snogged: ([Gilmore Girls] I Smell Snow)
[personal profile] snogged
Title: Left Unattended
Author: snogged
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon and many other corporations own the characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I don’t. Please don’t sue me.
Pairing/Characters: Buffy, Buffy/Spike (POV only), Buffy/Riley
Rating/Warnings: FRM/R; alcohol abuse, sexual content
Word Count: 1007
Summary: Set during Season 5, Buffy finds Spike’s flask at her home and a few drinks leads her thoughts in the Spike direction.

Beta: [livejournal.com profile] angelskuuipo. All other mistakes are mine.

Written for [livejournal.com profile] comlodge who requested a Spike/Buffy ficlet where Buffy gets drunk and thinks about Spike. This is a pairing I rarely write so I hope I did it justice.



Buffy stared hard at the metal flask sitting on her kitchen counter. It was the same one she had seen Spike swig from on countless occasions so she was curious as to why it had been abandoned here…at her house.

Abandon all hope ye who drink from this.

Buffy giggled; mentally applauding herself for paraphrasing the Lord of the Rings quote. She couldn't remember how many times Xander had said the line during their research hours at the library, but she figured he'd be proud of her for remembering.

Hesitantly, Buffy reached forward and grabbed the flask. It was simple in its design, just a few markings, and it looked old. Spike had probably swiped it off some dead guy in the '70's.

Ew.

Buffy almost dropped the object at the thought of it touching corpse-hands, but then she reminded herself that Spike was a vampire and therefore, he was a walking-talking-stupid-smug-leather-clad corpse himself.

She shook the flask a little, noting the liquid sloshing around inside of it. She unscrewed the top and sniffed it. It smelled earthy – kind of oaky, kind of strong. She put the flask to her lips and a blush crept into her cheeks as she considered the implication that Spike's lips had been the last ones to touch this.

Spike.

He was weirdly center-stage in her thoughts these days. She guessed that was from all the recent stalking and unrequited crushing he'd been doing on her. She did not - would not- return the favor of crushing on him. Nope. No, sirree. The Buffster was not falling into the man vamp trap. He would not get her in his clutches, his strong…

Buffy shook her head, attempting to force those thoughts from her mind.

She was Riley's girl. Riley of the super-absent lately, but Riley's girl nevertheless. That meant she had to stop with the crazy, non-feminist, damsel-in-distress thinking…about Spike. That was the sort of thinking that led to getting killed, or at the very least, emotionally destroyed. She had had enough of that to last two life times.

She needed to forget these thoughts. Post-haste.

She took a quick slug from the flask since it seemed liked the most immediate solution to her problem. The bourbon inside splashed across her tongue and down the back of her throat. It burned going down and she struggled not to cough. The liquor quickly warmed her belly and she wiped off her lips with the back of her hand.

"Much better," she murmured, setting the flask back on the counter.

Now if Spike could just come collect this and get it out of her sight, then everything would be out of sight, out of mind. Out of mind, out of…

Sight…

Crap.

She had never really thought of it before, but Spike's eyes were really pretty. Like the ocean, which is the totally tacky-tipsy response about someone with ice-blue eyes. She thought about the times he had looked at her over the years – predatory, smug, sad, sexy.

Sexy? Really, Buffy?

Must be the alcohol talking.


Of course, there were times his eyes spoke with more volume than his obnoxious tongue did.

Not that his tongue was always obnoxious.

Because it wasn't.

Sometimes, he said pretty things to her, charming things. Things she'd never heard anyone say before. She had also heard him say naughty things, wrong things. Things that sent shivers to places that had gone unnoticed by Riley in the last few weeks.

Stupid Initiative.

Stupid boys.

Buffy swallowed down another gulp of alcohol, not even registering the moment that she had lifted the flask from the counter to touch the metal to her lips. This time – the bourbon made her feel all tingly and fuzzy inside as it coursed through her.

Would his kiss burn through her the way the alcohol did?

Would she be able to withstand the heat, the friction that would engulf them if their tongues touched? If his chest pressed against hers when they embraced? If the soft leather of his coat brushed against her bare legs? Would she battle for dominance or would she surrender to the moment? What if his hands traveled to her breasts, her waist, her hips, her bottom? What if his fingers found their way to her gooey center? What if he…he…he…?

Buffy gasped as the vivid fantasy overwhelmed her senses. Her pubic muscles clenched involuntarily around the moisture growing between her thighs and her body shivered. The flask fell from her hand as if it had burned her sensitized skin. It clattered to the floor, the remainder of its dark brown contents spilling across the linoleum.

She reached forward and grabbed the edge of the counter for purchase. Her breath hitched as she fought to regain composure. She was not going to give into those thoughts. No matter how enticing they may seem. Spike was not getting the best of her today. Nor the primal her. All hers was off limits to the snarky blond thorn-in-her-side. She nudged the flask with her toe before she gave it a kick. The offending item disappeared from her sight and she exhaled deeply. She knew what it was like to give into that level of intoxication. She had been "Cavewoman! Hear Me Roar!" for several hours last year and that had been so bad. So very, very bad with the beer and the fire and the stupid boys. This wasn't quite as bad as that, but it was bad in its own way and it was certainly never going to be mentioned ever…in public. Period. These thoughts, plus Buffy, would not be left unattended if she had anything to say about it.

She glanced over at the window and noticed the sun had dipped below the horizon. She grabbed a stake out of the junk drawer and swiftly opened the back door. She was going to take the edge off the old-fashioned way. The not-Faith way. She needed to punch something, to kick something, to kill something. She was going hunting.

Demons of Sunnydale, beware.

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