Summary: Hermione arrives home to find her flat invaded by a pest named Spike
Word Count: 1200
A/N: Set in the Sanguini’s Request verse but can stand alone.
’s prompt: Finger lickin’ good
When Hermione gets home, she isn’t very surprised to find the lights on, the wireless playing some horrible Muggle punk rock station, and the aroma of onions and beef in the air. Three months ago, she would have been reaching for her wand and preparing to confront anyone who dare sneak into her flat. That was before Sanguini disrupted her life with his ridiculous favor that resulted in her being pestered by a bloody vampire. Now, Spike seems to consider her flat his second home, and he’s always around nagging her when she’s not working.
“You’re late,” Spike accuses, waving a spoon at her without caring about the dripping on her floor. “What have I told you about working so much?”
Hermione arches a brow at his audacity and deliberately ignores him as she puts a stack of files on her desk. She shrugs off her work robes before kicking off her shoes. Already feeling better, she waves her wand at the wireless, turning it down as someone shrieks about London calling them. What they’re being called, she isn’t sure, and she doesn’t care enough to let the racket continue playing so she can find out.
“Hey! That’s The Clash, you bloody bint. Turn it back up. I was listening to that.” Spike tosses a slice of apple at her. She catches it and takes a bite out of it, still ignoring him because it annoys him. “That’s the problem with kids these days. No respect for culture. You wouldn’t know good music if it kicked your arse.”
“If you consider that good music, it’s obvious you don’t know shite,” she says, snorting at the idea of him considering her a kid. She’s more mature than he is regardless of how many centuries he’s been around.
“Got you talking, though, didn’t I?” Spike smirks at her before he scowls. “You’ve not been sleeping enough, love. There are bags under your eyes that are heavier than that chip on your shoulder.”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s nothing on my shoulder, and I’ve been sleeping well. Not that it’s any of your business,” she points out, popping the rest of her apple slice into her mouth as she enters the kitchen. “Don’t you have a functioning oven in your flat? Actually, why are you even cooking? You don’t need to eat.”
“Just because I don’t need to, it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it,” he tells her. “Have you ever had fried onions? Thinly sliced into perfect curls before being fried to a golden brown. Dipping them in the perfect sauce, crunching down and finding the perfect bite. It’s as good as fresh blood spilling into my mouth, that’s for certain.”
“Sounds a little too perfect,” she quips, snickering when he bumps his hip against hers. “I can see that a thesaurus would make an excellent holiday gift for you.”
“You’re such a smartarse. I’ll have you know that I’m brilliant with words. Was a poet once,” he tells her. “In another lifetime.”
“Poetry?” She grabs another slice of apple from a stack he’s got on the counter. “You wrote books?”
“Just a poem or two. Nothing special, but the critics back then were brutal.” Spike shrugs, the action making his shirt tighten even more around his biceps. She looks away, turning to face the counter before she indulges in thoughts that are inappropriate. “Modern folks have better taste.”
“I thought we lacked culture,” she reminds him, lips quirking slightly as she picks up the knife and pulls a pepper towards her. The food smells good, and she realizes just how hungry she is when her stomach growls. The least she can do is help him cook. She starts cutting the pepper. “What kind of poetry was it?”
"My soul is wrapped in harsh repose, Midnight descends in raven-colored clothes, But soft... behold! A sunlight beam butting a swath of glimmering gleam.” Spike has lowered his voice, a husky tone to his words as he quotes what must be one of his poems. His voice gets closer, even lower, as he continues. “My heart expands, 'tis grown a bulge in it, Inspired by your beauty...Effulgent."
The last word is barely a whisper against her ear, and she feels his lips press against the skin beneath it. She’s so startled that her arm jerks, slicing the tip of her finger. “Bugger,” she mutters, dropping the knife on the cabinet and turning to glare at him. “What’s all that then? Keep your lips to yourself.”
“I got lost in the moment. Bloody hell, it’s not like I kissed you, now is it? Complete accident. My mouth just slipped.” Spike is looking at her hand, his blue eyes flashing yellow as he licks his lips. “Let me help with that.”
“You’re not a healer,” she points out, raising her arm and watching as his gaze remains on her finger. “And there aren’t any rumors regarding vampire saliva having healing properties.”
“Cor, love. It’s been bloody ages since I’ve had a taste of human blood, and yours especially smells so sweet. I bet it’s intoxicating.” Spike sniffs the air and actually moans, ridges forming on his face as he sways closer. “Please, Hermione. Just a taste.”
It’s not a good idea at all. She knows it isn’t, knows she shouldn’t even be considering it, but she feels an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach and a tingle that has nothing to do with anxiety or fear. Before she can overthink it, she holds her hand out to him. “Just a taste,” she murmurs, breath catching when he sucks her finger into his mouth.
He licks her flesh, curling his tongue around her finger as he suckles. His eyes are on her, the yellow fading back to blue as the ridges disappear, and he starts to suck harder, not looking away from her face. When he moans, the vibration causes his teeth to scrape against her knuckle. Her nipples are tightening as he drags his tongue over her fingertip, and she feels suddenly very warm as she stares into his eyes.
When she starts to think about him lifting her up onto the counter and putting his mouth to use elsewhere, she bites her lip and pulls her hand away. “That’s enough,” she whispers, clearing her throat and dragging her hand through her hair. “Something’s burning.”
“Aye. That’d be me,” he murmurs, leaning into her. The smell of burning vegetables is too noxious to ignore. He curses under his breath as he pulls the skillet off the burner. She’s grateful for the opportunity to collect herself because her response to what happened was unforeseen. Once she felt more in control, she went into action, picking up the pan and tossing the burned veg into the rubbish.
“There are more peppers and onions. If you want to cut them, I’m going to go clean up before dinner,” she says, deliberately not looking at him as she leaves the kitchen and heads to the loo. When she shuts the door behind her, she sighs before she turns on the tap. After splashing water onto her face, she looks in the mirror. What the hell had she been thinking?