quinara: Spike crowding Buffy against a wall in OAFA. (Spuffy wall)
Quinara ([personal profile] quinara) wrote in [community profile] sb_fag_ends2011-10-03 11:49 pm

'Deliciously Self-Centred' by Quinara (PG; late S7)

So, inspiration struck? Only it was slightly strange. Don't click on this until the end if you don't wanna know (fellow Brits, at least, I hope will be able to get the reference and prompt without clicking), but this old and dear advert is somewhat necessary for understanding where this fic comes from. Also remembering one of the more random fragments of dialogue in End of Days.

~860 PG words, set in a vague and generally jolly part of late S7, with no content that would require warning on the AO3.

Buffy is seduced.

Deliciously Self-Centred.

It wasn’t unusual to find Spike outside. Actually, that was an understatement; if he wasn’t in the basement, she expected to find Spike outside – and had been known to sneak out of the kitchen door only to be disappointed that he wasn’t having a smoke. Semantics aside, it was nonetheless unusual to find Spike hiding out in the shadows of the porch, because generally he would make himself visible from the window over the sink (just in case she was looking for him, she liked to think, although she usually forgot to check).

“Spike?” Buffy whispered, feeling like the situation merited it. She was leaning around the back door, directing her voice into the darkness, and the noise inside the house was definitely louder than talking volume (Giles had gone into full-on lecture mode), but who knew why Spike was hiding? “What are you doing out here?”

Abruptly, Spike’s head jerked up. It was nothing more than a pale blur of reflected light, but she could tell he was surprised.

Then, however, it was her turn to be surprised, as Giles’ lecture from inside the house reached a crescendo of frustrated watcher-guy and the Spike-blur reacted, launching itself into her space. “Gotta fly, Slayer!” he whispered, the same second as his cool, urgent hand slipped into hers. There was laughter in his voice – and in his wriggly fingers, she was pretty sure – so she willingly followed as he dragged her off down the garden, sprinting noiselessly along the shadows of trees.

The main feature at the end of the garden was a big shrubby-bush-tree-thing Buffy had never learned the name of, but she had a feeling it gave pretty good cover once she and Spike were behind it, sat in the damp grass. She’d left the back door open, so the arguing from inside the house was still filtering out into the night, but she couldn’t hear what was being said.

Spike, however, was snickering, grin turned back over his shoulder (and huh; her eyes must have adjusted, because she could see his face now).

“OK, spill,” she whispered, still whispering. “What’s going on?”

Now he was looking at her, more light in his eyes than she was getting from the clouded moon. “You heard what old Rupes is going on about?” he asked.

Honestly? She hadn’t been listening to him since Thursday; it was all too dire. “Um… Maybe not so much?”

“Well,” he explained wickedly. “It has to do with these…” And then he picked up a box from his other side, shaking it at her temptingly.

Her first thought was that this night was getting really weird, really fast – but then she couldn’t help but parse the sight in front of her. And then she lost. “Hang on; are those…” OK, she didn’t recognise the packaging, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. That almost certainly was not a bad thing. She continued reverently, “Are those name brand cookies?”

“Better than that, love,” Spike replied, cutting through her fantasies of sweet, branded goodness. He popped the lid off what she could now see was a tube, dark in colour, maybe blue. “This is name brand cake.” Then he was tipping the tube into his hand, letting the shiny, chocolatey round fall into his fingers. “Orange goo and sponge,” he commented with a wink, “fresh from the mother country,” – and with that he was tossing the cake into his mouth, munching on it whole.

So, here was the thing. She’d been having one or two inappropriate dreams about Spike recently, which she’d been meaning to worry about at some point when she felt particularly self-defeating, but it was still something of a surprise how erotic she found the sight of him pigging out on stolen baked goods. That was wrong, right? On many levels? Not least because she had a feeling it was more about the cake than anything else… But it had been so long, hadn’t it? With all the teenagers, and the dirty-sounding lines about devouring, when was the last time she’d had the chance to appreciate good carbs?

“Let me get this straight,” she powered through all the same, recovering with a whisper that was more like a hiss – and accidentally stabbing her arm on a shrub branch. “Giles brought over a secret stash of junk food and you decided to help yourself?”

“Oh, there’s no stash,” Spike replied nonchalantly, pulling another wannabe-cookie cake out of the tube and nibbling at it, definitely unhelpfully. “He didn’t have room in his bags; there’s only these.”

Really, she tried to look appalled, she really did. “But you can’t…! He must’ve really been looking forward to…” Even as she said it, though, all of Giles’ chastising comments started replaying in her brain. It wasn’t fair, not fair at all, but, hey, he was jet-setting around the world and here she was…

“I hear he has plans for more training,” Spike told her, sounding innocent as sin. “Maybe round sunrise, before you get off to work…?”

OK, that settled it. “Gimme one,” she said, holding out her hand.

And then there it was, yet another depravity Spike had seduced her into. She ate it in two bites.