Emmie (angearia) wrote,

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FIC: Kitchen Battle Royale

Title:  Kitchen Battle Royale
Summary:  Slaying demons is the Slayer's gig and she will protect her home with any weapon on hand.  It's just a bonus that Spike gets turned on watching his lady work.
Warnings:  Sexy times, there be.
Rating:  R bordering on NC-17.  Or NC-17 that's not quite R.  Basically, there's naughtiness. ;)
Word Count:  910
Author's Note:  The fun continues.  stormwreath, beer_good_foamy, rebcake  and dorians_kitten  already offered some wonders for you here and here and here and here.  I couldn't ignore the impromptu ficathon that beckoned.  Here's my contribution to Gabs' and Lirazel's call for Spuffy sexyiness following her slaying demons with a kitchen implement.

“Ah! No no no no no!”

The shrieks sent Spike running to the kitchen. He flinched as a knife flew past his head to impale a greenish gooey thing crawling up the cabinet to his left.

And there she stood, his warrior woman, a wooden knife holder tucked under her elbow and a magnificent snarl on her lips. She pulled out another knife—a butcher knife this time—and slung it through the air. The blade pierced the wall with a warbling thunk and another demon-creepy-crawler shook like jello in its final death rattle.

The serated bread knife flew up to impale the next slimey bastard wriggling across the ceiling. The paring knife stabbed into the vinyl on the counter. The carving knife sliced through the refrigerator door. The zing of metal flying through the air with deadly precision, the way Buffy’s focus was marked with ferocity, her body tightening and clenching with each fluid release—ah fuck, he got hard just watching her.

A harsh silence fell, broken by a long-drawn pant from Buffy, her eyes wild and dangerous. The monsters were all dead, put down by her glorious Slayer fury. Spike moved towards her, slowly, eyeing her hungrily. Her gaze shot up to meet his and she tensed out of reflex until recognition lit her eyes. Her body relaxed, posture melting into a looser stance.

Looking around at the mess in the kitchen, she gave a rueful smile. “Oops.”

Spike raised an eyebrow and bit his lip, rumbling in amusement. He reached for the knife holder and pulled it out from under her elbow, setting it on the counter behind her. She watched him with a puzzled expression, then gasped as he swooped down to kiss her neck, running his tongue along the soft skin before venturing up to nibble on her ear lobe. His hands wandered down, stroking her back and caressing her waist until he found a firm grip on her ass and squeezed, pulling her into his hard-on.

“So I—uh, I guess you’re—uh, gah!”

Later, lying naked on the kitchen floor—the only clean surface in the room because Buffy had just mopped before the demons attacked, thank you very much—Spike braced himself on his elbow to look down at her and stroke her hair. She flushed under his tender gaze, reaching up to cup his cheek, then run her forefinger along his lower lip.

“Love you,” she murmured.

He smiled and kissed her again, soft this time—desperate need had been sated for the moment.

A drop of greenish gooey demon blood oozed off the edge of the kitchen counter and plonked on the floor next to Buffy’s head, emitting a rank odor that smelled like rotten eggs and… peppermint?

“Uck! Gross!”

Spike leaned back, helping her to sit up and get away from the offensive entrails.

Buffy shivered in disgust. “New rule. Quickies in the kitchen when it’s covered in demon gunk are verboten.”

“Spoil my fun, why don’t you?” Spike grumbled. “The best part comes from getting at you when you’re in a slaying mood. And slaying means demon gunk so…” He stared at the demon blood. “What kind of demons are these anyways? Never seen the like before. And why do they smell like bloody peppermint?””

“Oh, um, they’re, uh...” Buffy flushed again, this time with embarrassment. “Okay, remember how I was watching that show about arts and crafts?”

“That Martha Stewart rerun? Yeah, though I got out of there right quick once I realized that hellbitch was on the telly.”

“You never wanna watch shows with me anymore!” she complained.

“And you never wanna watch Passions!” he shot back.

“Because it’s stupid and weird and uncomfortably familiar to my real life, okay? That’s not escapism for me. I like watching normal, boring stuff. Like basket weaving or crocheting your own socks. And they’re educational! I finally figured out what a tea cozy is last week.”

“Yeah, I get it.” He rolled his eyes. “So what’s the Queen Bitch of the Perfectly Folded Fitted Sheet gotta do with these twerps smelling like Christmas candy?”

Buffy looked away. “I was making everybody Christmas presents. Scented candles. And the pot I was melting the wax in bubbled over and Willow’d left this bag of magic weed on the counter from when she was doing a spell earlier and…and…” She looked up at him and grimaced in chagrin.

His jaw dropped. Then he started sniggering. And the sniggering turned into howling and pretty soon he was rolling on the floor, still naked, clutching his sides and barking with laughter.

“It’s not funny! Shut up! Stop laughing!” Buffy slapped him on the shoulder, but he kept guffawing for all he was worth. “Stop laughing at me or I’m never going down on you again.”

That shut him up. “Sorry, love,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. “’S’not funny. Don’t know why I lost control of myself.”

Buffy tossed her head to the side in affront and pouted, crossing her arms to cover her naked breasts and pulling her knees up to hug her chest.

“Ah, baby,” Spike crooned, crawling towards her to drop a kiss on her bare shoulder. “Forgive me. I wasn’t laughing at you, promise. Was just thinking how Andrew would’ve loved to see this, that’s all.”

“Huh?” She turned to look at him.

He grinned, eyes alight with an evil glint. “You created an army of Gollums, Slayer!”

“Shut. Up. Spike!”

Tags: fic, impromptu ficathon, spuffy
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