Fic: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed [2/11]

Title: The Spuffy, the Witch, and the Utility Shed
Author: bewildered
Era: BTVS between s3 & s4
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Summary: When Buffy encounters Spike at her college orientation, the last thing she expects is to be hurtled with him into a demon dimension. Now they must battle together against hordes of unnatural creatures, talking beavers, and… is that a lion?

AU set between seasons 3 and 4. Don’t let the hints of plot fool you, this is mostly just an excuse for some smut. Well, smut and mayhem; it is Spuffy.

With deepest, most heartfelt apologies to C.S. Lewis for the mutilation of his characters and bits of his dialogue.

Warnings: NC-17 for violence and sex. (As of initial posting, 5/15, the smut is still Future Smut, but is on the way soon!) Lots and lots of beloved childhood character death. Sorry!

Thanks to the_moonmoth, who inspired this fic by sending me fic prompts and then egging me on as I got sillier and sillier, and then beta-reading at the very last minute. I am the luckiest ever.

Click for a chapter index!

Chapter 2: Turkish Delight

Once he was certain the slayer hadn’t given chase, Spike settled into an easy saunter through the trees, holding his hand out and admiring its contours in the sunlight. He’d been thinking about how it might feel to walk out in the sun, ever since he’d heard tell of the Gem of Amara, and the thought had been enough to lure him back to bloody Sunnydale despite the presence of the slayer, but he hadn’t really been able to picture it, it had been so long since he’d stood in sunlight. It was pleasant indeed, this little preview; once he found his way back, he was going to make bloody well sure he found the gem, so he could keep the sunshine for himself, enjoy it whenever he wished.

He wondered if he’d freckle.

He was reckoning in his head how many hours it might take for the slayer to freeze to death, when he heard a jingling, jangling noise. Was it keys? Loose change? The sound grew nearer and nearer, and finally he realized it was bells, the annoyingly quaint kind, and as he watched, a sledge burst through a gap in the trees. It was drawn by a pissed-off looking pair of deer and driven by a squat little demon, humanoid, with a long, stained beard.

Riding in the sledge was a woman, wrapped in thick white fur, a golden crown upon her head and a golden wand in her hand; she looked a little like Drusilla, except that her hair was whiter than his own, and for a moment he considered asking her just how she managed to get it that light, because it took gallons of peroxide to keep his own hair the shade he liked it, but then her eyes fell upon him, and something in them made him think she was unlikely to share sartorial tips. More like Darla than Dru, actually, now that he saw the imperious look in her eyes, which cancelled out his earlier good impression.

Plus, a quick sniff told him she wasn’t human, so she probably had some demon trick that wouldn’t work for him. Pity, that.

“Stop!” she cried, and the homunculus at the reins pulled up, until the sledge skidded to a stop right beside Spike. The reindeer managed to look even more pissed off, and the nasty dwarf-demon glared at Spike from under its black, tangled brows before turning to stare stolidly off into the distance.

The white woman looked down her long nose at him. “And what, pray, are you?”

Spike shoved his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to look up at her. “Name’s Spike,” he said insolently, looking her up and down. “And what I am is bad.” He sent her a killing glance through his eyelashes, the one he had perfected over more than a century of unlife hunting women. “So bad I’m good, if you take my meaning.”

Her eyes flamed with either fury or lust. “Is that how you address a queen?”

Now that they were up close and personal, he really didn’t like the look of her. Seemed full of herself. “Queen of what? Cheap fake fur?”

She raised her wand, eyes blazing, and Spike shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, ready to dodge or strike or possibly grope, but then she sank back with a patently false smile and patted the seat beside her. “How cold you look! Come and sit with me, and we shall talk.”

Spike raised his eyebrows sardonically. “Think I’ll stand.” He hadn’t been born yesterday.

The white woman shrugged negligently, as if his refusal was of no matter. “Perhaps something to drink?”

Spike raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t say no to some whiskey. Or blood.” He eyed her neck, wondering if she would taste human, or if she’d have a nasty demon-dimension aftertaste.

She pulled a tiny glass bottle from the sleeve of her fur robe, and delicately held it out, letting a single crystalline drop fall to the snow. There was a hiss and a puff of steam, and there where the drop had fallen was a golden cup, encrusted with jewels, full of something steaming and pale and creamy, its surface flecked with spices.

Spike sighed and bent down to pick it up and gave it a sniff.

Warm milk, with a little nutmeg.

He rolled his eyes. “Do I look like I’m twelve?” On closer inspection the cup was cheap brass, and the jewels irregular and fake; he tossed it all behind him.

The Queen smiled beatifically, as if he had thanked her profusely for her generosity, and stepped down from the sledge, her jeweled shoes barely making any noise on the snow. She was taller than him by several inches. “You are right, it is dull to drink without eating,” she said sweetly. “What would you like best to eat?”

“Blood,” Spike said promptly. “But I’d settle for an onion blossom.”

Teeth flashing brilliantly, she let fall another drop from her tiny bottle, and there appeared a covered tray, of the same brass as the cup; Spike lifted the lid and looked at the contents. “What’s this shite?”

“Turkish Delight, my sweet.”

Spike replaced the lid sharply. “Bloody terrible at concierge service, aren’t you?”

She laughed merrily, like ice breaking, and tucked her robe around Spike’s shoulder. “Come with me,” she said softly. “My house is a lovely place, and there are whole rooms full of Tur… er, onion blossoms. I am quite sure you would like it.”

Spike eyed her consideringly. “How old are you?”

She lifted her chin proudly. “I have been here since the dawn of Time…”

“’S what I thought.” Spike sighed. “Sorry, love.”

He turned to her and placed his hands on her cheeks, and as her lips parted and she began to sway towards him, he gave a sharp twist and broke her neck.

“I’m afraid you’re too old for my taste.”

Her body crumpled to the snow in a heap of fur, and he dusted off his hands and turned to take care of the nasty coachman – who looked even less appetizing than the white bitch had – but the creature was already scrambling away, fumbling with a brass-bound horn. As Spike stalked him, the dwarf raised the horn to his lips and winded it.

There was an answering horn, and another, and another, more and more until the air was full of the sound of horns, and then foul little demon-dwarves began to appear amongst the trees, hurrying towards their clearing.

“Our Queen!” the coachman cried. “He has slain our Queen!”

As the oncoming horde of homonculi began to growl and shout and snarl, producing wicked-looking knives and cudgels, Spike took a moment to assess the odds.

They were pretty miserable odds indeed.

“Bugger,” he muttered, and took off running.

Go on to Chapter 3!

 

Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/555502.html