By Minim Calibre
Notes: Flashficathon pinch-hit fic. These were the prereqs: Spike/Buffy talking dirty, and mucho purring from Spike. Fluff, smut, & or hilarity. No character death in this one. Spike can be souled or no soul, chipped or no chip, season doesn’t matter much to me. Ooooooook?…These MUST be included somehow. An “Evil Dead” quote must be included.(movie- you can find TONS of quotes online) Spike in assless chaps. Willow make love to her double (Vamp Willow) while someone is singing “I kissed a girl.” I also want mention of a Poison song, a guitar string and green M&Ms. Spike must purr. Spike must purr. Oh yeah, did I mention the fact that Spike MUST purr? good. Buffy/Spike, NC-17.
It sounded at first like the buzzing of her alarm clock. Buffy slammed her hand against the spot about where it thought said clock had been three times before her sleep-addled brain realized that there was no clock, there hadn’t been a clock since before Sunnydale turned into a sinkhole, and that, in fact, not only was there no clock, there was no nightstand, no bed, just the sticky duct-taped back seat of a school bus that smelled decidedly ripe.
The sound grew louder.
With a groan, she buried her head under her jacket, but the sound followed her, filling her ears until she was forced to open her eyes. She should have been seeing denim. Why wasn’t she seeing denim? Her mind finally ID’d the noise: purring. If Andrew had stashed a cat on the bus, she was going to kill him. Slowly. She’d garrote him with a guitar string, in sort of an homage to the death of the first Ubervamp. Sure, they wouldn’t have someone around to cook and clean, but on the plus side, she’d never hear the words “Oh you bastards! Why are you tormenting me like this? WHY!?” coming out of his mouth again.
Cats didn’t come with short blond curls.
Buffy blinked, wondering if someone had done something to the M&Ms. “Green ones make you gay,” she muttered. “Do the blue ones make you see dead people?”
The purr turned into a laugh. “Depends, love. Do I look dead to you?”
Actually, yes. She frowned, taking in the sleek white leather vest and chaps he was wearing. With nothing underneath. It was like the Judas goes to heaven scene in Jesus Christ Superstar gone all late 80s Prince instead of Jimi Hendrix. “Gonna have to go with ‘yup’ on that one,” she said. “What the fuck is going on?”
“Like the song says, ‘baby, talk dirty to me.'” Spike purred some more, his tongue flitting out and teasing a nipple through her shirt. Then he raised his head, a peculiar glint in his eyes. “If you want to, you know. Got plenty to entertain me if you don’t.”
She followed his gaze to the television in the corner, where Willow was… kissing her evil vampire self’s belly to that Jill Somebody song? Suddenly, the lyrics made a lot more sense. “I always thought she was singing about kissing meat,” she said. “Either I’m having what is quite possibly the weirdest dream in a whole lifetime of weird dreams, or I’m…”
“In my idea of heaven. It’s not much, mind. You, me, something entertaining on the telly.” He smiled at her, and tilted his head to one side.
“This is very possibly hell,” Buffy muttered to no one in particular. Spike’s hand, still almost hot to the touch, slid under her shirt to caress first one breast, than the other. “Or maybe purgatory.” At the very least, it was more entertaining than a busload of wounded and sweaty newbie Slayers and… “Fuckfuckfuck.” If this was a dream, it was one that knew where all her buttons were located. “Spike, please.”
“Please what?” That low rumble was back, vibrating against her belly.
His tongue dipped into her navel and she whimpered. “More. Please.” Buffy turned her head to the television, where both Willows were now naked, identical limbs and tongues intertwined. She couldn’t tell which one was which.
Hands moved down her body, unfastening her pants and pushing them off, then moved back up and pulled off her shirt before resuming their exploration of her body. She squirmed, trying to take her eyes from the screen where Willow and Willow were forcing Buffy to wonder how far the definition of masturbation extended.
“Is that what you want?” Spike’s voice was calm, amused even.
“Then say it.”
“I want you to lick me.” There. That wasn’t so hard. He licked the side of her knee. “Not there.”
“Got to be specific. Tell me just what it is you want licked.”
She remembered this game; it had been one of his favorites. “Tell me what vocabulary you want me to use.” Her voice was arch, almost flippant.
“Quim. Cunny. Slit.” Spike’s mouth punctuated each word with a soft bite, each one further up her thigh than the last. “Channel. Cunt. Womb.” She could feel the words against her skin, tiny shockwaves rippling outward.
“Pussy,” she finished. His purr of satisfaction and the touch of his lips sent her hips twisting and thrusting towards his tongue. “Harder. Please.” She tangled her hands in his hair, guiding him. “Please. Please. Yes.” His tongue wasn’t enough. Buffy relaxed her hold on his hair, shifting to allow him up and in. Better, but still not enough. Her legs wrapped around his, the white leather rubbing against her thighs as she pressed her feet against his exposed haunches, driving him deeper and setting the rhythm. “Fuck me.”
Oh yeah, he liked it when there wasn’t enough soap in the world to wash out her mouth. Spike growled, slamming into her hard and fast until she felt the edges start to blur and his face began to fade. She woke up with a start to find herself wet and throbbing and biting down hard on her jacket.
The darkness told her there was still a ways to go until morning. Buffy blinked, trying to adjust to being back where she’d thought she was in the first place. Everyone still seemed to be present and accounted for; Willow was two seats in front, cuddled up against Kennedy, and very much in the clothed category. Sighing, Buffy closed her eyes and slowly drifted back to sleep.
When she opened them again, she was curled up next to Spike; a quick peek at the television showed the Willows were napping. With a yawn, she pulled the blanket up to cover them both.
“Thought you were leaving,” he said.
“Nah.” Buffy nestled down into sheets that smelled spring-fresh and smiled. “I’ve got a few hours.”