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
There was a crick in her neck, and for some reason Buffy couldn’t move her
legs. She swam slowly towards consciousness, dreams muddling with memory, as
her eyes opened and focused, first on the blond head pillowed between her
breasts, and then on the mantel clock. Her lips curved into a smile, prepared
to utter sleepy sweet nothings, when her subconscious suddenly threw a fastball
into her forebrain and panic slammed through her bloodstream on a wave of
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
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
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,
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
“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
“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
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
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