How far back do you need to go? Have you read the first big where Giles is vamped?

MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE!!!

I'd say something else, but I think Elena had it covered. More, now, please, more!

I was just compounding a dermatological and while I was carefully cleaning the thick, white cream from the shaft and head of the pestle - slowly exposing the hard, gleaming length - I realised that being around you guys has really changed the way I view the world.

Pharmacy porn. Who'd thunk.

How far back do you need to go? Have you read the first big where Giles is vamped?

I read it, oh so long ago. I need a refresher. But this bit--Lexi! Xander's granny calls him Lexi. That's...incredibly sweet.

Lovely bits about Angel riding, oh, yes, I can see it. Unplumbed depths (not that way!) of Angel. He always did have surprising facets, as he'd accreted personalities built around the society he moved in, and then discarded them for new ones as the rules and customs changed through the decades.

I am now at the interesting part where I get out an actual piece of paper and start drawing arrows and circles and maps with "Then he goes over there, but I've got to get her over here before then, then these guys come around here--oh, hell, where did *he* go, he's supposed to be over there!" Timelines and who does what where when and making sure it makes sense.

Always one of the mostest fun parts! Like putting together a puzzle.

How far back do you need to go? Have you read the first big where Giles is vamped?

I just came to this thread last week when I started writing fic again myself.

I read it, oh so long ago. I need a refresher. But this bit--Lexi! Xander's granny calls him Lexi. That's...incredibly sweet.

Most everything is on my website, [link] including the chapters of this section as I finish them. Look under Career Change (now with a picture of Serious!Giles!).

Xander's Grandma keeps trying to be a Russian Jew. I'm not sure I should let her, but his maternal lineage is becoming very interesting.

Lovely bits about Angel riding, oh, yes, I can see it.

Yeah, imagining Angelus riding a horse as mean as him, galloping through the night--all sorts of silly highwayman ideas. And I am resisting mightily making any kind of foody puns to Angels on Horseback, though I played with the idea of Giles promising to dust Spike for mentioning it.

For those who have not been playing along at home, my flashfic.

This was the request: 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.
Many thanks to: my AIM peeps and the Noise Design Cam for keeping me awake and alert, Adult Swim for warping my brain just a little more, Starz for showing JCSS thrice weekly when I was 16 (also, for the massive doses of Dirty Dancing they provided that same year, though that has nothing to do with this, I just want to thank them), Depeche Mode, for "Blasphemous Rumours", and Robert Smith, for destroying the Giant Barbra Monster having Really Big Hair.

Soft and Only

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.

"I... Yes."

"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."

Ooo! And the Femslash I wrote while on the road! Which still has no name. I'm thinking of calling it Coastal.

"Hey."

Faith's voice breaks into Buffy's solitary contemplation of the sunset. The three months since the closing of the hellmouth have reduced their numbers as most of the girls, slayers now, have gone off, either home to their parents or to find their own way, but solitude is still in short supply.

Of course, the ones who stayed might have something to do with that. Kennedy is still loud and abrasive, Rona's still sarcastic, and Vi is just... Vi. Always wanting to train, or patrol, or drag Buffy off to discuss the finer points of slaying and strategy. Timid little Vi, the mouse who always looked like she was about to shriek, is now about as timid as your average lion.

It's exhausting.

"Hey," she replies, not bothering with perk or enthusiasm. Faith can deal; it's not her the girls are constantly hounding. "What's up?"

Faith shrugs, that long rolling one that's half shrug, half stretch, and half stripper. Okay, that's three halves, but Faith has always been a little larger than life. "Thought you could use the company, B."

Buffy slides over without saying anything, making just enough room on the log for another person. Faith takes the hint and takes a seat. She's quiet for a while, almost calm. Buffy's still not used to this new improved Faith. The calm and control get to her; she's still expecting Faith to be a loose cannon.

When she can't take it anymore, she asks, "How's Xander?"

"He's been worse. Him and Andrew are doin' some kinda Anya quote-off."

Which means Xander's feeling a little better. Andrew is earning his keep. For the first week, he wouldn't let Xander out of his sight, not until Xander finally had to tell him point-blank that he could use the bathroom without any help from his seeing eye monkey.

From the corner of her eye, she sees Faith pull a cigarette out of her jacket, then a blur of motion as she lights it. Smoke mixes with the salt air. It's nice, kind of comforting. Buffy breathes in just a little too deeply and starts to cough.

"Sorry, B. Guess I should try to quit, huh?" Faith goes to stub it out, but Buffy reaches out a hand to stop her.

"No, it's okay," she says. "I'm used to the smell."

It's a nice sunset tonight, with deep pinks and oranges that stain the sky, their reflection giving the water the illusion of warmth. When it fades to twilight, it'll be time for her to go back to the ramshackle house they've rented, back to too many girls and too few rooms. Andrew's strung Return of the Jedi sheets across the living room, so at least everyone has his or her own space, but it's still not much better than Sunnydale, no less like living in a sardine can. But as crowded as it is, as close as they've become, Buffy realizes she still feels lonely in the crowd. Faith has Robin, Willow has Kennedy, Vi's made Rona her personal project (for which Buffy is eternally grateful), Andrew is Xander's shadow, and Giles is eagerly training Dawn in the ancient art of slayer watching.

She's the odd girl out. A third wheel, well, actually, an eleventh wheel. "Does anything even have ten wheels?" she finds herself asking.

"Yo, B., you all right? Your mind seems to have wandered somewhere weird." Faith sounds more amused than concerned. She's come out to join Buffy on the log almost every night since they moved here, so Buffy figures she's gotten used to the tangents.