spike settled on a kitchen stool and sipped slowly. The shower shut off, and the noises that followed sounded faintly like an Apocalypse, but Spike dismissed the thought. No self- respecting demon would suck the world into Hell before noon.
Buffy jogged into the kitchen a few moments later, wet hair pulled into a ponytail and dripping onto the back of her blouse. She grabbed his coffee cup, sniffed, then downed it in one gulp. She thrust it back into his hand with an urgent, “More!”
William the Bloody Whipped slid off the stool and fetched the Slayer more coffee. She was just fastening his leash around her waist when he turned back around.
“Thanks.” Buffy smiled as she thanked him, then leaned forward and gave him a quick peck on the lips, batting her eyelashes. Call him William the Bloody Confused. But Buffy was speaking now. Rapidly.
“…but I get home around six, and Dawn works at the shop after school on Wednesdays; Anya will drop her off when they close, and Xander stays over with her while I patrol. You can hang here and have dinner with us and then patrol with me, I mean if you want to, but you don’t have to if you, you know, don’t want to--” Spike just stood there, listening to her babble as she ran around the kitchen filling a steel mug with more coffee and packing what looked like a lunch box. The Slayer has a Wonder Woman lunch box: how ‘bout that for irony.
“…my work number is on the ‘fridge, but if you leave, turn off the coffee pot and lock the door, okay? And--” a car honked outside, “Crap, that’s Xander!” Buffy pecked him on the mouth again, thrust his cup back into his hand, and was out the door, mug and lunch box and purse all somehow in tow.
Spike raised his cup to his lips and took a cautious sip. Then he looked down at his bare toes and wiggled them. He stood that way for a long, quiet moment. Then he turned, topped off his coffee, and sat back down on the stool.
It was entirely possibly that he’d had the better end of the deal when she just kicked him in the head mornings.
Xander leaned over to open the passenger door as Buffy slammed out of the house. He smiled: every morning she could be counted on to leap off the porch and run down the front path as if the hounds of Hell were on her heels. The Slayer seemed to be in a constant state of almost-but-not-quite- running-late these days, but at least she was cheerful about it. It was a vast improvement over the Buffy of last year, who was always late, and sometimes completely absent, not to mention terminally depressed.
Sliding into the car, she blithely announced, “Spike’s back,” and fastened her seatbelt with the hand not juggling coffee and female luggage.
“Oh?” Xander was damn proud of his casual tone. Casually checking the mirror for oncoming traffic, he casually reached for the turn-signal lever and prepared to casually pull away from the curb. “How do you know?”
“Cuz he’s in my kitchen.”
Snap! Xander looked down at the plastic lever now permanently separated from the steering column of his car and gave silent thanks to the Powers That Be that they had not been in traffic when Buffy dropped her little bombshell.
“Oh.” Not so casual anymore, are we Xan-man? Xander physically restrained himself from leaping out of the car and running into the house for what would certainly be a humiliating display of male over-reaction. Deep breaths. Yeah, okay.
“Uh-huh.” Buffy waved out the car window, just in case Spike was watching. Xander closed his eyes for moment and prayed for guidance.
Very, very calmly, Xander pulled onto the road, paying careful attention to everything except his passenger. He counted to one hundred. He counted down from one hundred. He attempted to count to one hundred in Spanish but only made it as far as cinco, so he repeated it one hundred times in penance.
He finally spoke when they pulled up in front of Buffy’s building. “Buff--”
“I know, Xander. But we talked about this. And… I invited him to dinner, so he might still be there tonight. Don’t-- just don’t, okay?”
Xander blinked thoughtfully at his friend, then looked away. He heard her unfasten her seatbelt and turned back to face her before she got out of the car.
“Okay, Buffy. But, I really hope you know what you’re doing.”
Buffy gazed at him seriously and nodded in understanding. “I do too, Xander. I do, too.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. “See you later.”
Xander tried to smile, “Same Bat time, same Bat channel.” She smiled at him with genuine fondness and gently closed the door, then strode away. He watched until she was inside, debating with himself, and sighed. Better to just go to work. The Buffster would not appreciate him taking matters into his own hands. But God damn him, if he didn’t want to.
Spike watched telly, called up Willie for a blood, liquor, and fags delivery, slept, watched more telly, and basically killed time until Buffy was due home. The Slayer’s home was woefully lacking in reading material. He was back at the kitchen island watching the clock and pretending to do a crossword puzzle when she breezed in with Harris in her wake.
The whelp nodded to him. “Dead boy.”
Spike nodded back. “Stay-Puft.”
Buffy intervened. “Be nice. Both of you.”
Xander and Spike traded glares, silently promising future mayhem once the Slayer was out of the way.
Her open palm slammed down onto the counter between them, making both men jump. “I mean it!” The males looked away from each other guiltily, relieved when Dawn came in, yelling: “Luuuuuucy! I’m hooooome from—oh. _You’re_ still here.” Turning away, the teenager bestowed a megawatt smile upon Xander. “C’mon Xander, let’s go into the dining room to do my homework.”
At Xander’s nod, Team Angry-and-Sullen stomped out.
Buffy moaned and covered her face with her hands for a second. Looking back up, she smiled weakly at Spike and shrugged. “Sorry.”
Spike shrugged back at her, as he cleared away his puzzle. “S’okay. Could’ve been worse.”
She grinned and rolled her eyes. “What, I’m supposed to be grateful for small favors, now?” Buffy shook her head at Spike, and went to the refrigerator. Pulling out vegetables, she suggested, “Tell you what? I’ll be grateful for help with dinner and hope those two feel a little more charitable with food in their bellies. Can you make a salad?”
“Can try. More of a carnivore myself.” Buffy set the fixings on the island and opened the knife drawer for Spike. While he involved himself in choosing the largest, sharpest, and most testosterone-laden utensil he could find, she did mysterious female things with appliances. Weapon chosen, Spike contemplated the forces arrayed against him. Settling upon the carrot as the most immediately threatening of his foes, he proceeded to flay the innocent tuber, imagining it was Harris, strapped down and obviously so evil that the Slayer was forced to overlook a bit of torture. Take that, fat man.
Unfortunately, even that fantasy couldn’t drown out the question he’d been worrying at all day. Just spit it out, you wanker. Switching to lettuce and thoughts of red-hot pokers, Spike spoke. “Why didn’t you stake me, Buffy?”
“Last night. Why didn’t you stake me, or beat the devil out of me, or something?” He stared fixedly at the tomatoes awaiting evisceration as Buffy came over and leaned her hip against the island.
“I don’t know, really. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if you came back. I thought about it, a lot actually, but… well, there was no way to know what _you_ would do, and… I just spent a lot of time this summer thinking, and I decided to wing it.” Buffy frowned. “I guess after everything that happened, I decided that Buffy and stone-throwing was kind of hypocritical.”
“Never stopped you before, luv.”
“Oh, thanks for that. You’re not supposed to agree with me, you know.” Spike looked up from his vegetative depredations to raise an eyebrow at her. She huffed back. “What I can’t figure out is why you are back.”
Spike looked away, scraping the thoroughly evil and properly chastised vegetables into the bowl provided by Buffy. “Love’s bitch.”
“What?” She stared at the vampire until he looked back at her.
“I’m Love’s Bitch, Slayer. Always have been, always will be. Couldn’t stay away if I wanted to.” Spike wiped the chef’s knife clean and examined the blade minutely before continuing. “Didn’t want to.” Gazing at his Slayer, Spike reached out and ran the tip of the steel along her cheekbone.
Buffy’s eyes widened and her tongue darted out to wet her lips. The sharp point followed, scraping the lower curve of her mouth, before tracing over her chin and down her throat.
Spike pressed gently against the hollow between her collar bones, then continued downward at Buffy’s gasp. The knife left a thin white scratch on her chest, marking its mesmerizing progress into her cleavage.
A quick flick of the vampire’s wrist, and the first pearl button of Buffy’s blouse slipped easily out of its hole. Maddeningly slowly, the others followed suit, until the pale blue silk was draped open to her waist.
Spike turned the blade, scraping the honed edge up her side, raising goose pimples on the Slayer’s golden skin.
Tears pooled in Buffy’s eyes, her cheeks flushed, and her breath came in quick pants, sawing in and out of her lungs. The danger drove her excitement higher, propelled by sharp objects and the fear of discovery. Lightening curved and spiraled in her belly, coiling down to pool in her sex.
The knife slid over the lace of her bra, slipping beneath the upper edge, and teasing the cup down to expose her nipple. With a quick little flicks of his wrist, Spike used the flat of the blade to spank Buffy’s nipple, the cool metal shocking her with each stinging slap.
Unexpectedly, the Slayer spasmed, arching into an orgasm on her toes. Her skin flushed a deep pink and perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Faster than she could follow, Spike dropped the knife on the cutting board and pulled her against him, jacking her up over his knee and sucking her aureole into his mouth. Buffy moaned and shuddered, writhing against his thigh.
“Oh, god!” Spike hummed in response, the vibration of his mouth against her breast sending another spark straight to her clit. Gradually, Buffy’s breathing slowed and Spike let her slide down his leg, setting her carefully back onto her feet. She had to tug on his hair to make him let go of her nipple, though. He grinned at her unrepentantly, as she fixed her clothing.
Buffy was searching for something to say when the oven timer saved her. She sounded only slightly shaky as she called for Dawn to set the table. Jesus God, dinner was going to be utter Hell.
Continued in 5. A Lesson in Tightropes